A Shoreline Without Footprints

The intensity of waves crashing against boulders sent vibrations from my toes to my legs. I could feel the crashing force and beauty by simply standing right here at the edge, and I could see the beauty and rhythm of the ocean by looking down. The sun was causing my shoulders to blush gently with its warmth. I could allow my feet to be planted here forever; they’d eventually sprout roots, and I could become one with the very cliff I now stand upon. I didn’t want to leave the cliff’s ledge, razor-thin difference between up here and becoming part of the violence below. I was the decision maker here, the writer, and empowered with the ability to decide between the two rather than it being made on my behalf.

I turned by carefully lifting my left leg, the good leg, up from the cliff’s edge and using the momentum to turn around in a dance-like spin. Maybe I could be a dancer here, a ballerina perhaps. My back to the ocean line, my back now to the cliff, and all in front of me, sand that leads upwards into valleys of grass and seaside cliffs. This place felt expansive, unknown, and never-ending. Where was I? I wasn’t sure, but the constant rhythm of the ocean below beating against the rocks, like a heartbeat, made me feel at peace. I looked around as far as my eyes could see and saw no other people or houses. I was not as interested in finding out where I was, but rather in exploring what I could do.

I am calm.

I am barefoot, and I am hesitant to take the next step upon the cliff as it is made entirely of sharp ridges of rock. I worry my feet will hurt, but I take the first step because I want to get closer to the ocean, so I must make my way down. My toes curl as I attempt to protect myself from the jagged pieces of rock, but to my surprise, the pain is well-tolerated. I still knew I was walking on stones and not pillows, but my feet allowed me to continue. I reach a pathway made by many feet before mine in the sand, my toes relaxing against the grit and bounce of sand beneath them. I looked outward toward the ocean and saw the path led me right where I wanted to go, how convenient. Many people go to the sea each year, and some live here, though I had yet to see a soul or proof that souls were around. People made that path to get to the shore, or was I just getting lucky? Although an uncommon occurrence, this calming place was designed precisely as I would have wanted.

I hear noise, ruffling maybe. It sounds like paper being crumpled or rummaged through. I look out towards the sea in the direction I am headed, but see nothing making that sound. I turn to look behind me at the grass valleys and the continued cliff ranges, but nothing is there either. What is that obnoxious noise? I look down, and my feet are beginning to sink into the sand, and I know I must hurry. I know the further my feet sink into the sand, the harder my legs will need to work to get me to the shoreline. My legs are exhausted, and it provides the encouragement I need to continue walking my way down the path. I glance up and see them, birds. Seagulls, obnoxious and nosy creatures. The bird’s wings are whipping against the air, making all the noise. I am reminded of camping each year with my family along a similar oceanfront, and being chased by seagulls when trying to enjoy a simple snack. I smile at the memory and grieve for the moments when I could run against the sand, laugh with my cousins, and cheer at the seagulls as they fought over scraps. I look around to check for people one more time. No one. I am not scared, and the mystery seems to have left me, but I do wonder one thing. Can I run in this gentle sand?

This is the first time I have had my toes in the sand in over a decade, maybe even two. The sand doesn’t seem to sink beneath me or try to absorb me, but rather just lets me stand atop it, easily. The sun continues to keep me just warm enough against the breeze created from the sea panting, and I don’t feel sick or agitated like I used to in the sun’s rays. Can I remember how to run? I left my left leg and pushed with all my might against the right leg to give my muscles power. I am lifted, I don’t fall to the sand, I don’t hesitate to repeat the motion. I am running. My legs are lifting me from the ground and allowing me to land back upon it gently. I feel the grit of sand fill the spaces between my toes with each lift off, and I am smiling. I am running. I reach the shoreline, and I am not out of breath, I am not tired, and my body does not ache. I still sit. I sit and watch as the water begins to paint my thighs, resting atop the wet sand.

I sit here a great while. I hope I can stay here forever. No one comes to join me. I just remain in the cool, wet sand, watching as the ocean shows me its heartbeat. I watch as the waves break against themselves, I watch as water collides with rocks in the distance, and I watch as tiny creatures come out from the sand but can’t move quickly enough before the next drawn-in wave of the ocean pulls them in. Those poor creatures are just trying to be quicker than the energy of the entire ocean; they know they will never make it, and yet they never adjust their pattern, and they simply just keep trying. I ache for them, but I am now rested. I outran the waves. I can rest here, finally.

I am alerted by an incessant noise. I get off the sand floor with ease, but I don't take notice; instead, I am searching for what lies beyond the ocean. I hear roaring like a storm or a lion. The roaring is louder than the ocean itself. I look out against the hillsides and find nothing. I look up once more, and the seagulls are gone, but nothing has replaced them. The sound is horrible but patterned, a repetitive trumpeting. I feel my eyes squinting in desperation to diagnose the sound. My legs feel heavy, and I feel pain. My toes begin to sink into the sand, and it's cold.

I don’t open my eyes right away, but I know I am no longer at the shoreline. I hear what I thought were seagulls, the ruffling, the rummaging, and I have hope. Why am I lying on a rock at the ocean, I wonder, as my back feels stiff. The feathers or wings continue to make noise, and I open my eyes, only to be displaced. A woman is digging in a drawer, making all the noise. She looks my way and says, “Oh! You’re finally awake! How do you feel?” I don’t answer her, and instead, I look around. I am in a place I have been many times before, and it is not a beach, my home, or a grocery store, but it is a hospital. The roaring is back that I sought after on the shoreline, but this time I can turn my head to see it is not a roar, a trumpet, or a horn, but the eternal beeping of an IV drip.

The peace, the calm, the muscle movement, the clarity, and the finality.

It was all just a dream.