Today on the beach it’s grey and rainy. I love the beach in winter when all people vanish and all the soft greys and blues mingle with the delicate sandy colours. A rainy winter day is the perfect day for the beach. Today is like that here only its warm. Now that the rain has stopped briefly and I’ve swam in the downpour, I sit on my chair with the beach to myself, me and Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Behind me Jay and the children play in the pool, before me the ocean and the sky bleed into each other while the waves rise gently along the shore- a flurry of white that separates the land from the sea like a bridge that invites and then retreats.
Dark dramatic clouds March towards me and I can see rain in several directions on the horizon. My art supplies, books and pens are all still packed in the basket ready for a quick escape. Drips hit my feet- an advanced warning as my pen flies to finish this line. I run…
The rain drums down deafeningly loud while I enjoy the peace and quiet of losing the other guests to their suites, shops and restaurants. This is the beach I know, the deserted beach, the beach to ourselves, either in rain or in sunshine. This is the beach that I love, the beach that sets my soul free and my imagination wild, wild like the wild exhilarating weather, carried away on the waves and the tides.
I am soaked, the rain is torrential, baby is wet, puddles form everywhere, the children’s squeals and shouts of delight or frustration are drowned out. There is peace in all this noise, the air is crisp, though it will be humid later. I enjoy the freshness of now as the storm stirs deep within.