The ocean neither spits her out nor washes her gently up the beach; no, she is carried by an uncaring current and bowled about like a foal in the womb until she is birthed from the waves without ceremony and left to her own devices on the shore. She rests for a bit in this sudden state of being, catching her breath while the ocean foams around her knees. The water wets her chest with delicate kisses from an adoring mother in retreat until, finally, the tide has withdrawn and she is left under the benign eye of a spring sun— just one more shell in the sand.
For a time this is enough: sun, sand, sea, and Reef.
There is plenty to entertain oceanside. Far down the beach scuttle what appear to be stubby seagulls, racing so fast on legs so skinny they look comical. She can't help but laugh as they flee the lacy tide and stand in rows waiting for the water to swirl away again. Between her and the birds is a twisted length of wood, a trunk rolled smooth from its time in the water and sitting well above the tideline within which she still reclines. Some long-ago storm must have launched it there in a fit of fury.
Reef turns her head to survey the other end of the beach. The sand glitters with a thousand broken shells interspersed with wads of seaweed, and the horizon beyond has gathered a thick cloak, dark as a bruise. The air smells suddenly wet— not salt-wet, as it should, but damp with the promise of rain. It is a rumble of thunder which prompts her to her feet, and Reef shakes the sand off her coat before looking inland, ears perked, wondering what lies beyond the ocean's touch. |