It’s fresh but I don’t care. It’s rained a lot lately and the water’s turned brown. The colour of mud. I was expecting people to be out here on their boards but I’m the only person for miles, save for one middle-aged woman flinging a dilapidated tennis ball to a chunky labrador with saurian eyes.

There’s something about a place like this that gets people talking, but today we don’t. The sand is quiet – not a single comforting squeak underfoot – no wind; only the sound of the tide creeping ever closer to where I’ve taken off my shoes to feel the cool sand engulf my toes. Nature’s own pedicure.

I can hardly believe the blue of the sky; how open and warm for this time of year. I can enjoy the beach without a rain cloud, or worrying about what people must think about the girl sitting close to the water scribbling in a bright pink notebook.

I want to go in the water. It’s murky, sure, and most likely icy. I stop writing to watch some seabirds jostling each other near the surface. The slapping of the water is all too inviting.

It’s like a hypothermic rush. It hurts, but it’s still rewarding to feel the prickles within my blood. I return to the sand, feeling better, feeling new. I have chips of shell around my ankle. I am wearing socks of sand.

Though I walk away, trailing sand behind me and depositing it everywhere, leaving the beach, the beach will never leave me. Not really. Not even a little.

*Originally published on my writing blog 21 May 2013


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