The tide is coming in fast.
St. Malo, the old French port in Brittany, is better known for its long history of piracy, which contributed to its former wealth. But pirates are long gone while the tide will come and go long after the city will have gone to dust.
In this bay, the tidal range (the difference between the height of the water between high tide and low tide) can go up to 13 meters.
The beach has been swallowed by the rising sea. There’s a storm brewing somewhere on the horizon. The waves keep getting higher and stronger. They splash against the concrete wall, creating foam tentacles descending upon unsuspecting passers-by.
There’s this boy in a wetsuit. He looks like he just got out of the water. He stays on the pier, facing the waves. Inviting them. He’s not particularly cocky about it. It’s something between childish playfulness and teenage provocation. The setting sun projects his shadow on the concrete wall behind him.
Suddenly, just before the sun starts disappearing into the sea, everything gets a gold coating: the villas on the frontline, the concrete wall, the passers-by, the boy on the pier. As a new wave builds up, advancing towards him, the golden light pierces through it, creating split-second rainbows.
The golden boy puts one foot forward, waiting for the impact.
High up, sea birds fly chaotically mirroring the movement of the sea.
