December 9, 2009
By Alyssa Kasher BRONZE, Phoenix, Arizona
Alyssa Kasher BRONZE, Phoenix, Arizona
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Blue, but not just blue. Green threads throughout the blue, as if shadowing it. The sun seems to pour glitter over the surface of the water; everything else is glowing with sunshine. Pockets of bubbly foams seem to trap forest green seaweed, pulling it into the center, weighing it down. The pieces of it accumulate and move towards the shore. Remnants of other plants float atop, drifting aimlessly in every direction, occasionally dragged down beneath the surface by some creature. If you're lucky, you'll catch a glimpse of a beady-eyed turtle as it peeks it's rounded head above the water, the full shell emerging and tiny clawed feet moving it's round body through the gentle waves. The turtles are alert, and are ready to dive down upon sight of a predator. Their dark turtle eyes scan the beach, searching for life, as well as for dinner. But should these dark eyes meet yours, they vanish in an instant. The coastline is alive with fervor, ready to impress it's spectators.

Mangled sticks and driftwood of all sizes slowly move towards the edge, and are thrown carelessly onto the slimy rocks, as if unwanted in the ocean. The dull shades of brown blend with the earth, as if the water has simply sucked away a once beautiful color. As these sticks begin to dry out, the wind sweeps them back up, and drops them lightly back where they came from. A small bunch of sticks have managed to stay out of the grasp of the waves, and sleep in a tangled pile, blanketed by dirt. Each pebble is a different shade of gray, extending down the waterline. The rocks seem to form an ocean of their own, vast and endless. Greens, blues, teals, rippling down the line, meeting the water as high tide sets in.

Fish slip through the waves, moving as one force. Their sharp fins slice through the water like knives, whipping about in unpredictable motions. Their mouths constantly open and close, as if talking, while they scavenge for food throughout the ocean depths. If you had food, they would appear at the surface, silently begging for a taste. And if you were to throw in a piece of bread, all the fish would simultaneously rush to the surface, splashing about, for just one bite. When the food disappears, they would continue to linger hopefully, watching you with pleading eyes. As the last strand of hope fades, they would all dart back down beneath, resuming their hunt.

Each breeze brings a new scent, filling and engulfing your nostrils. The scent of fish, both alive and dead, lingers in your nose. It hangs in the air, absorbing into your clothes, your hair, and anything else you've brought with you. The saltiness emitted by the ocean dries your nose as you inhale, leaving it raw, and a cherry shade of red. It makes it's way down your throat, and presents a problem with swallowing. But because the scenery has consumed you, the challenge of breathing becomes one willing to face.

Your mouth is also not left unattended, for the scents somehow transform into tastes, making their way onto your tongue. Exactly how a scent can manifest its way into a flavor is unbeknownst to you, but has managed to consume your mouth. The attempt to spit, to rid your mouth of that distinct fishy, yet salty taste is fruitless. It is an uninvited visitor, and will remain even once you have left the ocean.

The wind also whips at your cheeks, and any other body part left revealed. The damp air begins to leave traces behind: a line of sweat at your brow, stickiness along your legs and arms. Somehow, the weather is even strong enough to penetrate your shirt, and makes it damp. As you stick your toes in the water, they begin to numb in the presence of the icy water, but cool you off as a whole. The slimy rocks slide unpredictably beneath your feet, and shift without warning. Moss has engulfed them, taken them hostage. The moss has a mind of its own, and spreads through the ocean floor, taking over anything in its path. The squishy texture seems to crawl around your feet, tickling them as you move.

Your ears are consumed, with a cacophony of sounds. The waves dancing in the ocean eventually leads them to crash loudly upon the shore. The whooshing of the wind, moving quickly through the surrounding foliage, crunching sticks, and startling birds. As if provoked by the wind, the birds seem to engage in never ending arguments, as they constantly bellow out notes in an attempt to outperform the next. You may hear the sound of a horn, in the distance, warning other boats of danger. The birds seem to take this noise as a challenge, as they begin to sing progressively louder, in competition. As an bright, orange crab scuttles across the rocks, his claws click and clatter against each pebble. While moving sideways down the coast line, the crab spies another of his kind. They snap at each other with raised claws, sharp, and ready.. But there is no victor here; the ocean has intervened. Swooshing waves surround them, and drag them back down into the currents of the water.

Each individual sense contributes to a whole, making the ocean family with its surroundings. The water is not the same water without the fish speeding through it, as the sky isn't the same without the breezes rippling through. Without the birds chirping, the silence would be uneasy, and faltering. A lack of scent would leave your nose questioning, begging for a scent to decipher. Your tongue would search for a flavor, a taste to latch onto, to occupy your mouth with. But despite the sweat, and strong fishy scent, you must be accepting to appreciate the full beauty of a Massachusetts coastline. For without one aspect, the ocean cannot be a whole, and perform the way it does now.

The author's comments:
The inspiration came from the coastline in Massachusetts where my grandparents live, a place I enjyo visiting.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.


MacMillan Books

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!