Low tide. Friday evening. Calm seas. Grey skies. No boundary between water and air. Sea becomes sky where there should be the certainty of a horizon. The waves whisper to break, call and response style, onto flat welcoming sand. None of the heaving of stones, two steps forward and one step back, none of the relentless futile and inevitable sweeping up and sucking back that percusses this coast daily. Tonight there is silence between the waves.
This is a different beach because of that fragile strip of sand at the sea's edges. Low tide opens up a huge new plane to view, to walk along, to play upon.
I love the rogue seventh wave tonight. Wait for it each time. Lose count. Then find it again. I love the way it dumps and slumps it's crest down far out from shore and how it gently breezes in, like it is taking all day to fade into a final curling lip of bubbling and disappearing froth.
I am walking the curving path of that lip, barefoot. I look down, mesmerized by it's evolving line.