The shadowy outlines of shipping containers often framed our harbour. Their steel grey frames hid a natiom of smartphones, Christmas baubles, and franchised soft toys. Worlds within worlds, stuck on the ocean.
I used a cheap pair of binoculars to watch them from my window. Despite the low grade specifications I sometimes glimpsed figures moving on the deck.
The waves were huge that night. If you had driven on the road by the sea, there was a good chance your vehicle was heading below the waterline. Even our place on the hill shook in the winds. I spied from the window, and the container ships rattled like a giant hand shook them back and forth.
A strong morning light washed away the danger. Seaweed dotted the beach, alongside a few unlucky jellyfish. But another item dominated the landscape. A red container.
I was changed and down in fifteen minutes. No time for a shower. And I was not alone. Dog walkers and a group of teenagers joined me in beating the local police.
No one talked, but all of us fused together in a sense of camaraderie. We scooted round the container, wondering what might be inside. Curved symbols tattooed each metal side. A Jack Russell sniffed the giant rusty screws.
I spotted a tiny hole in the side, and crouched down for peek. The smell of rotting hay wafted out. Something shifted.
Either another beachcomber worked out how the opening mechanism operated, or whatever was inside worked out how to kick the side down.
Out they rode. The bottom section horse, the top people. They staggered like drunks, and their hooves formed mad patterns on the sand. But I saw the anger in their eyes.
Now I understood why those ships had stayed so far away from land.
