Journal Entry 11.10.23

A day at the beach. On the other side of the world from my beach. A beach is a beach, but it is not.

A beach in the South China Sea, golden sand, pacific waves, covered in garbage and colorful shells, the water shallow, cold spots from the monsoon rains that poured down not long ago, not so salty, not a person in sight, and only one boat moored at both ends, one to a block, and the other to a coconut tree.

A beach in Maine, “sandy” shale with broken white and blue shells, clean and eroded from a recent downpour, the waves crashing on rocks nearby, cold, the top few inches gently, inadequately warmed by the sun, not a person in sight, the salt dries rough on my skin.

All the oceans connect, there is no difference between the ocean in the Atlantic or in the South China Sea except for some conceptual boundaries imposed on the water by man. And yet each ocean, each sea has a different character. The same and not the same at all.