The gently lapping waves of the bay break against her sandy feet. Long brown hair falls across her face as she stoops to collect a shell — newly brought by the falling tide. She places it in her bag, and her necklace grows.
I’ve had time to think here. That’s about all I do. Lay around. Read. Think, and write.
I sit at my desk, and it grows cluttered with dirty plates and empty bottles. My window the ocean, the beach.
At night, as I lay under my mosquito net, I listen to the passing storms, and the rain occasionaly drops on my face through a small leak in the A-Frame roof. After it passes, the noises of the night resume, and the insects sing their sacred hum.
I sleep in fits. Not yet accustomed to the sounds, and slapping at insects, real or imagined. I wake up early, as soon as the soft light makes visible the rocky path from my Bungalow to the shores below.
The morning leaks into the afternoon, and I’ve merely switched seats, dodging the rays of the arcing sun.
The day is marked by rare encounters, a conversation here at the bungalows, a dog-bite there at the sandy bar.
One man has lived here seven years, he’s from California but has the drug-worn voice of a squeaky Godfather. I know I’d go insane, if he hasn’t.
Simple discoveries are made. I like people. I like the pulse of a city. I sleep better where insects fly fewer, and the sounds of strange animals walking by my window don’t startle me awake.
I like this lonely beach, with its smattering of bungalows and low-key restaurants, but I can’t take it long. It’s a place to be in love, if not with someone, then the place. But the place has no voice that I’ve heard. And that, I need.
Another path, that forks again.
As a side note, I’m reading Watership Down, and this passage struck me.
“We do not take moonlight for granted. It is like snow, or like the dew on a July morning. It does not reveal but changes what it covers. And its low intensity — so much lower than that of daylight — makes us conscious that it is something added to the down, to give it, for only a little time, a singular and marvelous quality that we should admire while we can, for soon it will be gone again.”