Beachcombing.

At the beginning, my feet are cold. And the back of my neck where the wind has lifted my hair. The sand is gritty, but quiet under my feet. The entire beach is quiet; the usually raucous gulls are huddled together tightly in a depression in the sand, their backs to the wind. The waves are a dull slate colour, perforated with white foam caps and tiny bursts of spray where the waves hit the reef and the wind carries the droplets along in its heady rush to shore.

I walk. I lose myself in the rhythm of my steps. The wind is strong, but playful, wraping itself around me and teasing under the thick shetland isles knit I'm wearing especially to keep warm. My feet are numb now, the sand is merely pressure instead of tiny icy rocks. It's no longer winter, but the ocean doesn't know that yet.

Along the tideline a riff raff of jetsam awaits me. I slow, meandering up and down the sand bent double. There are blue snail shells with froth oozing from them, the snail's death throws as it drowns in the air. There are blue bottles with bright tentacles trailing along the sand behind them - they are the balloons and the tentacles the streamers - a poisoned birthday party. Sponges, partially drained of colour and pieces of broken bleached shell. Tendrils of seaweed slowly drying.

It surprises me when I round the point and find more beach. I know the bay is only a small part of a long chain of beachfront, but when I am approaching it seems as if the point marks the end of the world. I have stones in my bag, all smooth and polished by the salt water and the rough trip across the reef to the sand, and a few tiny shells with even smaller patterns decorating them. I have jars and jars of such treasures at home. It seems sacrilegious to leave them on the beach once they have caught my eye. I have done this all my life - combed the beach for the pretty or the unusual. When I was young, people would tell me that you always come back to the beach. I never believed them, but here I am, walking the same scalloped trail I toddled along as a baby and moped along as a teen.

When I clamber onto the reef I can feel the sharp rocks jabbing into the soft underneath of my feet. Eventually, my soles will toughen and callous. Until then I am glad the cold sand, the cold water and the icy wind have numbed them. They will bruise, but not badly. A man walks along the beach. The tide doesn't scare me, or the blue bottles or the poisonous reef dwellers or the endless stretch of grey sea, but I realise how vunerable I am, alone on the stretch beyond the point where no one goes. I wonder how loudly I can scream, and if my voice will be lost in the wind and the surf.

The man doesn't wander as far as I have. He stares out at the waves and startles an old cormorant. I resent his presence - I walked into the dunes around the bird, who was trying to catch what tiny rays of sun slipped through the cloud cover, his webbed feet shuffling along under him as the wind pushed his outstretched wings and floated him up the beach. Now the cormorant is skimming along the dunes, clearly as offended by the stranger as I am.

I am still on the reef, far enough out to have rolled up the bottoms of my jeans to avoid the swells of water which make it this far. I can run if I need to, on this reef. My feet will bleed, but I would not feel it. The man walks back from where he came and disappears out of sight. I find a baleen shell, battered and broken and enormous. I don't pick it up. Suddenly the light changes. The waves turn black and the roar of the surf grows a little louder. The wind is suddenly frigid and no longer playful - it whips my hair into my eyes and makes my nose sniffle.

When I look up, the sky is close and dark. I have ambled too long and too far. I walk back along the water line, briskly. The tideline ephemera beckons, but I don't look. The beach is suddenly menacing. What is in the dunes, hidden from sight? What warning noises are tossed beyond hearing by the wind? I stop to snatch up a piece of rare white sea glass - all this is worth this one tiny piece. It slips into my bag with a satisfying clink, knocking gently against the coloured shells, the holy stones and the iridescent abalone shell already there.

I round the point. There are houses in view now, other people on the beach, but still I feel unsafe. I start across the dry sand to the carpark and a sprinkling of rain patters down, leaving drops on my eyelashes. It is a freezing rain and I run, ignoring the burn in my calves, the shock of freezing air as it's sucked into my chest. I run, as my bag jingles and my jeans slip back down and the rain begins in earnest. I run as if the dark cloud following me up the beach was sentient and vengeful and I had stolen it's treasure. I run as if it could actually hurt me, as if I was in danger.

The car is warm when I fall in and slam the door, not bothering to wipe my feet. I smell like salt and sea weed and my hair is snarled. The storm envelopes my car, raining furiously for a moment before giving up the chase and retreating, spent. I have my bag of treasures and the blood is returning to my battered feet, the tip of my nose. I am warm and the ocean is a friend again.