Wave Sounds

Having lived inland all my life, I am interested to see what, if any, difference the constant presence of infinite seascape and its equally omnipresent soundtrack might make on my consciousness. Already, I have moments when I realize I have forgotten to listen to the near silence of an approaching swell and the soft crush of its tumbling break. Just to the left of the property, a line of boulders sits  out from the shore, causing waves to break in splashing opposition to their predecessors. Here at my table on the veranda, I cannot see the waves breaking; I see the swells lining up four or five deep, and then listen for the inevitable muted crash on the rocks below.

My immediate view comprises the grill and its leafy canopy. The flowers attract legions of butterflies each morning.  And just left of the grill:

And the whole veranda:

Sometimes, I cannot resist peering over the low wall to watch the whole sequence unfold, again and again. I become mesmerized, especially if there is a good breeze off the water to mitigate the harsh sun. The sea is so varied in its colors, its mood. Yesterday, for example, there was no wind stirring, and no line of swells marching toward the shore. The water seemed almost glassy in spots, and the waves achieved almost no height at breakpoint, thus made little sound. This morning, the swells have returned, and shadows of clouds are creating mottled patterns of dark blue on the surface. Earlier, a few fishing pangas were anchored just a couple of hundred yards offshore.

I had imagined that it would be pleasant to sit and write on this veranda. I was right. Not only are there butterflies and hummingbirds, but geckos and grackles, and a revolving parade of dogs—my Brynn, and Beth's three: Roxy, Lukey, and Rasta—that swing by for the occasional back scratch. Here, the clouds scud west, like hurricanes in the tropical Atlantic, and it is delicious to have time to gaze skyward for no reason at all. And always, the soft crash of breaking waves sets a leisurely pace.

My bedroom is open to the sea air, but with the fan running, the sounds of the ocean are effectively blocked. The hammock on the veranda is the perfect spot to drowse and give over to the slow rolling rhythm of the waves. In vain have I opened a book there, only to be quickly lulled into unconscious bliss. There is no finer nap in all the world.