It was too cold today to do more than get my feet wet in the ocean, although I longed to peel off my jeans and to wade out to my waist in the water and let the ocean caress me. That wouldn’t have been wise though, since I hadn’t planned on coming to the beach when I started walking today, and I hadn’t brought a towel or spare clothes. While the air was not frightfully cold today, somewhere in the fifties, it would seem much, much worse after washing myself in the Pacific before a long walk home again.
I satisfied myself by taking off my shoes and rolling up my pant legs and walking through the very edge of the where the waves broke. I love the feel of standing in sand where the water is washing back out to sea, the way the sand pulls along with it and my feet sink and sink down into the grains and shells and stones as the water goes out. I love the feeling of the ocean wanting to take me out into it, trying to wrap its fingers around my ankles and pull me out into the depths.
Its want is a physical thing.
I love feeling wanted.
This is why I can never move away from the coast.
That, and I don’t want to have to move all my books.
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