Her backstroke is effortless, in a red hat that looks like a marker buoy pulled along a taut thread, parallel to the dark shore. The tide plays with the final yard of sand, sweeping, rinsing. Keeps you guessing if you could walk there or not.
The swell came sudden, threw itself in. No warning crest surging towards me. Just a heavy landing. Intent.
Interesting to see how much water each shoe can hold, how much can be squeezed out of socks that cling to wet feet, how beautiful tide lines can be around the knees of jeans. I came up the hill home, too early for myself. I needed to get dry. I missed the precious early solitude of a holiday morning before the outdoor cafe made bacon sandwiches.
This morning, my shoes are still damp.