ocean - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The water was gentle as I waded through it, the sunset like orange paint on a blue canvas. The water was clean and soft. Gentle.
If I hadn't been a victim of a sea storm, I would have believed the facade. The water was powerful, with enough force to destroy and rival the land.
But then, the most innocent faces were the wildest.
With tears streaming down my face, I could do nothing but sit cross-legged on the sandy shore and stare at the horizon in front of me. Waves of a deep royal blue crept towards me before running away, only to repeat the process in a cycle that caused droplets of salty water to spray onto my bare, sand-encrusted feet. But beyond those magical waves was something even more amazing and breath-taking: The sunset. Beautiful smudges of coral, lavender, turquoise, and a fiery orange blended together to create a sight so astounding it swept me away from all of my worries, just like the waves creeping over seashells and stealing them in a matter of seconds. My last teardrop fell and hit the soft white sand, and a warm feeling of safety and security overwhelmed me as the sun dipped down below the horizon. The vast ocean in front of me was my home, where I belonged, a place to escape from my life away from the waves. Nothing could ever take that feeling away.
There were days I craved the shore, laid flat like paper, rest my chin against grains of sand. The tide would draw a breath and hum deeply, crawl along the sand on its belly, stretching itself thin until it was an inch from my nose. And then I'd blow, will the ocean back with my breath, watch as it drew away and breathed.
He remembered swimming in the turquoise ocean. Floating in the void free of gravity. The ocean was something he loved, something his respected. He understood its beauty and its dangers. He found true fascination by the way the waves softly crashed against the rocky beach, their curling fingers brushing each stone with a gentle caress as the wind ushered them gently towards the shore. The way the sun shone off the rippling water, its golden light warped in the twisted, glass waves. No description can truly capture its mysterious majesty, yet only a few words can express its beauty.
Though the lettering was no doubt clearly painted, it was distorted to the point if illegibility by the water above. The wind that gusted gave the ocean's surface the look of shattered glass, each tiny facet both reflecting a portion of the wintry sunrays and refracting the rest. The only way to read it was to get below the surface, to dive in, but in these conditions it was suicidal; if the currents didn't get you the temperature soon would. Eric cursed. This could be the clue they'd been looking for and he didn't want to come back another day or risk Samson's crew finding it first.
Humanity is made up of people like the ocean is made up of drops. As the ocean pounds on the shore line, humanity pounds on fragile ecosystems. Like the ocean at the mercy of the wind we seem swept away by the demands of our times, cars, devices, disposable goods. We may be drops, but together we have the power of an ocean.
Drums of war pounding against the golden shoreline in the dead of night and the light of day. Light where no man can see, sound where no man can hear, life where no man can breath. In the west it swallows all light, in the east it births anew. Never calmed, yet constantly still. Always moving, never the same. Constantly amending, remaining unchanged. No description can truly capture it's mysterious majesty, yet only a few words can express it's beauty.
In the vastness of the ocean it was easy to loose hope. Amy sat in the raft, taking in the view. In every direction the twilight blue ocean met the grey clouds on the horizon. It was like being shrunk to the size of just a few atoms and sat in the centre of a coin- lost in a perfect circle of blue. For now it was inoffensive and benign, but it couldn't stay that way forever. This part of the world was prone to hurricanes at this time of year. But of course by the time one hit she would likely have expired from dehydration. How long had it been since the smuggler boat had abandoned her here? Too soft to put a bullet in her, too mean not to let her live. Perhaps her detachment would come looking for her when she failed to rendezvous, it was hard to say. And how would they find her way out here? She was the proverbial "needle in a haystack" and she knew it.
The deep blue sea
God’s great creation
Of wondrous sea creatures
And the ocean sands
Gentle on our feet and
Floats through our hands
You can’t quite ponder
The Universe, its length expands
The feel of the plush hard rocks
And the raging, rough waters
Blue, amazing beyond beautiful
Filled with many memories
Tarnished with untold tragedies
Calming are its tides
Relaxing in defeat
A fisher man’s pride
Nestled in the ocean breeze
This beautiful but amazing deep blue sea
Where the sea creatures breathe
The ships traverse with ease
And humans enjoy the calming effect
Of the ocean’s intoxicating tease
Written by: Charmaine Wallace
Every drop is inconsequential, nothing in the grandness of the ocean. But when they all move together, as one body- therein lies the power. From the surface it may remain tranquil for many days, months even, but it's strength is not gone, merely dormant. Below the surface, no matter how still, are unstoppable currents moving unimaginable volumes of briny water many thousands of kilometres. From above it seems no more alive than a bucket of water, yet below is more life than the skies above or the the land it kisses. Truly it is another world, an alien landscape. It is one we should visit with reverence, not use as the toilet bowl and dumping ground of human toxicity.
