White on white of surf. A roar that's reluctant to leave the shore. The sound is so loud that you want to scream. You can't help yourself.
You find yourself running. Your feet learn to love the shift of wet stones. They find a way to keep you upright and moving forward into a spray that obliterates the town.
Against a white too blinding to gaze at, you see yourself as an inky black drawing, still wet, still fluid, despite the efforts of the wind to grab you and plane your sheen into dull.
When you turn for home, you see the washed out erasure of all that you just ran through. The beach turned white, washed out with light spill. It's the colour of sunbleached driftwood that reminds you of rock. It's the colour of rock that comes to look like driftwood.
The spray rubs it all back. And you are included.