Being Here

Being here is sort of strange. It's like waking up in a painting, where you are surrounded by an endless space. Last night I fell asleep to the pounding rain against my window. We went outside before the rain, with a single flashlight. It was sort of like being in a very noisy cave with sand that sweeps into your face. Our small dog tried to move ahead of us, digging his paws into the sand, trying to go as fast as he could towards the water. We saw a small white crab scurry away from the beam of the flashlight before burying himself into the pale sand. I tried to block out the conversations of my family and just listen to the things I couldn't see.
The ocean was loud. I couldn't see it, but I could hear it crashing itself against the shore. My dog tried to taste it and shied back because it was so salty. (He hasn't since tried to since then either.) Finally we decided to go back up to the house because it was getting windier and we were all starving.
After dinner I was able to finish up some homework and I finally collapsed into bed at midnight.

And when I woke up this morning... it was surreal. Dad called me into his room to look off the porch, and I am still not entirely sure I believe this is real. When I walked down the boardwalk towards the beach. The sand was still wet and speckled with indents from the rain. There were birds along the shore, and two fisherman in lawn chairs, casting into the tide. Soon my brothers came down and started collecting shells into piles, which is a sort of ridiculous idea. They are spread up and down the coast like fall leaves left over from winter. The water was cold at first, but then I got used to it. I went as far out as I dared in my church clothes. It's strange to walk parallel to the beach while the tide is moving in and out: like watching the ground move out from under your feet. I'm excited to go swimming, even if it might be cold.