The expanse of blue water stretched in every direction to the horizon. I was adrift on an ocean with no wisp of land in sight. My row boat bobbed on the waves as helpless as a toy in a bath tub. Below me it must be fathoms deep. How long had I slept for? How far had I drifted? Without oars I was at the mercy of the wind and the rolling waves. I was lost on an ocean with no way to propel myself unless I entered the water and kicked, but in which direction?
The old fisherman would describe the ocean as his fickle friend. It brought him the fine days where he could fish from dawn until dusk, tempting him to trust her, to love her. But then in a blink of a eye he found he had incurred her wrath and she would rise her might against his little hand painted boat of wood. He respected her and held her in awe, but he always remained wary of her to his dying day.
The ocean takes her cue from the wind, in gentle breezes she kisses the sand with saline lips of blue, but when storms come her wind torn peaks crash on beach and rock with indomitable fury.
The ocean was as still as a millpond, the surface was barely a placid ripple, breaking the sunlight into a mosaic of reflected colors. Not too far from the unmoving prow came a pod of orca, breaking the surface with their black dorsal fins. At least they could move under their own steam. The boat's sail hung like a christmas stocking waiting to be filled, but no wind came.
As an old man he found himself much in demand to tell his grandchildren about life on the ocean. He was tempted to describe it as a wall of endless blue in every direction, where blue sea would merge into blue sky on the horizon. But instead he found himself describing the most violent storms they had encountered. He would describe his ship turning a figure of eight on gigantic waves, tossed about like a toy. He would describe how the wind roared like a jet engine and howled like a wolf in the night, blowing the foamy white spray right up onto the deck, encrusting his eyelashes and eyebrows with salt. He told them how the ocean was really a slumbering giant waiting to flex his muscles if awakened, ready to smash even the largest ocean liners to smithereens.
Her salty tears dripped from her chin and became one with the ocean that lapped her bare feet. Now her tears could flow around the world, into any ocean or sea from this one sandy bay. How she envied them, how she longed to melt away into the ocean and join them. As a child she had longed to be a mermaid, perhaps these infantile urges don't go away after all. If she could slip into the sea and swim with the dolphins she knew she'd never return.
The ocean that had provided for us all of our lives became savage that night. Its customary genial waves that bob the fishing fleet were magnified beyond anything in living memory, even for the old "sea dogs." They rose not six feet or twelve, but twenty five and came crashing into our brightly painted wooden sea-front buildings like they were dolls-houses. From the hillside we watched, as ashen as the fish we haul daily. There was no blue water at all, only white and the wind drove it over the sea defences as easily as a child spilling milk. The waves were loud under the howl of the wind; the salty air we usually relish burned at our lungs and watered our eyes. Through thick tears our minds rejected what we could plainly see before us. Everything was splintered, there wasn't a single boat or dwelling that was reparable. We were orphans of the storm, refugees in our own town. Without any homes to go to we were one big family with all the benefits and problems that brings...
Emma sat on the edge of he father's yacht, her back to the hot noon sunrays and feet dangling into the warmed summer waters. She kicked lazily at the swelling waves until they fell below her toes again while toying with the idea of swimming. It would be something to do, a break from the sweltering heat. Her head felt hot, the heat sinking into her black hair as efficiently as tarmac. She slid to her side and dangled her arm down to catch the briny water with her finger tips. The side of the boat was uncomfortably warm and so she sat. This far out the waves had no white crest, no foam spray, instead they rolled in lazy arcs like the back of a giant cobra. She got abruptly to her feet and without calling out a warning to her Dad, she dived right in. The sultry air was immediately replaced with the cool water of the ocean. Soon her lungs clamoured for air and she kicked for the top, quite unaware that the boat had moved...
