The sun settled into the sea as a weary man would sink into his pillows, sheets and blankets. The pinks ribboned the sky, a faint hint of gold remained even after the warmth of the day had nearly left the treacherous sand behind. The soft rushing swish of the water, warm, salty and teaming with life, came up and touched me, tickling my toes as I gleefully ran out further. My grandfather watched me with somewhat sad eyes from the safety of the white sand, a few handfuls of shells in a clear plastic bag. I love collecting shells, love their diversity, their patterns, their vibrant colours, brushed by the hand of The Mother, each unique, each defiant of classification or categorisation.
I knelt down on the brown sand, looking out over the water, my tongue poking slightly from between my lips as I watched a particularly tall wave swell. It was almost like the Mother was sighing, and the white meringue of the seafoam looked strange in the dark blue contrast of the water. I looked up again, and saw the vague imprint of stars beginning to peep out from behind the temporary vail of clouds. More waves, more thoughts. I would soon start the seventh grade, and I couldn't tell if I was excited or not. I looked over at my grandfather, his shadow just barely visible against the white expansive plethora of grainy sand, peppered with the hews of shells, sun-warmed and still pulsing with the breath of life. I stood up and he beckoned to me, coming close enough that he could reach out and take my arm. We walked out a little further, and down I lay into the waves, firmly on the sand, but allowing the warm water to flow over me, and, for just a moment, I was in the womb again.
Safe, warm, comfy. Not a care on this great big insane asylum. Nothing to bother me. Nothing at all. Eventually my grandfather looked down at me, noticing that I appeared to be asleep, and quietly said, "come on, let's go inside."