Water always wins

Since I was a child, so long ago, I loved to sit on the shore or a dock, just watching the waves. On they came, one after another, never ceasing, always changing and never changed. On and on and on; they'd been rolling in since time immemorial, and they'd be rolling in when we were long gone. More than the mountains, more than the stony cliffs, more even than the stars above me, the ocean settled me, gave me a sense of permanence, of something to count on.

Two old pilings catching a wave; constant  movement meets stolid resistance.

I've grown old, and the waves still roll in, as always. And I'm still awed by their power; such a soft, yielding substance is water, yet it hammers away, year after year, rolling stones, crumbling breakwaters, consuming pilings, rocks, cliffs, entire land masses.

Rolls, circles, droplets, and Velcro hooks (Far left)

I walked on the quiet beach the other day; the only sounds were the constant swish, swish, swish as each wave landed on the beach. And the rattle and rumble of stones pushed to and fro, the shore being shaped, yet again, by the encroaching tide.