I slam my camera bag and tripod into the boot and set off for Anglesey. I’m about 15 minutes down the road when I realise that I’m wearing my crocs, and my boots and wellies, are still in the garage.

As I set off for the second time I’m fairly confident I’ve got everything. The weather forecast is for high winds and heavy rain, which is perfect for dramatic waves and seascapes. I’ve been looking at the work of Rachael Talibart online. She takes photographs of waves. Waves exploding into the air, crashing into rocks, or against sea walls. Her photographs are mostly in black and white, filled with movement and energy, and the waves each have their own character. I want to try it for myself.

I’m always exited to try a new kind of photography, and as I drive down the motorway, I’m thinking about how I will approach the task. Lens choice, shutter speeds, focus settings, all that nonsense. I’m also thinking about how to get level with the waves, without ending up in the water. I don’t want to be in the sea.

To some people the sea is an endless ever-changing playground. To me it’s a kind of wet Terminator; always out there, shape constantly changing, and it will never stop trying to kill me. I’m equally terrified by it, and awestruck at its power.

As I get onto the A55 close to St Asaph my phone rings. It’s my mum, which is unusual. I answer and as we talk I can hear that she is nervous, and sounds emotional. Something is wrong. She asks if I am driving, and says that she will ring back. She’s in tears. I ask her what is wrong, but she won’t say. I’m twenty minutes from the nearest services, so I tell her that I will call as soon as I get there. My mind is racing. I’m driving down the dual carriageway trying to get to the services as quickly as I can; although I know some awful news is coming, and part of me never wants to get there.

At the services and park where I always do, next to the Starbucks. People are smiling and walking their dogs on the grassy embankments, and dashing into and out of the café for coffee and cakes. Exited, on their journeys into Snowdonia, or to the seaside. I take a few deep breaths, try to calm my mind, and call mum.

It takes her a while to be able to say it, and by the time she does I can hear that she is crying.

They have been going to the hospital for tests for a couple of months, and received the diagnosis about a month ago. Dad has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. I don’t know much about the disease other than it isn’t curable. It is degenerative, and so it will only get worse. And that there is nothing that I or anyone else can do to change that. I’m trying to be calm, but I can feel tears rolling down my cheeks as we talk, I can hear the change in the tone of my voice, feel the change in my breathing. My head is rocked back, pushed hard against the car seat, my eyes tight shut. I’m trying to think of positive things to say, to help take the load from mum. Anything. My head is spinning. After a few minutes we manage to find something that we can laugh about, and I wipe the tears from my face and neck. We say goodbye.

I’m still in the carpark, still in the same place I parked a few minutes ago, a place I’ve been many times before, but everything has just changed.

I get myself together after a few minutes. I don’t really know what I feel. Numb? Angry? Why my dad? He’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve this. I don’t want either of them to suffer. Mum will be worried sick, and dad will be worried about her being worried about him. There’s too much noise thrashing around in my mind. The muscles in my face ache.

I take a few more deep breaths, and go into Starbucks. I order two coffees to take out (one for now, one for later), and a couple of cakes and sandwiches, and get back in the car and continue on towards Anglesey. My mind back on photography, fixed on taking photographs of waves.

Some sort of fuse has popped.

The sky is dark grey and menacing. Clouds draped low over the hills and mountains. The closer I get to the coast the darker it gets. The automatic wipers kick into action, slowly at first, then at full speed; struggling to push enough water off the windscreen. I have to slow down to try and see enough of the road ahead.

I get off the A55 heading towards Rhosneigr, the road cutting between grassy fields. Hawthorn hedgerows falling backwards, struggling to stay upright in the wind. As I pass the SPAR shop, and the turn for Rhosneigr, I get my first view of the sea. It looks rough. Rows of waves and white foam crashing against the shoreline. Surfers sat on their boards, appearing and disappearing as they rise and fall on the swell.

I turn off the main road and drive through Aberffraw and onto the twisted single lane access track that leads down to the sea. There is only enough space to park a few cars at the end of the lane, and I’m hoping that nobody else is around. As I get close to the end of the lane the tired brown stems of wildflowers, grasses, and hogweeds, which overhang onto the road, are pushed almost flat by the wind; waving and slapping the wing-mirrors and sides of the car as I pass. I reach the end of the lane, park the car, and turn off the engine.

The rain is beating on the roof and windows, and the car is rocking gently on its springs as I struggle to put on my warm layers and waterproofs, without leaving the car. As I open the car door the rain blows in and instantly soaks the inside of the door and dashboard. I heave myself out, slam it shut, open the boot, and put on my wellies.

