I had the beach to myself and was grateful that the sand still retained pleasing warmth leftover from the heat of the day. Aside from the roar of the waves, there was little sound. No cars, no planes, not even the raucous call of a seagull, just the soft librarian’s shush of the sea. The water crept closer, straining to crawl up the beach in long frothy strokes; swimming freestyle up the land.

Gently, almost shyly, the encroaching tide touched my heels and retreated away, like a scared puppy. I shivered at the cool touch, and then again at the coolness of its absence. It came again, surging past my feet, my calves and high up my thighs, before retreating fully.

Settling back into the sand, I wormed my way in into its gritty embrace, searching for more warmth. Even though I was expecting it, I was shocked when water enveloped me from heel to hair, reaching up to my ears and muting the world. The tide was shallow enough that I could still breathe.

Salt air touched my lips but I could still breathe—for now.