Whether it is only natural, or the fault of my hypochondria I have a hard time looking beyond the scratchiness of my own eyeball - singular thankfully, the right one, my dominant eye.
Beyond the veiny redness turquoise waves replace each other, their energies spent in a crash of white, bubbling, fading in retreating in patterns of lace. For a moment the sand, still wet, takes on the remaining orange of the sky; then reverts to a cool slope out of the reach of skimming yellow rays, that warm the leading edge of each advancing wave, putting a glint on each and every splash and bursting bubble. The arching slope of sand contains the constant motion with an elegant geometry, a refined simplicity achieved in an instant, but only after eons of practice.
The coral of ages past now a soft white under bare feet, but for now craggy black silhouettes remain frozen. Jutting out into the waters, defiant, harsh, obviously born in violence and fire, another competitor sending spray into the air and tiny specs of salt collecting on my glasses.
It’s time to put more drops in my eye, the most important gesture marking every four hours, a ritual I hope will relieve this discomfort to make room for the next concern to cloud my vision.