Plage des Mamelles
The beach, a meditation. Water crashing forward, forward, forward, white tips folding over and under and out again. Aqua waves spilling over the sand and stretching over the boiling earth. The sun’s rays are vibrant.
Though thick with heat, the air ripples with the aftermath of each wave. My rosy cheeks are fanned, cooled. The pouring and crashing softly crescendos and dies back down. Sweat beads dance on my temples and skitter down my brows, an ever-present companion. The ocean is a meditation.
Walking to the beach is a trek, an adventure. There are no straight concrete paths, clean-lined hedges, or signs leading the way. There are no tourist shops hinting of a nearby sand-crusted jewel of ocean expanse or lines of storage pod-topped cars heating up the pavement below. The path is a maze, not a diagonal, and every turn is dotted with rocks, old cups, and the occasional rooster. And after trotting along the winding path, smiling, I come across the sign that points me to my endpoint. Grass under each step, a dip in the path or two, I see it— the ocean, a watercolor painter’s dream palette.
As I dig my heels into the sand and let the air and smell and sound of it all wash over me, I experience a living creature—wild. The beach breathes, the ocean meditates.