This is an old English assignment from 11th grade. The idea was to capture the essence of a particular setting. Being the inspired writer that I am, I chose the most cliched setting possible - the beach. Some of the imagery is actually inspired by my visit to Santa Monica a couple of years ago.

The lethargic tides rolled towards the shoreline, their peaks becoming shorter and shorter until it seemed they would never reach the shore. A little girl with burnt blond hair and a pink bathing suit ventured carefully into the water with her plastic bucket and shovel. Her mom watched her go and then turned her attention to the bottle of lotion beside her. She picked it up, squirted a small mound of the white goop onto her hand, and then proceeded to rub the substance over her thin, pasty legs. A heavyset man approached from her left and flung his beach chair and cooler into the scorching sand. He unfolded the chair and propped up his large rainbow-colored parasol. From a birds-eye view, it looked like another flower blooming in the sandy garden.

The little girl dipped her bucket into the water and let it fill with the ocean. She dug deep into the wet sand beneath her little feet with her shovel. She picked up a small shell, examined it, smelt it, and then threw it back. Beside her, a tan, athletic young man jumped into the water with a splash. He waded out until the water was waist-high. Then, diving into the water, he disappeared from her sight.

Further away from the shore, a line of people stood ready to face the next wave, with eyes closed and hands linked tightly. The incoming wave effortlessly split this human chain and children squealed in delight as it smacked into their fragile bodies, knocking them down. One by one, they wiped the water from their eyes struggled to stand as their drenched bathing suits dragged them back down.

A heated volleyball match between two groups of local teens was in progress. There were cheers as one team scored and jeers from their opponents. A short blond wearing a purple visor and sunglasses dove to save the ball out of bounds. Her slow reaction was rewarded with a mouthful of golden dust. Even the seagulls seemed to be laughing at her as they squawked and glided smoothly, carried by the warm jet stream. A man lazily chucked his half-eaten apple into the water and they plunged out of the skies, lunging for it. The startled swimmers quickly scurried away from the fray of white feathers.

The boardwalk beside the mile-long highway of sand held its own charming display of attractions. About every thirty seconds, one could expect to see a pair of bicycle shorts and tight tank-top drift by on roller blades. There were also joggers, sweaty from the oppressive heat, huffing and puffing all the way to the water fountain. Occasionally, one of them would stop to check his watch, tie his shoelaces, or stretch his cramped calves.

As his chariot made its course back to Olympus, Apollo set the sky ablaze with breathtaking reds, yellows, and oranges. The mother of the little child had begun to fold her towels and put her book back into her bag.

"Honey, it's time to go home," she called.

The little girl picked up her toys and rushed back to her mother.

"Mommy, mommy the sky's fire!" she exclaimed.

"That's right, baby. Isn't that beautiful?" she asked.

She stood up slowly and repositioned her sunglasses over her eyes. Slinging her bag over a shoulder, the mother took her daughter¡¯s hand and they started toward the dim lamppost.

A couple holding hands strolled by, encompassed by the languid beauty. The two let the cool water run over their feet and penetrate the crevices between their toes. The warm, gentle breeze blew in their aging faces. The woman lifted her right hand and whisked away the strands of hair that covered her eyes. They walked off as the sun retracted its last golden spikes and diffused into the watery horizon.