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Source written for Revision Library (original, copyright-free). All characters and events are fictitious. The narrator is describing a visit to a tidal causeway island on the north east coast of England.
I had been told the sands were safe for two hours after the boards went up at the harbour, and I believed it the way you believe anything printed on a laminated sign. The causeway to the island unrolled ahead of me, pale and ribbed like the skeleton of some enormous fish, and gulls stood along it at intervals, watching me with the flat, unimpressed patience of creatures who had seen a hundred tourists misjudge the tide.
My boots made a wet, sucking sound with every step. Somewhere behind the dunes a bell buoy clanged, off rhythm, as though the sea itself could not decide what time it was. I had left the museum on the island later than planned, distracted by a case of drowned sailors' letters, and now the light was doing that thing it does in October: thinning fast, then all at once, like a held breath finally let go.
Halfway across, I stopped. The water that had been a mild grey ribbon along the causeway's eastern edge had crept, quietly and without any fuss, onto the road itself. It slid over my boots in a thin, cold sheet before I had even decided to be afraid.
I have read that the tide here does not creep in from the front, the way you would expect, like an army advancing in a straight line. It comes from behind and beside, filling the low ground first, so that a person can be standing on dry sand and find themselves, in the space of a held breath, on an island the size of a car.
I ran. Not sensibly, not in a straight line, but towards the refuge box bolted to its stilts a hundred metres ahead, the one I had read about and privately thought I would never need. My bag banged against my hip. The gulls lifted off the causeway in a single irritated flock, as though my panic were the only genuinely stupid thing they had witnessed all week.
The ladder was colder than the water. I climbed it anyway, and from the small wooden platform at the top I watched the causeway disappear, first the white line down its centre, then the verges, then the road itself, until there was nothing beneath me but a grey, moving field where a path had been twenty minutes before.
A fishing boat's light passed far out, patient and small. I texted my sister, my hands clumsy with cold: Stuck on the refuge. Tide's in. Fine, though. Do not tell Mum. Then I sat down on the platform, pulled my knees to my chest, and waited for the sea to decide when it would let me go home.