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There’s no way to confirm it, but as a pisces born baby the ocean is my home. I’m sure of it. I used to hold shells up to my ears in hopes of hearing the shores calling back to me. If I could pocket the sound of the ocean, I would.
The beach is all I can think about when we touch down in Faro. All I want is to hear the roar of the ocean, I don’t even care if it’s cold. I want to dig my toes into the sand and feel the texture of soft grit against my bare soles, to walk to where the waves break against the shore and see the footprints of passers-by winding away into the distance, to feel my hair curl itself into knots, to let out the sigh that I’ve kept pent up in my chest.
I smell it before I see it — that tangy salt that hits the tip of my tongue and I turn in every direction to get a glimpse of the expanse of ocean. It stretches out endlessly, its surface rippling and undulating like liquid silk under the soft caress of the afternoon breeze. As the waves reaches the shore it crescendos, the crash echoing down the length of the beach.
White clouds ribbon their way across the sky. Some mornings heavy puffs sit in the distance. A storm will be moving in tonight. It’s not yet warm enough to go in, but to simply dip our toes in, even to our ankles, is enough. Our skin prickles and pinches as the cold laps at us, pulling forward and back in a rocking motion.
When I was little, my father used to swim in the ocean with me. He’d lie on his back and just float away, over the rolling waves that took him further and further away from shore. I’d watch him become smaller and smaller and would frantically try to swim out to him, to call him back in. When my feet could no longer reach the bottom, I’d stop and tread water until I tired. Eventually he’d open his eyes and gently bring himself back to shore.
I’ve not been sleeping well, lately. I wonder if it’s a result of living in a city and feeling this suffocating demand clawing into my back asking more of me. Somewhere along the way I’ve felt unmoored and I’m trying to find my way back. The ocean, this holiday, was my way of pausing all of it. To feel the very salt of the earth beneath my feet. The waves always leave the shore, but they always come back to it too, I hope I do as well.
A shiver-shuffle back to the car, sandy feet and shoes in hand as we potter up the boardwalk, avoiding the possibility of splinters as we go. Back on solid ground, I shake out my shoes hoping to get the last of the sand out. Somehow, the feeling of salt stays for the rest of the day. It curls my hair and crystallines along my calves. For the rest of the holiday, I’m tipping sand out of my shoes.