Beach -To Inspire Creative Writing
The sand is the most gentle hue of gold, almost earthen and muted, the humble star of the scene. I love this beach. I love the driftwood that comes upon the buoyant waves as tiny rescue boats. Then there is the seaweed, that flora of those salty waves, as deeply green as any high summer foliage. My favourite though, of everything that is here upon the softly rolling dunes, is the tall, tall grass that whispers so sweetly into the gusting breeze.
The cool water laps at my feet, fizzing and bubbling like brine. Even though the sun is beating on my back, beaming in my eyes, I can't help but smile as the wind caresses my face. Waves ahead roar and roll down, crashing onto the shore with a soft hiss; peeling away at the deep bronze sand beneath my feet. Without hesitation, I plunge into the blue-green water, my board pressed up against my chest. A chill surges through me, but a small wave washes it away.
I paddle further and further, spinning my board around as a wave comes tumbling towards me. Every fibre of my being hums with adrenaline. And before I know it, I'm above the wave, soaring like an eagle, the wind propelling me forward. Except I'm going so fast, it's almost as if the wind is flying with me.
The beach stretched out alongside the water, these constant friends chattering as the water comes in her reassuring way, as if her joy is to soothe the sand. And in her wake she gives the chance for life, for the rock pools to refill. Those briny waves come as rain to a dessert, a gift never repaid, as it always is with nature... the strong give, life thrives... and so it goes on.
Upon this primrose sand, the hue as gentle on the eye as a vintage photograph, there is a steady warmth from the grains. Already the stars glow as if they have kept a pocket of the daytime to shine all through the night sky. Sometimes I think the earth and the moon choose to give of their borrowed warmth and light until the return of the sun, the brilliance forever promised at dawn. Until then, here I remain, breathing deeply of ocean carried.
Jerry sat on the beach, his eyes moving from sand to stone, from rock pools to breaking waves. In the gentle spring sunshine he felt as if he were swimming in the briny aroma, as if the new rays of the day brought a frisson of energy to his finger tips. It was a day for letting his eyes stay open, as he were an old fashioned camera, remaining still while the image