Beach - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Upon this primrose sand, the hue as gentle on the eye as a vintage photograph, there is a steady warmth from the grains. Already the stars glow as if they have kept a pocket of the daytime to shine all through the night sky. Sometimes I think the earth and the moon choose to give of their borrowed warmth and light until the return of the sun, the brilliance forever promised at dawn. Until then, here I remain, breathing deeply of ocean carried air, listening to the percussion of waves that has been my lullaby since before I was a consciousness wrapped in human form.
Jerry sat on the beach, his eyes moving from sand to stone, from rock pools to breaking waves. In the gentle spring sunshine he felt as if he were swimming in the briny aroma, as if the new rays of the day brought a frisson of energy to his finger tips. It was a day for letting his eyes stay open, as he were an old fashioned camera, remaining still while the image developed. The gulls brought their hight notes to the percussion of pebbles at the shoreline. It was a day for dreaming, for allowing time to move fast and slow.
The rain gives of herself unto the ocean, each fragment becoming apart of the body of brine, of the waves and sea-lace. I hear each watery gift, softer than the patter on a rooftop, moving in subtle waves of its own according to the wind. I wonder if this is how music began, how mankind thought to conjure song and dance, by hearing the natural rhythms of nature. Upon the sand, the rain is almost silent, enriching the hue from cream to ears of summer maize.
The sand is softly golden with just the right comforting warmth. To rest on the beach feels like a cosy hug, one only matched by the sunshine filled sky. Tom stretches out both arms and legs to look like a boy-starfish, his grin growing slowly into a broad smile. The only marker of time today is the sun above, the moments savoured by the waves that wash the sands in white lace.
With browning legs curled under, dusted with sand like flour on bread, I sit close to the lapping waves. They feel warm and cool, like tea that's been forgotten and returned to. My fingers wiggle in the water, in these lips of the ocean as she sings. In this place I will remain until the tide is lower, scooping the sand that runs like cold lava through my star-fish fingers and onto the dry beach. With each handful I twist my body as if dancing in a chair, gazing at the falling sand. Below it rises a drip-castle, a sandcastle that looks for all the world like a melted candle. By sunset there will be a long skinny line of them following the ocean as she chases the moon.
In twilight the beach was tinted sepia, the sand more orange, the water darker, our skin soft to the eye. We sat there, Tara to my left, Leon to my right, just taking in the evening and chatting in our characteristic pattern, the laughs and the serious intermingled.
Avery whispers into the breeze, her eyelids fluttering closed as she breathes in the briny aroma. Scrunching her toes, she feels the softness of the sand, still damp from the retreating tide. She wiggles as a shiver cascades down her spine and her eyes burst open.The sand blurs out in a blissful trance, the shore fading into liquid gold, vivid in the brilliant light. Her pale lips curve upward.
Avery bestows her gaze to the far off horizon, the flaring hues of the sun melting into the sky and ocean like a divine painting. The forever stretching sea is masked with an apricot colour, that beautiful umber flowing into turquoise. Through narrowed eyes she watches as each wave overlaps one another, sending the white bubbling crests descending, masking the shore with the transparent fading water.
But above all it is the fantastic colouring of the beaches that as in image overpowers the minutiae. Above the tide-line the grey rocks are splashed gorse-yellow with close-growing lichen, and with others of blue-green and salmon pink. Beneath them are the vivid orange-browns and siennas of wrack-weeds, the violet of mussel-beds, dead-white sand, and water through which one sees down to the bottom, as though pale green bottle-glass, to where starfish and big spiny urchins of pink and purple rest upon the broad leaves of the sea-tangle.
Under the mist that swirls thicker than hairspray in a beauty pageant prep-room lies sand that shifts under the pressure of my boot. I can't see it, only feel. Out there, only meters away is the ocean, alive with constant motion and millions of sea-dwellers. Beyond this wall of white I can smell and hear it. The waves are neither the gentle kind that roll up the beach like a overflowing bath tub, nor the crashing kind that turn murky with golden swirling crystals. They move with force but die within a few feet. From them comes the salty smell, that fragrance that conjures fishing fleets and nets of sun-bleached blue cord hanging out to dry. This place could be anywhere, I guess at a stretch this could be some kind of artificial simulation, but it isn't. This is my hometown beach and that is the sea I swam in as a small child. The wind here carries my mother's voice and her sweet kisses. I stand still, face to the breeze and soak it all in. No technology, no gimmicks, just nature...
