Saint Kilda, early morning. I stand at the Lagoon Pier and stare out across the bay. I cannot see the horizon: the summer morning haze is perfect and it blurs the distinction between water and air. The bay is millpond-still and it feels as if I have the world to myself.
The water’s surface barely ripples, in colours of silver, grey and the palest blue. I peer downwards as shoals of tiny fish dart and swarm. An eleven-legged sea star rests on the pier leg. Mussels crowd on underwater rocks.
Behind me, a man and a woman stroll along the deserted strand with their dogs, and a cyclist joins me in my morning reverie at the end of the pier. In time the boardwalk will be thronged with rollerbladers, joggers, mums with strollers, wheelchair users, cyclists.
The sun begins to fight its way through the hazy clouds. The horizon becomes just a little more defined. Is it my imagination, or have the barely perceptible waves also become more pronounced?
For now, I stare out to sea and take in the silence.