I like the coast

I am driven by a dull wind—plain and unremarkable—the kind that stirs the sand and bites at your ankles on a dreary day by the coast. Far from the fresh summer breeze.I find myself lost, uncertain if the ocean lies to the west or east, confused about which continent Ibought a house on. My mind is torn between scuba diving with the wildlife or playing in the sand. The beach house beckons with its promise of comfort, yet returning there only reminds me of the deadlines looming over me, each one a yellow sticky note on the fridge, among a forest of past to-do lists, unchecked and accusing. Why? Because I chose the beach over and it’s duality.

Yet, I never dive into the ocean before my house. The fear of drowning, of not being rescued in time, or worse—dying alone and having a lonely funeral on this secluded rocky shore—paralyzes me. This is the cost of choosing privacy over public for once. So, I drive south to the bigger small town, where there is a Main Street, coffee shops, charming boutiques, a local side of town and a neigborhood screaming “recently moved”. Here, among teens on summer jobs and single men walking their golden retrievers after a round of golf, in front of a lifeguard I find a place to swim.