Atlantic: Impressions
The last road skims it, skirts the coastline, breaks through thick stands of sharp-toothed, sun-ravaged palms. Just beyond them is the ocean, wet, panting, feathery tongue lolling out across the shore. There is no song here, only the tidewater chorus, unbroken. The clouds roll thick and glossy through the sky like marbles dressed in ribbons of milk. Everything is hot and still, until the wind stirs dully, first in the dunes, kicking up a meager scattering of sand; and then, finally, lifts from the surface of the water the faintest odor of far away. First comes the scent of salt, plain and overwhelming; common, it settles on the skin as if it belonged there. But then it begins to pass, and what's left is a whole bouquet of dried flowers and grasses--a subtle, decayed perfume-- and the heat, which bears down so furiously that it very nearly has a taste. And, all at once, there is a sense of abandon; that you and yourself--the life to which you belong--have parted. The liquid sprawl of the Atlantic echoes the pulse of blood. It rises softly like small waves, inconsequential currents swirling with your breath. Very present. Very alive.
