GCSE Descriptive Writing

The Sea

The waves break free from the water's surface and run wild across the ocean. Like a shapeless white horse, they rear up towards the blackened sky, then pummel their cold hooves into the rocks on the shore.

Maybe a horse isn't the best analogy. Horses can be trained but the ocean is uncontrollable, ruthless, showing mercy to neither man nor boat.

The sea continues to wrestle with the coast, almost fighting it, threatening to swallow the vulnerable island in one bite. But our defence is too strong. The only thing biting today will be the cold.

I wrap my jacket tighter around me, uselessly attempting to suffocate the drafts of freezing air that snake their way up the staircase of the lighthouse. I check the bulb again, for it's the only thing to do up here, then return my attention to the ominous scene outside.

The storm is growing now, stretching across the horizon and towards the island, reaching desperately towards us like the mighty hand of god. The dark clouds are lined up in a terrifying beautiful formation, like a regiment of soldiers marching to a watery doom, or rows of knitting begging to be unstitched.

I try my hardest to focus on the few dim spots of sunlight that push their way through the clouds, try to push the bad thoughts away. But like the waves, they keep on coming. The worry builds inside my head, stretching and curling until it is a wretched ugly thing. I tell myself that we've seen worse storms, that I am safe up here in this lighthouse, but the water screaming and writhing at the bottom of the tower tells me otherwise, punching its powerful fists into the brickwork, then retreating before taking another swing.

My safehold stands strong, holding me up away from the water and reassuring me with its light. The bulb rotates, sending a thick stream of gold travelling across the ocean, allowing me to see the choppy anger of it even more clearly.

I am just about to turn away when, amoung it all, I see a boat.

It is the smallest thing, struggling to bat away the hungry water, straining to reach the shore before it is swallowed. It looks so out of place in this sea, for it is nothing but a rowboat and a lone man, and appears like a tiny dot of ink on a blank page.

I know he must have seen my light, because he is headed straight towards it, doing all he can to stay on the imaginary line between him and I, and not get ripped away by the current, or suffocated by a wave. The sea is his death, and my light is his beacon.

Why a rowboat is out in this weather, I cannot fathom. But it doesn't matter why or how or even who. All that matters is - if.

If he can keep his boat from giving into the oceans irresistible pull.

If he can keep his eye on the lighthouse where I sit.

If he can find his way home.