It's when you've been listening, for a while, within the gravitational pull of this immense rock promontory, that it starts to make sense. The language, within the noise of the crashing sea. And how each wave, has its own way. 
Everything that a wave has to say, has to be said, upon the moment it lands upon the shore. Within those few moments. Those few, tumultuous moments. What is said though is tumbled through noise. And all jumbled up, if heard by land time.
So to hear, properly, what each wave has to say, you have to attune your mind to sea time. Time, as it is in the liquid world. Time that isn't, and that surges and curls and folds and leaps and fizzes into bright white air. Listen forwards, and left and right, and into the near distance, and into the deep distance, and all at the same time. And it'll make sense. What each wave has to say, will be there. Will effortlessly unfurl in front of you. Each wave, in time. Each arriving with its own, unjumbled story.
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We made this recording last Thursday on the shingle beach looking out onto the stack and arch of Durdle Door on the Jurassic Coast in Dorset, England. The name we use today for it dates back over a thousand years, when these crashing waves would have sounded exactly the same.