The ocean that was blue just yesterday, lapping the golden sands with the cold water of an early spring tide is now more black than the night sky. The surface moves in the slick way oil does with a rainbow sheen that holds no beauty. No longer does the air smell of salt and washed up seaweed; it smells foul and the onshore breeze now carries toxic chemicals that make me wheeze. The birds flop helplessly on the black beach, coated in sticky crude and mostly blinded. I want to run in but I must wait to be dressed in a protective suit, a luxury those creatures don't have. For their health problems they will get nothing, but that's hardly less than the population of this seaside town will get from "big oil." Once they're done ringing their hands and making public statements to the entire planet, our little backwater town will be forgotten. The piece of mind that our coastline brings will be gone, the pollution still in our water, air and land...
The ocean lapped at the sand leaving its lacy foam to trail the waves as they retreated. Jenny placed a quick toe in the water and took it back even quicker. It was icy. How the fish could stand to live in there was beyond her comprehension, but behind her was Grey and his gang and the only way to escape was a swim to the buoy. If she could rest there until they gave up and then swim back she had a chance, a small one. Remaining where she was was a death sentence, and not a painless one either. She took her clothes of fast, keeping only her underwear and her backpack with the thermal pads. Surviving out there would be no picnic, she'd be hypothermic in minutes.
The ocean was the only home the mermaid knew, and as such were you to ask her to describe it she would not have mentioned the water or the wetness, or the waves or the water currents, much in the same way that you would not mention the air if you described your home. She was so accustomed to the multitude of fish in their vast array of colours and sizes that she barely noticed them anymore. To her the ocean was no more than the bland wallpaper of her life and she longed to grow some legs and explore the world of humans on the land.
blue, crystal, clear, cerulean, silent, waves, salty, expansive. She stared out across the sea, unable to distinguish between the salty blue ocean and the dusky horizon. fish, seaweed, sand, frothy waves lapping at a sand beach, large, bright
The ocean. Calm and gentle. Subtle and sweet. Should we revere or fear it? Loud as a tiger. As dangerous as a tiger. It can take lives without them even realizing it. Creating lives for millions. Is it a God? Should we revere or fear it? Calm and gentle. Be careful or it’ll put you to sleep like a babe.
The ocean had always conjured comforting ideas into my head. Whenever I was frazzled in the head I would close my eyes and visit it, dive right in, feeling the cool caress of the brine. So on that fateful day I was at ease, there was nothing that calmed me more than the feel of damp sand between my toes and the early morning rays warming my red hair. Sometimes I would wonder if I had more freckles than the beach had shells, but that morning all such self-absorbed curiosities were erased. The water began to draw back, right back. I was such an idiot, I pulled out my phone to take a picture and sent it with a LOL to Greg. It pinged back in a second. "Run, tsunami." I've never felt the heat leave my body so fast as it did in that brief moment. Then an alarm rent the air, violent and crude. I knew I had to move before the roads got jammed. I'll never forget the aftermath, the flattened homes and tossed vehicles, some of them packed with fleeing families, kids and all.
It teases. Tickling your every nerve to just swan dive into the oblivion it makes itself out to be. Your heart pumps furiously at its rhythms slapping at the hem of your nose. Salt. It cleans and infects. It infected you and now you walk not by sight but by the footprint of love stapled to the scent of its salty fluid trickling down your cheeks. You trust its waves of hello and pour your every drop of self worth into its bottomless pit of frothy filth and yet, when you knew you could save yourself, you dove even when it gave you every reason to not trust.
The South Pacific at daybreak was indeed a sight for sore eyes. The sun peeked above the horizon, causing red streaks to cut into the awakening sky. The sea was clothed in a million shimmering stars that twinkled whenever the next wave came. Blue; blue was everywhere, it covered the ocean’s surface and, skipping the sunrise, traveled up into the sky for as far as the eye could see. In the middle of the ocean sat a little boat, out of place in the endless blue, like a black blotch on an artist’s blue canvas. It had three small sails and a little cabin in the center of its wooden deck; a steel rail ran around the edge of the deck. A girl stood at the rail, gripping it with both hands while she closed her eyes and tilted her head back to catch the sun’s emerging warmth. Her auburn hair flowed free around her face, and a slight smile curved her lips. She had the appearance of someone completely at peace, without a care in the world.