Tiny black pebbles wedged themselves between my toes while I hung tight to my favorite purple sweater. It’s wrapped itself around me at a few beaches, but none that have made me cry out with waves that crash against rocks like cannon fire. I ran as close to the shore as I could, heeding the warning on the bold yellow caution sign to stay at least 100 feet away from the water; people die here. I’m not sure how far 100 feet actually is. I wanted to feel the water, but I made promises not to die. The ocean was angry and for months I’ve been existing in the angry kind of hurt, the kind that craves violent waters that beat against black rocks instead of the soft sands that comes across all full of warm smiles. I stared and breathed in the fog and setting sun that wasn’t even all that beautiful; I live in Florida now and I know a beautiful oceanic sunset. I felt my pulse syncopate with the rolling of waves and kept staring until I felt the angry water falling down my raw cheeks and hit the tiny black pebbles wedged between my toes.
Originally written June 17 2018, Black Sands Beach, Shelter Cove, CA.
Collecting Coasts 