By Madeline Whitmore
You arrived at the beach who knows how long ago, you’ve yet to check the time even
once since being here. You suppose that’s how it’s supposed to be -- you are on vacation after
all. Yet, you still can’t help but be curious how long you’ve been able to be “in the moment”
while shamefully understanding that it is the very existence of this curiosity that defeats the
purpose of that concept entirely. Probably because you want to pat yourself on the back for
achieving any duration of time you are “present." You feel guilty.
Upon arrival, you first scanned the shoreline for a good spot to set up your beach chair.
You came here alone. At this beach (as well as every other beach you’ve visited), a “good” spot
to settle is simply an empty one. The beach is crowded today. You can’t really be upset that you
aren’t the only person here on this perfect beach day in mid-June. Yet, you can’t quite grasp why
it is that the popularity of the shore makes you feel so melancholy. Perhaps you’re jealous.
Really, you’ve come to renew your special, personal connection with the ocean. But you’re not
very special at all; the likelihood of her noticing you amongst hundreds of other beachgoers is
not very high. Still, you manage to sit yourself down in your chair and stare at the blue as best
you can through your overly dark sunglasses.
You look around and notice that all the surrounding chairs are pointed in the same
direction. It’s as if you’re all at the theater. But you know that the star dancing on that stage isn’t
performing for you, or anyone. You have proof. You once decided to visit her when the
show wasn’t supposed to be running. It was February. You figured it would be a way to
peek behind the curtain. Maybe you would catch her resting, or even, as ridiculous as it sounds,
she wouldn’t be there at all. But there she was and with no audience. She didn’t have to perform,
but still, she refused to rest.
Quickly came the brutal discovery that the ocean was never dancing. That personification seemed so reductive as you watched the snow fall and immediately dissolve when it touched the all-consuming water. They say don’t meet your heroes, because they’ll fail to fulfill your expectations. But not this time. You were frozen in that moment knowing you were in the presence of a true deity. All you could think to do is take a picture and then go home and wait for summer when the show is running again. Once you got home, the picture looked pathetic.
Madeline Whitmore is a 22 year old literature student from New Jersey. Her writing takes many forms but is often influenced by nature, dreams, and visual art. In her spare time, Madeline enjoys reading, painting, singing, and tending to her vegetable garden and many houseplants!
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