She Climbs the Dunes for the Last Time

At dawn of day, every day, she mounts the dunes facing the ocean. She steps sideways and small as her bare feet slip on the white loose sand. Her heavy breaths fog up the chilly morning air. Her hands on her knees, helping her push through the sand, get brushed by her salty coarse hair.

When she finally reaches the top, she sits crisscrossed and sways her bottom side to side, creating a crevasse in the sand —the perfect chair. Her eyes gleam as she looks out onto the vast ocean, the tip of the sun is peeking at the horizon. The sky is colored in hues of pink, orange and yellow, the colors reflecting onto the water create an explosion so powerful it makes her shed a tear. She quickly pulls the edge of her sweater up to her hand, her thumb holding it in place and wipes her tear away. In the distance, birds are flying low, towards the now risen sun, their palmy toes graze the water, creating tiny ripples on each side.

The waves are rolling onto the sand, the sound of them amplifies as she closes her eyes, taking everything in. This is her ritual—her escape. But today, the scene doesn’t give her the peace it usually does. The colors of the sky seem sharper, the waves sound louder, as if they know what’s coming too. She presses her hands into the sand and grips it tightly, trying to hold on to this place as long as she can.

She’s been climbing these dunes as long as she can remember, as a child her grandfather would bring her up here. They could walk along the beach for hours. Collecting shells and small pieces of wood that had been shaped by the sea. Her grandpa had the most creative mind. To him the pieces of wood weren't simply randomly carved, they were crafted. The sea had shaped them into dinosaurs and other animals. He would tell her stories of pirates and long-lost treasures. They would bring bread for the birds, who’d gotten so used to them, they could feed them out of their hands. And, they’d sing songs to try to draw in the foxes who lived further in the distance, on the other side of the dunes, in the tall grass. They’d manage to see them a few times, but never close enough to pet them, which was her one true wish as a child. After their long walks, they would bring back their found treasures to the house and paint them into whatever it was they saw in them.

Her grandfather's voice lingers in her head now.

“The ocean is where we leave our questions, but it's also where we find our answers.”

But the ocean couldn’t have an answer for this. What could it possibly tell her? It couldn’t possibly rewrite a story that’s already been written, filed away with a signature and a stamp. The sounds of the waves could not drown out the heavy truth. The government had sold this land to developers who planned to flatten the dunes. Soon, the foxes, the birds and the endless sand would be replaced by concrete and glass. The hum of construction in the distance feels like a taunt. The bulldozers would be here any time now.

She closes her eyes, feeling the wind pick up as she fights to hold back her tears. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save this place, Grandpa,” she whispers. The wind carries her words away, but she knows they are heard.

She’d tried to fight. She’d gone to every town hall meeting, standing up with a voice that felt too small in a room full of people who had already made up their minds. She’d started petitions, handed out flyers, and written letters to every official she could think of, begging them to reconsider. She’d even gone to the press, hoping someone, anyone, would listen.

She’d spent countless nights researching the legal loopholes, the regulations, anything that might stop them, even for a little while. She’d taken it to the streets, joined protests, and held signs under the scorching sun, her arms sore and her heart heavy.

But it was all for nothing. Every phone call, every email, every protest, they all seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Maybe her grandfather would’ve been able to win, if only he were here. He had always known what to say, how to make people listen. He had a way of making impossible things seem possible, he had always fought on a grander scale, seeing the bigger picture. He would’ve known what to do, known how to make them see.

As the sound of the bulldozers grew louder, she stood up and turned around, her body swaying with the wind. The machines were nearing the tall grass now, their engines a growl that shook the earth. She could picture families of foxes, mothers pulling their babies close, their cries high and desperate as the trucks trampled over their homes. The destruction was too near, too inevitable. Still, she didn’t budge. She faced the advancing machines, determined to stay as long as she could, even if only for a moment longer.

Her hands trembled as she felt the earth beneath her, the sand, the breeze, all slipping away. She closed her eyes for a second, remembering how it used to be—the peaceful rhythm of the waves, the songs of the birds, her grandfather’s voice. And then she opened them again, turning around to look at the horizon one last time.

The ocean, ever constant, seemed to whisper in her ear, a faint comfort against the growing chaos. “They can take the land, and they can level the dunes. But they can’t take me. They can’t take the water. And they can’t take the sky.” The colors of dawn—blue, orange, pink—spread across the horizon, would endure long after the earth had been scarred.

“I don’t know who creates this masterpiece in the sky,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the hum of the bulldozers, “but wherever you are, I pray no one ever takes your paint away.”

Turning to face the approaching machines, she spread her arms wide, a defiant silhouette against the storm of destruction. Here, she would make her last stand.