Ever since I was small I can remember loving the beach. One of my earliest memories is letting the waves crash into me until I fell down, giggling, into the sand. As I’ve grown, I’ve fostered a deeper relationship with the ocean. I cannot live without it.

Every month I make a visit to the beach that I loved as a child, not waiting until the warm August sun reaches its loving tendrils over the sand to soothe my freezing toes, or until the breeze stops prickling goosebumps on my arms and legs. I go in December, February, October.

This last visit was different. I stepped out of my car absently, heard the door slam shut without really listening. The air crackled with something completely unknown to me, but I smiled anyway. I trudged through plants snaking through the sandy soil, made my way to the lone tree, bleached white by salt and sun. I sat beneath it, leaned against it, it felt familiar.

My eyes never left the rise and fall of the sea, they matched it in color, hidden power, in life.