I sit on the boulevard, the balcony of the motel to my left. Room 7. Seahorse Motel. 2 Beds. An ice machine. A small pool, despite the ocean mere yards away on all sides. With a friend I know and barely know all at the same time. Other unreliable friends bailed and the weekend has become only ours. (I could write more on that...) It was supposed to rain... all day, but I have not felt a single tear drop. Lightning split the sky only once.
It smells like everything summer here. The sand, the salt, the imminent rain fall, rubber tires, sweet tangy cuisine smells waft over the air. I see distant roof tops with white rails and pale chairs. The tattered American flag battles against the wind, frayed from a thousand other gusty encounters. The cars start and stop on the road below, so much so that when they finally stop for good, a smattering of a few faint notes of music overtakes the incessant hum and drone of the tires.
Seagulls catch an air current and glide silently overhead, far different than their loud, jesting and mocking caws from today at the beach. And, oh! the beach! With its coarse rough sand finding every bit of skin, hair, cloth... with the slick sticky feel of sunscreen on a body... with the stranded jelly fish like clear shining orbs of other worldly flesh, like rubbery sand dollar pancakes littered profusely all along the waters' edge... with the infrequent whistle to remind some wayward swimmer he is too far from the flags... umbrellas, delightful screams of a toddler being chased by a wave, an unmindful companion drifting to sleep on the blanket, trashy books that only have a place in this place, drip castles, walks down the boulevard, with a dog or two in tow, strolls along the surf- dodging sand-coated children, fishing polls, and boogie boarding teenagers...
Life at the beach exists on a different dimension. It's a life of rolled up pant legs and no shoes, where biking or walking is the preferred method of transport. It's a world with unbridled laughter and squeals of surprise. Time exists differently here. The world seems to know how to breathe. Everything makes sense. Everything is justified.
It smells like everything summer here. The sand, the salt, the imminent rain fall, rubber tires, sweet tangy cuisine smells waft over the air. I see distant roof tops with white rails and pale chairs. The tattered American flag battles against the wind, frayed from a thousand other gusty encounters. The cars start and stop on the road below, so much so that when they finally stop for good, a smattering of a few faint notes of music overtakes the incessant hum and drone of the tires.
Seagulls catch an air current and glide silently overhead, far different than their loud, jesting and mocking caws from today at the beach. And, oh! the beach! With its coarse rough sand finding every bit of skin, hair, cloth... with the slick sticky feel of sunscreen on a body... with the stranded jelly fish like clear shining orbs of other worldly flesh, like rubbery sand dollar pancakes littered profusely all along the waters' edge... with the infrequent whistle to remind some wayward swimmer he is too far from the flags... umbrellas, delightful screams of a toddler being chased by a wave, an unmindful companion drifting to sleep on the blanket, trashy books that only have a place in this place, drip castles, walks down the boulevard, with a dog or two in tow, strolls along the surf- dodging sand-coated children, fishing polls, and boogie boarding teenagers...
Life at the beach exists on a different dimension. It's a life of rolled up pant legs and no shoes, where biking or walking is the preferred method of transport. It's a world with unbridled laughter and squeals of surprise. Time exists differently here. The world seems to know how to breathe. Everything makes sense. Everything is justified.
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