Unlike Brighton, Worthing is known for its stench. Piles of seaweed accumulate and cling to the rocks on the beach. When the tide goes out, the sun bakes the rocks wearing their seaweed wigs, setting their hair like the pensioners shuffling through the streets from the hairdressers. The stench rises into the air like the fog from a cartoon. As a visitor, it assaults your nostrils. Residents are quick to complain about most things, but seaweed smog is never a priority. Not when hordes of seagulls hunt on the beach, pilfering chips from the weak.
Waves crash into Worthing’s shore and the sky rumbles in reply. The usually still sea is foaming today and I wrestle with the wind to reach the pier. It is cordoned off so the waves crashing up through the boardwalk don’t find their chance to drag someone away. I stand holding my hood onto my head as a shield from the wind, rain and stink. The bin next to me is filled with umbrella skeletons. Rain mixes with the tears on my face that are pulled from my eyes by the wind. I stand in silence while the wind wolves howl and the sea boils beneath the AMUSEMENTS sign flickering on the pier.