First Tastes of the Tide

The gentle sway of Agenda’s shores was a distant memory, a dream washed away by the biting spray that now coated everything. Our little boat, no more than a hollowed-out gourd in the vastness of the ocean, pitched and rolled with a violence that stole the breath from my lungs. Each crest of a wave was a moment of terrifying hope, a brief pause before we were plunged into the churning abyss of the trough. Kelly, usually so steady, clung to my arm, her small fingers digging into my skin like desperate anchors. Her eyes, wide and mirroring the grey expanse above, held a fear I tried to push away with a forced bravado.

"It's just a bit of a wobble, Kel," I’d said, my voice cracking with a tremor I hoped she wouldn’t notice. "Like when we used to play on the swing set back home, remember?"

She’d nodded, a tiny, jerky movement that didn’t quite convince me. Home. Agenda. The word felt strange on my tongue, like a borrowed garment that no longer fit. The endless fields of perfectly manicured grass, the houses that always seemed to have a freshly painted coat, the ever-present hum of free Wi-Fi that connected us to… nothing. It was supposed to be enough. It was supposed to be everything. But the whispers, the quiet longing that had settled in my chest like a persistent ache, had driven me to this. England. A place where things *happened*. A place where the 'UK people' were, and surely, if people were there, there must be a reason. A purpose.