My heart is always with the sea. Ever since the first time I set foot on a beach and looked out across the water. The group wandered away from me, but I was enraptured; my eyes drank in the scene before me and my heart nearly ceased its beating. Since then, I have made many memories associated with that narrow strip of other worldly bliss: the beach. I had always been afraid of the water. I didn’t enjoy venturing out into the waves to swim, and boating was always a nervous sort of activity for me. As such, I never expected to find myself unable to live without at least the possibility of taking a day trip out to stand in the surf. I moved away once after making the acquaintance of seashore and found myself heartbroken. I began a habit of taking long drives up into the mountains, far from the town, up into the still and the quiet. It was soothing to my inflamed soul, but these were old mountains; worn down and crisscrossed with the roads of men. They were nothing like the sharp, majestic, young mountains I remembered from my childhood. They were grandmotherly; sweet, and comforting. I was not, however, looking for this sort of cotton candy atmosphere. I realized I was missing a place that breathed like change, and peace, and excitement, and contentment all at once. After that epiphany I wanted to chuck my things into the car and drive day and night to get back to the ocean and the beaches I knew. I wanted to find a way to make a living sitting with my feet in the water and listening to the waves dancing across the shore day after day. I wanted to be that anonymous fixture on the beach; my simple, peaceful existence the envy of everyone around me because I lived there while they were just visiting.
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