The beach was a blaze of parasols, hot colours to match the burning sand underfoot. Against the percussion of the waves was the laughter, coming in bursts and rolling like the ocean.
The painting takes me far away to another time, another life. In this picture the pebbles crunch beneath my winter boots and the waves lap in their steady rhythm, frigid and laced with sea-foam. Their melody is soporific, this music of water dragging eon rounded stones up and down the beach. Amongst the brush strokes of hues that are muted as if bleached by millions of years of sun, I can taste the salty air and feel it chill my icy face. From the upper left corner the gulls cry, circling until the fishing fleet returns. And there, right in the foreground is a rowboat of aging wood and paint that curls like potato peelings when I cut them too thick. It hardly looks sea worthy but I'm already in it, bobbing on the sun-speckled water, eyes on the horizon where blue meets blue.
The boy lies in the sand like he's sleeping. I've watched him do this over and over. When his little sister comes to rouse him he acts no more alive than a sack of beans. He waits, cobra-like, until she gets right up close to his face. Then he jumps up, scattering the yellow grains with arms that fling wide, hands like starfish in the summer sun. Then he roars without shame, not the timid little expulsion of an adult playing “lets pretend,” but the no-holes-barred lung-emptying of a prehistoric warrior. Then he stands there, his tousled blonde hair masking the sand that must cover it. It falls back down into his eyes and all I can see is a white gap-toothed grin. His sister screams every time, not upset but elated; she jumps, claps and giggles. Then as if he were shot with a dart gun he's down again, floppy on the sun-warmed gold.
With every step the sand shifted. With every motion forward there was some backward and down, just like walking in fresh fallen snow. Yet unlike the crystalline blanket of white bequeathed by the winter time, the fine grains under foot give me warmth from the suns rays. Like their sky-bound benefactor they are yellow, as if the sunshine itself is trapped inside these unmelting crystals of silicone and oxygen. Despite the heat I find myself frozen in place once my eyes take in the ocean. The waves roll in white tipped, spreading themselves like fine lace over the beach after they crash in their soft way. There is nothing noisy about them, yet they have sound. Perhaps to me it is more like the music of my childhood summers so long ago with the people I have loved and lost. If I close my eyes I can hear my mother calling me for lunch, my father rustling the newspaper as he turns a fresh leaf. In my closed hand appears a red bucket and spade, there is nothing to worry me, no fears...
The beach should be all rounded stones by rights. The tide washes up and down does it not? How many eons has it been doing that. But when I take off my shoes as my mother instructs it is sharp flints that greet the delicate under-skin of my foot. Ahead the waves crash as if they had real power, white and foamy. But they die in just a few feet, nowhere near me really. The air has that salty, seaweed smell just like the beach did thirty miles down the coast and suddenly I can't see the point of repeating the experience. It was cold then, it will be cold now. Cold and smelly. I slip the shoes back on and turn to leave. Mother now has folded arms and I know I'm for it. “I didn't bring you all the way here so you could turn your nose up at the sea, my lad! I won't bring you again if you don't go in!” At her hip is the camera, she just wants the shot to post to her friends. My face falls like wet cement, I can't help it, it's how I feel. Now she isn't just angry, she's about to get nasty...
The beach is my go-to place. Some folks like their fancy coffees: cream and sugar with cream and sugar on top. But give me the pebbles that move under boot with their loud crunch- louder than fall leaves and present all year. I suck in the salty air like its an elixir, to me I think it is. It tastes like home. The beach huts lie ahead, no bigger than my garden shed but painted the same kind of candy hues as the wooden buildings that line the harbour in Bergen. Some could have been painted yesterday, they are bright, unbleached by the sun. Others are more of less derelict, forgotten and left to rot in the briny spray. Their paint lies like peeling bark off an old felled tree, curling and broken. They are pale and their padlocks are rusted over. Above the sun is bright, but as always in November it has no real heat, only the power to render the ocean a glittering green-blue like my mother's eyes. I miss those eyes.
