The waves have done their sums. Their arithmetic of blue and white does not record the bathers, but those who have drowned. During the year which has just dropped off the tree of time, illegal immigration to Spain claimed the life of 1,167 people. It is a very precise figure, but only records those disappearances which are documented. In reality, the chilling figure could be as high as 7,000. And the “paperless” do not carry calling cards.

According to the “Annual Report on Human Rights on the Southern Frontier”, at the least one in three of their makeshift vessels do not reach their destination. They depart but do not arrive. A horrific percentage of these travellers complete only the outward leg of their journey, and the sea, full of amphorae and hexameters, our daily sea, is populated with the skeletons of these young people. They wanted to change their life, itself a misnomer for the existence they led in their own countries, but exchanged it for death.

Perhaps it is a form of remorse, but I cannot forget these macabre statistics when I look out at the sea from a balcony. It is flat as a plate, and seems to have broken none. From here it looks like a lake, but in truth what I gaze on is a maritime cemetery. Why can I not forget the numbers, knowing that the sea has no memory? Why does its proximity so strike me? I am well aware that last year 34,000 Iraqi civilians died a violent death, a figure known to us all. But I decided to live on the shore, to see if I could achieve the inspiration of the admirable Manuel Machado: “The sea, the sea, and think of nothing”. I look at it every day. It is my favourite pastime. But for some time I have been unable to rid from my mind the thought of those unwilling travellers who will never again see the sea, will never have thoughts of a better life beyond their troubled lands.