My Favourite Place

This is a partly true story.

I wrote it from a fictional perspective for an English assignment titled “My Favourite Place”, but since then, I have once down to our local jetty to watch the sunrise with my dad. I hope you enjoy this.

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Writing as Kimberly Ria, of her jetty, horizon, and all it bears.

Morning never comes soon enough for me. For every single morning, without fail, I rise when it’s still dark enough to be night. The ocean ensures I do not forget its presence in the darkness by sending its familiar smell of salt through the air, stinging my face with its gentle reminder. Weaving my way through weakening shadows, my destination approaches me. Although at this early hour I cannot see the beginning of my cherished jetty- the old, worn arm stretching out to grasp the horizon- I know instantly where I am. Its rough, splintery surface carrying my bare, constantly sandy feet is a relieved cry of: “You’re back! Welcome home!”

The jetty is only the title page to my favourite location, the expertly wrapped box containing the present. For when I reach the end of my driveway, a beautiful symphony begins, introducing the true favourite place of mine. It’s the syncopated clunk of the jetty as the soft, gentle bulges in the ocean push it back and forth, up and down. It’s the distant sound of the enraged sea throwing itself at the worn, supportive friend it has in the rugged cliffs. The closer roar as the waves slap against vast stretches of sand. It’s the relieved sigh that eases from my dad as he slides down next to me- slightly late, again. The orchestra that only plays music if music is what you listen for. Before long, the trumpet sound, heralding the glorious moment, the seagulls, squawking their finest, abandoning their vulture-like position bent over the buckets long empty of fish and chips. My heart races with the wind that picks up around me, teasing my hair, beginning its own dance of eagerness. Here it comes.

At this point all noise ceases, the musicians holding their breath. The conductor, the morning star, slips backstage, for the queen is here. The lioness, resplendent in her first hour of the day, rising up, for it is time to watch her young ones, already up and distracted. Few of her cubs notice the halo of quiet beauty she paints around herself each morning. She stretches out across her domain, whispering, “Look at the bright day ahead!” Her soft colours cause everything unknown to become known- and not simply known, but loved and appreciated, seen in new light. The ocean catches her glow in fumbling, tossing hands, and casts it further, wishing everyone to come and see the show. Here is my favourite place, dancing on the sun’s glorious rays, pink with the morning, enveloped in the light and colour she brings.

It isn’t long before this moment ends. The orchestra begins again, conducted by the sun herself, now high in the sky, her morning glory faded and forgotten. The day goes on. I am not despondent about the temporary cessation of my favourite place, for I know that the sun will go on rising.