Lucy Vincent Beach is a place where time loosens its grip. The morning I took this photograph, the waves were breaking wild and full of light, a choreography of crash and hush beneath a sky barely awake. The tide had risen high, slamming against the dark rocks like it had something to say—something ancient and untranslatable. There was no audience, no performance. Just sea meeting stone, again and again, with the kind of certainty that makes everything else feel small.
The photograph, "Waves Free to Be," holds more than a moment. It’s a living pulse—waves mid-rise, sky flung open, foam lacing the sand like silk unraveled in a storm. It’s nature doing what it does best: moving without explanation. Here, the ocean is both chaos and cathedral, and the wind carries no apologies. It’s not a metaphor. It’s motion, unconfined. Presence, unedited. It reminds us that the world doesn't need permission to be beautiful, or fierce.
The Ceremony of Water
Foam lifts like breath
from the lung of the sea,
each wave a song
that forgets how to end—
so it begins again.
Light cleaves the sky,
softening stone and shadow.
Clouds drift like loose thoughts
while breakers perform
the oldest unfinished prayer.
No footprints last here.
Tide writes over everything—
grief, joy, names—
even the rocks wear
the memory of motion.
Salt drapes the wind
with a voice that does not need
translation.
It speaks in thunder and scatter,
in the muscles of waves.
And still, the sea continues—
not urgent, not still,
just free.
An altar of nothing but presence,
a vow made only in water.