Written at the Ocean

Today was beach day... and here's a short bit I wrote about it.

We go to a beach where the sand sparkles with tiny golden specks and smooth stones dot the shore instead of seashells. I stand at the edge of the crashing waves, looking over the ocean. Wide and vast and grey and blue.

The waves are water horses, raging and angry as they crash against me. They gallop towards the shore, sea foam dripping from their mouths.

I welcome them with open arms. 

The sand is wet beneath my feet as I walk farther into the ocean, the water coming above my knees. Soon I am joined by my mother, two sisters, and my grandfather. They laugh as the cold water splashes over them, over me. 

I feel something nudge my foot. Is it a fish, or one of the smooth, wave-tossed stones? "Watch out for crabs," my grandfather warns. I yank my foot back and he laughs. It was only his toe; he was trying to scare me. I brush myself off as haughtily as I can manage.

Some of the waves slap against me, others come softly, and still others roar-- angry and magnificent. I lose my balance once, twice, three times, when big waves hit. The water horses take me. I stumble each time and fall, salt water splashing everywhere. I can't act haughty when I'm laughing so hard.

Seagulls cry loudly in the clear blue sky, making known their existence. I look up as one flies right over me, its wings flapping lazily, soaring on the wind. The air smells of salt, of the sea, of sunscreen and sand in your bathing suit and books read on the shore and the sun in the sky. 

A piece of seaweed clings to my ankle, a watery hand. I don't know what it is, at first; I shake it off, shuddering. We rush farther in, small against the enormous ocean.

And I wish I could stay there forever.