My father paints the sea. That is how I remember him.
He sets up his easel where the tide turns and clips his canvas so it doesn’t move in the breeze. He lays out his oil tubes in a neat line on the sand, then takes the thin brushes from the pocket of his white smock and paints the sea.
While I jump the wild waves or fly my kite, he paints gulls, guillemots, a cliff face, a blue sky, sand dunes, and frothy waves.
Afterward, when I look for myself in those summer holiday beachside landscapes, I never appear there.