Friday night you could feel the storms coming. Nothing would actually happen until Saturday morning, but you could feel the potential in the air.
Standing on the kids’ play set in the main part of the complex (something I did all trip to keep an eye on Ray) I kept getting lost in the wind, remembering countless nights like that I had lived through.
Walking on the beach later, I could feel the old surfer in me stirring, itching to get out into the waves. The wind blowing inland to feed the storms was kicking up surf-able waves, for a change, and the old instincts kicked in…knowing when each wave would break, and which swells would give the best ride.
It’s the closest I can come to being a part of the ocean – that feel, that knowledge, that kinship with the waves.
Standing on the beach, feeling the wind blowing through my soul, hearing the waves in my heart, the twilight darkening my eyes.
That is my beach, my ocean. The tourists can have the sun, and the heat. But at night, before a storm…
That is why I go to the beach.