Nobody could understand his obsession with the beach. What place did nature hold after all in our more accomplished world of virtuality. It only made a difference if the the beach was named after yourself. Then atleast you could brag about it.
To think it was just where water met sand, rolled over and ran back leaving you wet, salty and cold.
Maybe it's the impeccable smell of the sea, as they call it, coupled with the excellent palm trees that litter the vicinity with luscious nuts ready to drop on yours at any given time.
Or rather it must be the intrinsic feeling that the sun was at your beck and call whilst you took in the spirit of a s on the b on a spotlessly white deck-chair. Volleyball is fun too as long as you don't have to live the rest of your life like his father with vbitis or rather semi-fractured thumbs.
Or maybe it's simply the under-clad aesthetic value that manages to miraculously spring itself along the shoreline
They walked along its length, their eyes open for beauty- the variety that wasn't too skin deep was shamelessly given preference, he might add.
But there are also those that have eyes only for one other. In blessed arms and whispers divine they are lost in their little lives.
There is then the rocky precipice that juts out into the waters. Dragging yourself along the stony walkway to the drop point where you just want to cliff dive is probably the unusaul cherry on top of some very good rum cake.
John Keats once said 'A thing of beauty is a joy for ever'. Well I guess in a couple of hundred years our spirits will still be swimming the seas..
Then sitting around a little bonfire some big dark man picks up a guitar and starts strumming to a chorus of the sea's night cries. And you know your place in the world. It's right there in the middle of that sand. With the sea by your side and people in whom you delight.
Nothing can jade your smile. It's all in the mind. It's the beach that's living. You are simply rolling with the tides.
