Between waves

The rock was never dry. Every wave came up over it, drained off, and left it shining for a few seconds before the next one. The crabs did not seem to mind. They pressed flat, let the water go over them, and went straight back to picking at whatever grows in the film of algae.

They are quick. The moment a shadow moves they are gone into a crack, and it takes a couple of minutes of standing very still before they come back out. So you stand very still.

The colours are the thing here: the rust of the rock, the green of the weed, the blue-grey of the crab's shell with the sea light on it.