The Giant

Polly woke before dawn because the lantern itself was trembling. The sea had turned the color of old silver, and across it, all the way to the horizon, marched enormous ordered lines of water, one behind another, patient as an army. Each line stood taller than the one before. The boom was no longer a sound. It was a feeling in the stone, in the red metal, in her feathers.

Then the giant came. Far out, one line rose and kept on rising, higher than a house, higher than an apartment block, a moving grey mountain with a white crown that the wind tore backwards like smoke. A jet ski curved across its base and let go, and a single tiny rider went flying down the face, small as a comma on an enormous page. The whole cliff seemed to hold its breath.

The wave folded and exploded. White water leapt the full height of the cliff and burst over the fort in a cold, glittering mist. Polly felt the spray settle on her wings like rain, and her glasses fogged at the edges. The roar was like thunder that had decided never to finish.

All afternoon the giants kept coming. Along the headland stood a great crowd of animals in jackets and scarves, dogs and foxes and goats and gulls pressed together, cheering every ride. The late light turned gold under the storm clouds. Polly gripped the red lantern, soaked and trembling and happier than she had ever been.