The sand on the beach is very soft and thick and warmed by the sun. When I scoop up a hot handful, sand streams between my fingers. When I toss the sand in the air, it flies away, and then the wind catches it and flings it back to me.
As I near the water, the sand changes. It becomes a long mirror of wet sand, streaked with black. The edges of the waves, the white foam, come bubbling up over the sand.
And then there is the ocean. A mass of rippling, shining blue and purple and gray and green, sequined with gold by the sun. It sparkles and splashes and bubbles and hisses, and always, always, it is moving. There is a huge rock with a cave in it a few yards out from shore. The waves rush toward the shore and spray up high inside the cave. The water parts around the rock and then, on the other side, rushes together again, and merges, the separate paths of water, having been parted, greeting each other. I see a surge of water coming toward the shore, a moving ripple of water, and when I look at that long, strong surge of water rolling toward the shore, growing, swelling, into a huge wave, I know that nothing humans can ever make coulc be as huge and strong and beautiful and powerful as that shining swell of water, that wave.
Then the wave breaks, and riding the top of that wave is a crown of frothing white foam. The wave crashes onto the shore and clear water rushes up over the ground, shining and sparkling bright, so clear that I can easily see the soft swirling sand underneath, and a million tiny bubbles froth and hiss and dance on top of the water. Then the water retreats back to the ocean, from whence it came, leaving the sand to settle slightly, subtly different from before.
And then the beginning of another huge wave starts to swell up again, far, far, out at sea.