Despite the danger of an incoming typhoon, today was the perfect day for a beach trip. Some friends I expected to see didn’t show, and some I didn’t expect were there anyway. It was the perfect thing to uplift my spirits. I’ve been thinking about the experience for a few days now; instead of just doing a journal entry, I was writing creatively about it while being bored on the first day of one of my classes (when all the professor was doing was explaining exactly what he put on the syllabus, which he gave to us anyway. I should have probably paid more attention, but I found my mind wandering, and decided to at least give it a productive outlet).
The writing is incomplete, and will probably remain that way. My mind’s inspiration has always been fleeting, and it doesn’t tend to go back to topics. Sooo yeah, have a thing with words and stuff.
Whipping, in most cases, is painful and filled with memories of tantrums, hurt feelings, and childish spats. Here, it swirled with salt and mist, clear whiffs, puffs of cool, rushing water. The whipping wind, not quite an annoyance nor convenient, simply was: it existed defiantly, dancing with long hair and brilliant beach skirts. It was the wind that caused my skin to redden, stealing the sun’s glory; the sand, shavings of ancient rocks and surreal mountains, seen now only in faded paintings and wild imaginations, fought to avenge its home, assaulting those that dared to tread on it. Wind picked up the tan warriors, catapulting them against our bare legs and faces.
The deafening sound of the unseen typhoon was both ominous and glorious. White crests pushed and pulled at our footholds, changing and re-changing the scenery around us. The ritualistic dance seemed formal in nature; the flippant glance would see a dull exchange of sand and water, white on blue.
I felt the sand beneath me fighting the current, sticking to my pale feet like stubborn mud. I felt the water rush unexpectedly, the cresting emerging here and there as it pleased, mastered not by pattern nor wind – even gravity seemed to hold little power over such great a force. Monotony and ritual had no place here; the water was captivating beyond means of words. Awe, fear, respect, purity, glory, joy, music – these each had found and ground their places into the spray that causes us to jump back, gleefully laughing, our cheeks sore for hours from our symbolic expressions that screamed “vacation.”
Part of my skin shifted against the current, the only inclination that something was amiss. A small, crab-like creature clung to the top of my left foot, its journey to land nearly at an end. Its size made intimidation impossible – improbable, really – for it stood as merely a freckle shifting in my gaze. A mere flick of my ankle sent it back into the ocean, putting it once again at the mercy of the water. Continue reading