His own private sunrise
Beach Buoy was alone.
No dog.
No anybody.
The beach was his.
The sunrise was his.
He had gone to bed at 12-30 a.m.
He woke at 4-30 a.m.
People are wired differently.
Some would turn over, snuggle down.
Today, Beach Buoy just thought sunrise!
He knew that the sky should be clear, having heard the weather forecast for the weekend on Radio Tees.
Sunrise was at 5-08.
He reached the beach at 5-02.
His van, perhaps unsurprisingly, was the only vehicle in the car park.
Saying that, there were 107 Gulls making use of the free-until-9 a.m.
Parking spaces.
Small feathers, from the Gulls were laid along the grass that edged The Esplanade.
They all must have had a preening themselves?
Bird blossom.
Beach Buoy headed to the sea.
There was a slight breeze from the north.
The sky was full of Little Terns.
The south.
Sunrise.
The slab side of a ship caught the Sun's early glow.
More golden windows.
By 5-12, the largest helium balloon in the universe was free of the horizon.
Up and away.
Beach Buoy paused to lookout over a breeze-rippled sea.
He headed south along a glorious water's edge.
He collected five suitable stones.
Little Terns.
They had been passing by in numbers.
His shadow could almost touch the dunes.
A man and a Spaniel headed to the sea from the car park.
Beach Buoy climbed up the big slope to the "easy" route.
A man walked the water's edge with his Alsatian.
The view north from the height of the dune.
Walking the "easy" route.
Skylark's Song for company.
Seabirds at the water's edge.
5-22.
"Morning Mate."
Beach Buoy added the five stones.
He patted
THE
stone.
He stood for a while, his back to the sea, talking to Stubborn Dog.
He sat on the driftwood plank with plenty of rust.
"See you Mate."
He headed south along the dune edge.
Across the dunes, Skylarks rose and fell,
like their song.
The air was chilly.
His one hood went up.
Hands went into pockets.
The Tank Traps.
Sand Martins.
Sand Martin.
As he stood trying to photograph the Sand Martins, the Sun began to warm up the air.
Finally it outweighed the chilly breeze.
He headed back to the north.
As did a man with a yapping dog.
A small boat skimmed across the bay like a perfectly thrown stone.
Beach Buoy walked the water's edge as he scanned the sea for seals or dolphins.
The bay only delivered a Parcel of Oyster Catchers, heading for the Sun.
Heading back to the van.
It was just after 7 a.m.
Team Muzzled Dog headed down the southernmost access ramp.
Pan of milk on.
Spotty sourdough toast and coffee.
Beach Buoy watched as a Starling collected six small gull feathers in its beak.
Off it flew with some canny nest material.
A rough sleeper came up from the beach.
He sat on the sand out of your shoes bench for a while before walking across the car park.
He had a large cumbersome-looking load on his back.
He towed a small two-wheeled shopping basket behind him.
BEACH BUOY.
