I’ve never trotted nor conceived of such sands in all my sea faring fantasies. The mere breadth of the shore area surpasses the extension of many of the austere tropical retreats conspicuously shoved behind intense, poorly chartered shrubbery, affording solace after lengthy treks through the dense woodland labyrinth.
For when I cross the roadway onto the sands, the area still lined with fibrous coconut members and mango cast offs and slippery Sagui monkeys of inquisitive, creepy countenance; by the time I feel the harder, moister tract under my feet (itself spanning upwards of fifty meters, such the water altitude differential throughout the day), I can already claim reasonable exercise, for I’ve crossed a dozen football fields.
Then need I but twist my neck in any lengthwise trajectory of the ocean to assert the insurmountable, incalculable coastal vastness. In any of those bearings, the sands, in their unwavering plainness but for the decorum of extravagantly coloured shell clippings and sharp sparkling mineral deposits, proceed beyond the limits of the horizon. If I didn’t know better - and how can I, with any absolute assuredness - I might imagine the sands to thus drag across the entire Atlantic littoral, if not across the entire globe.
Petite, handheld peacock birds … Whatever species they inhabit, perform a ceremonial peasant dance. North-easterners abound. Some entertain impressively choreographed head volleyball in closed loops. A group of youngsters kicks around a ball. A neglected princess enacts the boy cried wolf in the shallower waters. Vendors promenade with pendants and bracelets in hanging, forearm exhibition. Some stroll with carts, shouting over the less striking wares.
But that’s all parenthetical. The empty sands comprise the overwhelmingly prevailing magnitude of coastal real estate. The empty sands overbear all presence. One could find a patch spanning an entire world, devoid of any life but marine and lay prostrate in brooding Aeschylean contemplation.
Questions, comments? Connect.