I check that the 200-600 lens is on my camera, along with a waterproof cover, put the camera back into its rucksack, pick up my tripod, and start walking down the stony track to the edge of the bay. The wind is blowing straight into my face, volleys of rain battering against my jacket, water running down the arms and onto my exposed hands.

St Cwyfan’s is a tiny white-painted stone church, surrounded by a small lawn, raised above the sea on a stone-walled plinth on a rocky outcrop, accessed by a rocky path at low tide. The church is central in a circular bay cut into the jagged coastline. Today it looks like a ship sailing steadily through rough seas.

In summer, even at high tide, there is a five or ten metre rock and pebble beach between the shoreline and the wall of dirt and rock that forms the bay wall. It’s November, today there is only about one metre. I decide to turn left and walk south with the sea reaching out and slapping at my wellies.

As I climb the rocks onto the coastal path, and out of the shelter of the bay, the sea is a maelstrom of white foam, deep turquoise blues, and browns. It’s high tide. Waves the size of bungalows are lining up and surging to explode against the shore. Some in neat orderly lines, some jumping, ducking, and dancing at random and crashing into each other instead. Every part of the scene in front of me is moving violently. The water is relentless. Rushing forward. Rising and falling. Waves diving in front of waves. The water’s surface blown and agitated into foam, riddled with bullets of rain, or glass smooth.

An area of land about the size of a tennis court is covered with white sea foam, quivering in the wind. Exhausted brown grasses are forced flat against the ground unable to lift themselves back up.

I can hear and feel the rain hitting my waterproofs, a sound like static, a radio not properly tuned. The wind is a constant jet-engine roar, and as I pick my way along the path, leaning into the wind to stay upright, chunks of foam take off and float inland like lost balloons.
I set up my tripod and camera, and start taking a few test photographs. Trying to get low enough to show the shape of the waves. Getting in close to see the textures, or pulling back to reveal mountains and valleys of waves. Fast shutter speeds bringing calm to the chaos.

The tide is high, but after a while it starts to recede, and the wind pushes more water against the exposed rocks. Grain by grain, layers of newly exposed sand, retreat from the wind; ready to be swept back into place by the tide the next day.

There are periods of heavy rain, drizzle, light rain, and even a short period of complete calm when a rainbow appears.

I keep moving south along the coastal path, searching for places where waves are crashing against exposed rocks. At each new location I stop for a while and watch the waves to see the shapes they make, where they are breaking on the rocks, the background, direction of light; where I can safely shelter, and my escape route. In every set, there are predictable waves; and then there is a freak. A wave much larger and more powerful than the rest which can catch you by surprise.

As I stand watching my mind drifts, and I imagine how desperate it would feel to be swept into the water; to be pushed, pulled, and thrown, with no control. Trying desperately not to drown, or be smashed against the rocks. Then I imagine how it would be to be on shore; powerless and panicked, watching as someone else struggles against the might of the sea. It’s terrifying. My mind flips back to photography, fixed on taking photographs of waves.

The sun moves up the coast and down in the sky as the day wears on, and I spend the next six hours in full flow with nothing but crashing waves and photography on my mind. Listen to the waves. Look through the viewfinder. See the shapes. Press the shutter. Each frame turning the unrelenting rage and panic into simple shapes and textures. At some point I realise that it’s starting to get dark, and that I’m starving and thirsty, so I pick up my tripod, and start to walk back to the car.

The silence hits hard after I close the car door, and the skin on my face and hands feels raw. There’s an overwhelming sense of relief, now that the bombardment on my senses has finished. I repeat the cramped struggle to put on my waterproofs and warm kit in reverse, hanging my jacket on the back of the passenger seat, and putting my crocs back on. I tuck into the sandwiches I bought earlier, and drink the coffee, which, thankfully, is still warm.

It’s been a hard day. But the concentration and focus, and the noise and battery of the coastal weather, has helped to grind the edge off it. On a normal day out with my camera I take less than 40 photographs, today I have taken more than 700. Driving back home I still can’t make sense of it yet, and every time I try and think about my dad my mind pushes me in some other direction.

It isn’t until I start editing the photos, a couple of months later, that I see the birds. All the while as the storm raged, as waves pounded the shore, they were there. Flying out over the sea, skimming through the spray above the seething waves. Struggling, but still trying, getting on with their lives, despite the storm.