So this is the beach then. Salt the best thing for all wounds: tears, sweat, ocean. The waves are a good reminder that everything comes and goes and everything repeats, it's both relentless and soothing. Here is a beach umbrella under which I hide my white white skin which burns anyway, fancy italian sandals on the sand beside me, a cold cider from the supermarket wedged upright. The umbrella attendant walked on his hands into the ocean and retrieved someone's ball; everyone seems to want to play pingpong in the strip between beach and water but when a wave crashes over your feet sometimes you miss your shot, that moment of startling warmth that still feels cool for a moment on your sunburned feet. When it gets hot even in the shade I swim out to the buoy, further than it looks, and float beside it, eyes closed to the dazzle, almost sleeping, listening to the ocean the way I used to listen to seashells my grandmother collected.