Is shadow, tickling, gulling you from the picture-postcard

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Is there anything quite as blissful as a
stroll by the seashore?


As you near the shore, you can make out the
faint susurrus of the surf, the whisking whispers of the waves, as the bubbles
fizzle ever so silently.


Upon passing a cumber of upturned shells, the
sand greets your shadow, tickling, gulling you from the picture-postcard panorama
that lay beyond. Your scrunching toes succumb as the soggy sensation spreads ceaselessly;
the silken sand coating the bottom of your feet like butter on bread. Unencumbered,
your feet get the first flavor of freedom, your spirit soaring above.

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When you cast your eyes out to the sea, you
observe the horizon, hemmed in sardine-silver. The emerald blue of the ocean
sprays across, the exhaled mist forming an image clear as a beached shell.
You’re blown away. The horseshoe-shaped lagoon gleams gold as a melted treasure
cove, all the same under the sun. A cluster of treetops with explosions of
carnival-green canopies, flamboyant flora and tame toucans is reminiscent of the
virginity of the island. The simple yet spellbinding splendor of what lay
beyond sweeps you off your feet. It’s pure paradise.


As you look up, the sun hits you like a
brick, and your eyes struggle to regain consciousness. Reflexively, you retreat
into the lush shade of the nearest palm tree. An umbrella from the beams, the
soaring columnar structure leads the cool colonnade, looming over the coast, an
impenetrable wall of green. Your eyes, now sheltered, shine as they absorb the
mesmerizing magnificence of nature’s fractals, shimmering in the mist.


Waving along with the wind, your ears buoy
up to the waves of the water. Your ears hearken to the beckoning of a mermaid.
The siesta is abruptly adjourned, as you get wind of a flock of gulls,
wolf-white gulls, swooping from atop. They fly from nearby, come and gone. You
descry an insignificant infant of a fowl, as small as a world and as large as
alone. Frolicking, the nestling prances, snuggles into your arms. You feel a
fleeting feeling of fatherhood, of parenthood; it’s come and gone. The tiny
little tweet springs, wobbling unto the sand, perching itself atop the tide.
You follow.


The soothing scents of the sea take your
breath away. The moist breath of the water is accompanied by a minty aroma that
fills your lungs with the coolest, freshest of air. The perfume of sea spray,
pure, unadulterated, creeps up the buds of your nose; you’re pretty much
sozzled. Your tongue can almost taste the tangy flavor of the salt-ridden
perspiration of the ocean; the breeze makes your eyes water, your feet tingle.


The fiery orb, now high in the sky, thrones
itself on the trail of silky, milky clouds; the dragon in it bellows under
whopping billows that take shapes of castles in the royal, navy sky.


Bluer than the sky, the waves tumbled over
themselves, ebbing away as clouds of foam floating over the mass of moving sky.
You lose yourself in the rhythmic percussion of waves on sand. The white
fringed tide, with its crested top, rolls over, rising above billions of
barnacles; granules tearing in and out of the brine. Self-centered whirlpools –
intense at first, alas apathetic in sight – nonchalantly bathe your feet, feet
sinking into the lax silt like a pebble in quicksand.


A murk is cast upon you. You turn your
eclipsed gaze upward as your intense eyes discern the silhouette of an enraged
Poseidon in the milieu of ominous, dismal clouds, billowing in from far east,
draining any and all traces of color.


You feel your chest tighten, as your body
senses a drop in air pressure. The storm is here.


The humidity presses down, suffocating you.
The wind thrashes, howling like a wolf into the premature twilight. The sky
hangs low, confining you.


The waft of rain is heady, almost taking a
toll on you. Even the wind holds its breath.


The tide rises, rises, rises until it
dwarfs you, unforgivingly, until a streak of hot silver splits the sky, and a
tumultuous clap of thunder comes close, so close, creating a gut-wrenching
demonic cacophony, until—


you wake up.


By heaven’s grace, ’twas just a dream.
Rubbing your barnacle-encrusted eyes, you breathe a sigh of relief.


The prolonged afternoon siesta had set
forth a velveteen crimson carpet for the sun to descend upon. The sky is a hue
of rose and salmon-pink, and in the horizon are a few thin strips of clouds,
hovering awkwardly.


The sea is as calm as a millpond, and the
waves as threatening as a fluffy poodle on a leash. As you look in the
distance, to your utmost delight, you see bouncy bottlenosed dolphins
effervescing, as though in celebration.


As you stand on the shore, the sand
tickling your toes, the sun setting beyond, the waves whispering in your ears,
the trees nodding in agreement, you take a long, deep breath. Your heart
flutters, so do the butterflies in your gut.


You smell the sea, you feel the sky, and
let your soul fly.


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