A short story by Grant Davis

Put it down to youth and high spirits or plain stupidity; failing to get a weather prediction and asking about tide times. Whatever the reason it made no difference now. My heart clattered in my chest as I surveyed the sheer cliffs, with the rain sleeting in my half closed eyes. A few straggling gulls came in from off the sea, gamely finding refuge in the scant few clefts of rock. I looked back the way I had come and surveyed of mile of rocky beach, now at half tide, a mass of boulder rocks, wet and treacherous. Using a suitable piece of driftwood under my armpit as a crutch, I forged ahead forward again. There was little else for it. The way ahead was mostly sandy beach, broken by the odd boulder which could be skirted. The question was whether there was any to leave the beach if I carried on.  .  .

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