On the beach was the fishing fleet and the smell of their catch. Leo walked closer. No longer did her find it repelling, it was just the smell of his town and he was proud of it and he wanted to stay. In years gone by it had been a backwater town, looked down by the city folk. But now the lawyers and bankers who had once been tourists were snapping up second homes for vacations, driving up the price of real estate beyond the pockets of the locals. His worn sneakers kicked at the pebbles. Home, forever living with his parents and fishing like his Dad, like he wanted to do, or some city job and an apartment smaller than his bedroom. He took a finger and ran it down the paint of a boat, watching the salt crystals bunch around his finger. He wanted to be his own man, but was that even possible? An urban wage slave or living with his parents, how was that his only choice?
The cold onshore breeze blew right through Amy's sweater and she bowed her head to one side, closing lashes weighed down with mascara to keep out the salty sting. The dampness of the sand was making its way though her skinny jeans and she hugged her knees close. Her hair fell loose about her face, tousled, tangled. Under the fading sun it appeared brown, the honey blonde streaks lost to the night. She could hear the waves lapping like the ticking of a more leisurely clock, but never telling her the time, never demanding that she move on. When more light came from the moon than the sun she stood and walked over the cool black sand to the inky water, letting it kiss her toes through her socks. The frigid brine quickly wicked up the wool and soon her feet were quite icy.
The sun emitted wave upon wave of heat from the center of a pale blue sky. Golden sand extended at a gentle slope unlike anything that I ever imagined on the coast of Britain - soft dunes tumbling to kiss the briny water. Each wave was lacy with foam and all the more gentle for the subtle green hues. My little sister ran through the thick, browning grass, mouth a grin to rival any storybook, her hair matching the sand. Above a lone cloud drifted by in search of another, the brilliant white like a sail. The beach stretched out into the distance like a horseshoe bending around the coastline, dotted with families enjoying the rare gift of warmth. Giggling, I ran after my baby sister into the refreshingly cool waves, splashing cool water at her unsuspecting back.
I love the beach because I can walk for miles. There is nowhere else I can go for so long without crossing a man made structure, unless you count the beach-breaks and I don't. They are wooden and covered in barnacles, that's as good as nature to me. Plus I love to hop down them from the high side to the low and scramble back up on my return. I drink in the sound of the gulls, crying for their suppers and watch the sun sink it the sky. I must turn back long before it lights the sky with that burnt orange hue. Mostly I judge my return by my own shadow. When I am two “me's” tall I turn. Then the breeze hits my other cheek and so does the sun.
Directly across the way stood a top-heavy dockhouse, a weatherbeaten cube of pure nineteenth century raised up on out-curving supports for the purpose of enabling elderly ladies to sit out on good afternoons to watch the sailboats leaning at their work - a setting rendered completely other-day and unreal by this thick, moist air.
The enclosed beach is silent. The celestial fireball blinds you as it emerges, rising like a glowing medallion on the distant horizon. Topaz sunbursts of light smash against the calming blue of the ocean, lighting up the sea into cylinders of flax gold light. Crashing against the shore, small waves wash the night's debris onto the land. Untouched golden sand covers the floor as far as your eyes can see. Soothing, a gentle sea breeze rustles through your hair. The smell of the salty sea rushes through your nose as you breathe in fresh air. The halo of the towering mountains colours the edges the beach, the cliffs rise up into the godly sky as the gods ride on orange crest clouds that blanket the gentle blue sky.
Children crowd into the small patches of sand, thin angular limbs jutting in all directions, like a brilliant island of colorful shorts and t-shirts in a sea of pebbles. The shingle stretches from one barnacle and seaweed covered wooden groyne to the next. Brave swimmers pick their way down to the breaking waves on tiptoes, wincing, grimacing, comical caricatures of the British seaside. Dogs run in and out of the spray chasing sticks.
Waves crashed over the frigid winter sand spreading it's lacy foam like the edge of a petticoat. The ocean wind blew in bitter gusts, tumbling her tousled locks behind her. The salty air lay thickly on her tongue and filled her nostrils. With her bare feet, chalky-white and goose-bumped with cold, she took a step into the icy water. The waves crashed in and over the hem of her skirt, soaking it like a rag. She took another step, and another, never taking her eyes off the empty horizon where grey sea met grey sky, as if she could will his ship to come home.
