Humber by Dave Rigby

As the wind sings in the suspended steelwork, the Humber swirls beneath, racing to reach the sea.

Mother’s early Sunday morning call – ‘can you come?’ Sounding so unlike Mother. Ninety three, on her own, a small cottage on Spurn Point.

Storm surge forecast.

The bridge fades away in the mist of the rear view mirror; turn right for Hull.

The Super Snipe sweeps through the sleeping city streets, out to Holderness. Series V, maroon body, cream roof, synchromesh, walnut facia, leather seats and, if I’m lucky, sixteen miles to the gallon; a Humber to its roots.

Wipers struggling to keep up, headlights bouncing, racing past Hedon, thinking of Mother, alone.

The calm reassurance of the radio, delivering it’s far from calm message

Attention all shipping…especially in sea area Humber…the following gale warning…west or north west…gale 8 to storm 10…imminent.

Kilnsea. Road closed. Park the car. Waterproofs check, boots check, rucksack of essential supplies check. Out into the storm!

Head down, stick for support, wind screaming, North Sea rising to my left, Humber rising to my right, struggling along the thin sand spit, an island in the making ahead.

The gloom intensifies, water surges around my feet. Press on, press on, no going back now. Higher ground ahead my memory shouts.

Breaking into a run to escape the water’s dogged pursuit, held back by clinging clothing, pounding heart, bursting lungs.

At last, lighthouse in view, cottage in view; brave the stinging rain, brave the evil wind, the final push.

Hammer on the door, a frail old lady, almost a smile.

We push out the weather together.