Notes

I have to use both hands to keep my book open to the correct page; the breeze is just strong enough to whip my hair around, and it seems to come from all directions at once. The palm tree I'm leaning against does nothing to shelter me from it, though I'm not complaining. The breeze is warm even though I'm right on the beach. It blows the salty smell of briny water right at me, and I know my hair is going to retain the scent even if I wash it later. With no one else to bother me, I'm free to do as I please, for once. Some rebellious voice in the back of my mind urges me to get up and go, to do something I wouldn't dare if the beach were crowded. More inclined, as I always am, to listen to that voice under the cover of night, I fold the corner in the well-loved novel in my hands and place it on a half-dead palm leaf on the sand next to me. The sand stings my bare legs as I walk to the shore, falling from countless crevices in my shorts. The water, cool thanks to the absence of sun, washes the sand from my feet and ankles, and then my calves when I wander farther. I don't dare wade into deeper water; the ocean is one giant landscape of inky blackness, shimmering white where it reflects the moon but otherwise foreboding and dark. My mind fills with thoughts of sea monsters that lurk in the depths, waiting for some unsuspecting fool to come along so it can drag them down into the deep. The danger, unrealistic as it is, offers a sense of thrill and adventure to my wanderings. Some ways down the beach, I manage to latch onto a large conch shell just before it's sucked back into the sea again. It'd make a good present for someone, I think. I was content before, but now, with a conch in my hand and moonlight on my face and the scent of the sea in my hair, I am happy.