The yellowish red sun looks like a shy boy. A short while later, I arrive at the beach, which is the naughty, sandy, the blue sea. With great pleasure, I start to walk along the beach. The sand looked clean like sugar spread out for miles, as it squished between our toes. It was dark outside and stars floated in the distance, But the moon seemed so close we could grab it and take it in our pocket to keep for ourselves. At this moment, my eyes are just like a digital camera, catching every corner of the landscape and every movement of the creatures there. The waves crash into one another, the breeze blowing from the tide, the smell of salty ocean, and the sticky air… See? Far away from the beach, there is a seagull flying with a pair of strong wings. Sometimes it stays
I stood arms folded, shivering uncontrollably in my tank top. The frigid water reached up to caress the sand and the toes of my boots only to roll out again. When the foaming waves collided the salt water sprayed my chapped lips and made my swelling eyes even drier. The cold dead sand seamed so calm and serene against the tempestuous sea.
The grass has that bluish tinge I associate with the seaside, it's coarse and tough, but I love it more than the tame grass of the suburban yards. I prefer the wild look, it's free, untamed. If I were a painter I'd sit with an easel and attempt to do it justice. But instead I just let it make an impression on my memory, I want to recall everything from the soft hue to the way the stalks are made stronger with their intertwined fibres.
Juliette was sitting on the beach lulled by the languid flowing of the tide. As she watched the waves carelessly dribbling onto the sand she couldn't help thinking about the scenes she beheld the days before.
What she saw in the smooth twilight of September was something that would conjure powerful images in her mind for days to come. She sat transfixed watching the sky just above the horizon not knowing what to make of the vision that was unfolding before her eyes. Then dusk came, followed by night accompanied with a soft breeze gently stroking her face.
The gurgling and the gushing of the waves brought her back to reality. Alone on this soft golden sand beach hemmed in by jagged cliffs she wanted to find a new resolve, she had to find a way to get out of the fantasy world she had been living in for weeks. She had to find her way back to reality and start her quest after the stolen horizon.
The beach is more people than sand. They lie and sit on towels and chairs. It is a crazy array of colour, every shade the mall has to offer, all right there with no thought to coordination. It's like they got vomited there. I'd rather pull my own nails off than sit so close to other folks, so close you can smell their suntan lotion and hear their banal conversation. Maybe that makes me a snob, or a freak, or whatever, but I don't care.
I take another look at the beach and commit it to memory. I don't just want the photographs I want to bottle the scent and have seashells to touch. I want to recall the feel of the sand between my toes and the clarity of the ocean. I want to be able to come here in my dreams.
We grew up by the ocean, waking to the sound of the waves on the dark golden sands. We swam of course and to us swimming means briny waves striking our faces, not the chlorinated pools of further into the town. Even in summertime there were days we didn't want to swim or catch crabs; we'd take our fingers and draw a hopscotch grid in the sand. Pebbles were easy to find. We kids used to spend hours there, hopping from one foot to two, spinning and making our way back to the start. I still recall the softness of the sand, our feet erasing the numbers and the lines as we went. Some days we'd play long enough for the tide to claim our game. Then we hopscotch kids would slink home under the setting sun, our tanned skin cast orange in those final rays before night.
The beautiful, big blue ocean's waves are crashing were against the cliffs as you watch the beautiful birds joyfully fly around in circles in the air. The warm, golden sand runs between your toes with the gentle breeze. As you walk along, you find gorgeous, shiny shells that have been washed into the shore by the rippling of the water. The beach :- A PERFECT place to visit.
A golden blanket outlines the silvery sea, creating the picture perfect image. The golden medallion of a sun was perched high in the sky, blazing like Titan's fiery wheel. The sun beat down on the calm ocean as a gust of wind forced itself past me. I shivered as I ran my hand down my forearms. The wind whipped around me, cutting through the stitches of my clothing, and carried the unmistakable aroma of salt. But somehow, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the faint taste of salt on the breeze that was complimented by the ambrosial aroma of the flowers around me.