Surf

Another Monday. Time seems like it's on a greased slide and my writing is nowhere. This afternoon I swear I'm going to the beach to sit in the shade with my Alphasmart and write whatever words come out the ends of my fingers. Gibberish, here I come!

The waves roll in changing colors as they come. Navy blue, then teal, then pale turquoise before crashing in an explosion of white foam on the rusty black shore. This is no postcard shoreline of soft white sand and fluttering palm trees. The rocks are jagged and pocked, jutting into the air like broken teeth, offering no respite for the eye. The waves that pound these rocks begin their march as tiny wind ripples off the west coast of Africa growing more powerful, gathering strength as they roll across the Atlantic. The wind is their escort encouraging them to guard their energy so their arrival on this scrap of ancient reef barely poked above the surface of the ocean will not go unnoticed.

--Barbara