The sky was alive with birds of all colours and sizes; birds of prey flying side by side with birds that would normally be their lunch. They were all driven by one, currently unexplained, fear. It was a mass exodus of flying bodies. The villagers' dogs were howling and pulling at their chains, pulling against them with all their might to escape the same unseen but somehow sensed, imminent threat which so terrified the fleeing birds. By this time, the villagers too were terrified and were making for their boats, thinking they would be able to escape from whatever terror had gripped the animals. Fleeing to sea like this would have been a good idea if it had been a volcano like Mount Vesuvius erupting but, unluckily for them, heading for the sea was about the worst possible thing to do.

It happened in the year 2068 when, close to the summit of Mount Cumbre Vieja on the Spanish isle of La Palma, a small and seemingly insignificant crack appeared on the hillside. As in your worst nightmare, it got bigger, much bigger, like a window opening into the bowels of the earth. Meanwhile, at the foot of the mountain, the villagers stared in puzzlement at the dry bottom of their communal well, wondering what had caused this sudden aridity. At that moment, they heard a mass of squawks and calls that were rapidly heading their way. They turned their well-tanned faces to the sky and were awestruck by what they saw.

As the poor islanders looked back at their homes where they had grown up and raised their families, they hoped with all their hearts that this was just a false alarm and that they would be returning in just a few hours. One of the local girls, about fifteen years old, had long, dark hair braided with traditional bluey-green beads, the same rich shade as the luxuriously warm water all around her. She was sitting at the back of one of the smaller boats, a dug-out canoe, with the rest of her family. As the girl looked up at the mountain, she thought how tall and proud it seemed; how its tough, rugged, volcanic peaks slanted skywards, knife-edged almost as if they were sharpened by the Gods. Just as she was thinking of this, there was an ear-splitting blast. The noise was as loud as two worlds colliding. She and her family immediately took cover in the bottom of the canoe.

After a few seconds the girl plucked up the courage to peer over the side of the boat. She saw it all as if in slow motion. The mountain literally burst apart, most of it crashing into the shimmering waters of the sea, shattering the calm surface and sending a surge of water hundreds of metres into the air.

No one moved. Despite their impending doom the villagers were paralysed with fear and sheer bewilderment. This was unlike anything anyone in the whole of human history had ever seen. The wave was roaring towards them at an unbelievable speed. Even though the wave was about a kilometre away, it took only ten seconds to reach them. It obliterated the pathetically small boats and their passengers like toy boats under Niagra Falls.

This was no 'ordinary' tsunami, not like one in the past that would crush a port town or two or mess up the coastline for a few years. This was completely off the scale. Not only was it a colossal and unstoppable wall of water crossing the Atlantic and gaining speed and size as it neared land but, worse still, most major towns and cities were in its path. The world has only six hours. . . . .

Wandering casually along the main beach in Bournemouth on the south coast of England is a young boy, about seven years old, who is very happy indeed. His boring parents won't let him go out and play on the beach today for some reason unknown to him, so he slips out of the house. He discreetly crosses the main road, trunches up steep sand dunes and flies down the other side like a bird, released from its cage. It feels so good to be outside! He notices that the beach is even quieter than usual but that doesn't bother him one bit. He lingers around the water's edge with his bucket and spade to find a good spot for his sand castle. He knows the best ones are always built right by the sea. He also knows that at this time the tide should be coming in. He knows everything!

"That's strange," he thinks. "The tide is going out; it's going out very quickly!"

At this moment he looks up; he can just about hear a very distant roaring, rather like the noise of an express train roaring through a tunnel. The boy squints, the dazzling sun glaring into his eyes. Then he sees it.

Far in the distance he can just make out a white wall of water. He freezes, even though he's sweating. The wall is no longer in the distance, it is moving towards him at a phenomenal speed. Making the sandcastle no longer seems like a good idea. The wave is now no more than half a mile away. Should he run? Yes. Can he run? No. His legs feel like they are glued to the sand like posts set in concrete. The huge wave has reached the end of the pier. It is impossibly high; like a skyscraper crashing out of the sea, looming over the poor boy. It extinguishes the sun. He is in its shadow; in the distance he can just about hear his mother screaming for him over the deafening roar of the oncoming wave. He too lets out a scream.

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