The forecast was for rain, but it didn't rain, which was a good thing because the whole purpose of the day was to sit on the beach and read. No dead-bird surveys, no wading in the surf, no glorious photos, no ecstasy. Just read.
The light was gray and flat, and there was no swell to speak of, no surf, little wave sound. There must have been some recent wave action, because the beach was netted with lines of fresh wrack. There was a strong smell of salt and (?)iodine.
Some pelicans. Gulls and crows working the wrack lines and flying off with things in their beaks (which was interesting, you never see gulls doing anything but standing around...) Away to the south, a fishing boat moved through the channel beyond the jetty. All you could see of it was a tall slender mast, with a light at the top. Later the air got brighter, though the sky didn't actually clear.
I sat against a handy log and read every inch of a very lovely novel for middle-schoolers, Hilary McKay's Saffy's Angel. J fiction, as we used to call it where I used to work, has the very great virtue of offering classical unity, the whole arc of the story can be experienced in one sitting. Most satisfying, if it's a good book, which this was.
This post is for Roshi, who once complained that I send him pictures of the same beach every time. This from a man who has done the same thing every morning for the last fifty years.