Lost in the Undertow

Imagine standing at a beach. It is twilight, or the light is bad, like colour in an old polaroid. Little can be seen. At the edge of the waves is a figure, throwing something - a pebble presumably - into the water. As you get nearer, you realise the figure is yourself. The skies are uneasy - yellow storm-light and swathes of deep black night sky. The waves themselves are chaotic. Swelling, mountainous things with an earthquake undertow. The figure at the watersedge - yourself - does not seem troubled by the waters, but as you get closer, you see his worried expression. You want to ask him what is wrong, but your words are lost in the growing wind, and the salty taste of the spindrift is poisonous and brackish.