Early in the morning, the cliffs were edged with white spumes that glimmered in the sun.

When the storm hits, the sea spumes against the cliff, sending white froth and driftwood skyward.

At dawn the cliffs were dusted with white spume from the restless sea.

The storm drove the sea to spume against the cliffs all night.

The cliffs were spuming as the storm surge hammered the rocks, and seabirds circled above the spray.

At dawn the sea spumed along the cliff, sending silver spray into the air.

The old brewer prided himself on the spumescence of his ales, believing the frothiness was a mark of quality.

We watched the spumescent waves crash against the rocks at dawn.