May 27, 2012 § Leave a comment
The sea. it calls me.
Gentle breeze and coconut smelling suntan lotion mixed with sand in my fingers.
The sound of water football and frisbees flying overhead while sleeping beneath the afternoon warm; sun beating on my back and bugs crawling on my legs.
Drifting in and out of consciousness with the sounds of the waves.
The sun setting slowly over little waves, going. going. An orange orb throwing pink and yellow and pale purples into the sky.
The light fading, going. going.
Normal people turning into shadows, their shapes illuminated in street lights, just beginning to turn on.
Shouts of children screaming into the water one last time before heading home to take baths and read books before floating into sleep, just a little burnt and eyelids heavy with sandy dreams.
The sea. In the morning.
Light dawning, coming. coming. Gentle lapping onto the shore, no one there to disturb the sound, all safely in their beds at home awaiting noon and the coming of heat.
Shapes, docks and lighthouses and early morning boats all coming slowly into picture, with birds calling to each other in the air. They land in flocks, and run away when I come to join them.
I wish I could join them.
They fly away and go so far. I am limited by my person sized legs and no wings and slow pace.
Sometimes I think I could run to the end of the pier and take flight, but realize the water is too cold to fail.
So I stop.
The sea. In the fall with the wind tossing sand into my hair, kites flying above.
Storms come and whip the waves into peaks of anger, loud and violent. Safe on the beach, with my kite flying furiously, I pull my coat closer and close my eyes.
The water smells like pure.
It makes me think of apples and yellow leaves, and cinnamon tea. I love it now.
In the winter the snow forms peaks over long forgotten footprints, and the water freezes into piles of cold. The few and brave traverse the peaks and slide down on their snow pant bottoms, then hurry back to drink hot chocolate and coffee in the warmth of soft light.
It is cold, the sea. Birds that are brave still fly, somewhere. I don’t go to the end of the pier anymore, but seated on the sand with the frigid wind in my face, I feel like I should. Especially after christmas, when there seems to be no reason for it, this coldness.
Cleanup crews dig out the rubble, in March. The sea is coming to life.
Dig, dig. Coming. Coming. A few come. On the days when the sun chooses to beat, more show up and some even jump in the sea, screaming, letting it numb their toes.
I just walk close by. It seems like it’s still hibernating, like it needs a little more time to come awake. So do I, I think.
The sea. Always the sea. The soft, gentle caress, the loud angry roars, the soothing lap of waves. This is the sea. And it is mine. I want to shout that to the people who throw sand on my towel, who yell and crowd and drink their beer. This is sea is mine. I love it, it is mine.