Jaye Marie and Anita Dawes

Third March Blog. 9-3-15

You could hardly call it waves. The sea water just rolled ever so gently onto the shore. Soft sand, the whitest there was, rebuffed its attempts to conquer. Sent it back to the depths from whence it came, though it tried, over and over. So slowly it encroached, being forced back each time.

Hours passed, and the ocean made its mark on the coastal line, wetting new patches of dry dusty particles until, at last it reached the base of the closest tree, a palm, that over time, had leant lower and lower until its trunk almost touched the beach. Its roots barely held on to the shifting particles, part earth, part crushed shell, thrown up from the droppings of the Parrot fish. Must be a lot of Parrot fish around!

The ocean, ’tis said, gives up its dead. I wonder why that it said, for…