You hear the fizz of the foam as it warms in the sunlight, the push, push, pushing of the sea against the invisible pull, pull, pull of the gravity that binds the moon to the earth.

There’s a fizzing friction as the water yields, you sense shallower strokes, the smooth tide rough-rubbing up against the sand bar, this islands edge stretching out intimately, joining the land to the sea.

From behind closed eyes you sense occasional shadows flickering across your firm form. Your ears reaching out to create a visual soundscape, you hear a gentle flapping, picturing a solid oak gazebo standing tall, its four-posted form adorned with fine white linen, the cloth draped and flowing freely in the cool-warm breeze.

With shadows cast and constantly moving across the contours of your body, their breeze swept motion allowing the sunlight to drench you, then the shadows come to cool you, the light, then the dark, alternating perfectly, no sooner too warm, than cooled, then warmed again.

Audio-scopic, you listen for the tiniest of sounds, picking out the grist of sugar-granule sands, their edges rubbing against one another, as the clear blue sea pushes in and washes over them. Disturbing them, teasing them, washing and cleansing them. Leaving them momentarily soaked and salted before the cool warm air and the golden sun, strip them bare and gently lay them out, naked, rested, peaceful and relaxed.

You listen, soothed by the whispering wind, the movement of the water, the tender agitation of the sands and the occasional flap of the soft silk linen that beats with free abandon from the solid oak supports. 

Beyond this, maybe there’s the distant caw, or song, of coastline birds, but close by there’s only the sound of your body, heart beating, lungs breathing, joining the slow rhythm of the tide, lapping, and stroking the shoreline.

From deep inside your imagining mind you gaze upon the crystal clear blue water, you see mesmerizing dancing patterns, golden sunlight, reflecting, shimmering, shapes shifting, mirroring the rippled undulations of the shallow white sands beneath.

You sense the light bending on the uneven surface of every tiny wake, these warm waters seem fragile with beauty, their foaming surfaces fizzing with tiny foam bubbles, laced with silica, opalescent sea-shell and salt.

Once more you slowly draw your knees upward, dragging your heels deeper through the softened sand, each sole carving its own thin trench into the hot clean white surface.

Your toes splay outward and greet the warm water pouring into each channel, bathing each foot, caressing and soothing the tenderness from heel to toe as the sea continues to shimmy the shoreline.

The sea pushes onward, gradually inching the shallow incline of the white sands with every new wave. You reach downward, each arm either side of you, hands spreading open, palms pushing down into the softness, feeling for the cool that’s held within the earth, as you fist and knead the clean sand, clinging beside your hips.

Your fingers and hands contrast the feel of the dry powder crust, comparing the sun scorched beach with the cool, wet, soft water shallows now bathing your instep, the incoming tide reaching up to your ankles, covering your toes and slipping under you soles, bathing your feet within the basin you’ve made.