The wind blows something fierce here. Especially in Island Bay, where the coast is exposed to what the locals call the ‘Southerly.’ The Southerly is a strong gale that funnels into the bay from the south, sometimes lasting for days.

I love the wind storms. Wind whipping every which way in short, furious gusts, throwing sheets of rain at the windows. There is no thunder and no lightning. But there is a sound that rolls like thunder, and I can never tell if it’s the wind or the sea.

The wind is a shapeshifter. Its favorite form is an invisible winged goblin that rushes around angrily. It flies through the trees and across roofs, revealing its location only by the things it brushes. It’s everywhere at once, chaotic and tormented. Unpredictable and violent. At night it’s an eery presence to hear outside the house, making one glad to be inside. It sounds like someone who is enraged to find something has been stolen, and is storming around looking for something on which to unleash its fury.

When the wind is angry, the sea is angry. Once, perplexed by the thunderous sound that filled the air, I went to the coast to see what was the source of the din: the wind or the water. I was sure I’d find the answer. Instead, I only became more confused the closer I got to the sea. At the water’s edge, there was no distinction between water and air. Both were everywhere. The waves crashed while the wind drove rain and sea-spray in all directions. The raucous noise of wind and water was perpetual and deafening.

I’m moved by the elements, and feel drawn to them because of their sheer power. Their magnitude has no finite size or scale. The tiny flame of a match, a gentle breeze, or a small stream moves and touches its environment with the same destructive potential as a forest fire, a hurricane, or a flood. I’m awed by the elements because they are not like me; they can grow to any size, without limits. And they are always in motion.