I lie to myself and others. The sky is always blue and words are birds and the sea is a froth of meringue not the murky unknown where you wade past that place where  you lose your grip and your eyes and nose sting with the rush of sea salt.

The sun is scorching, sea birds swoop and sqwack. Perfect black angles against the sky. I’m clutching a book , Tennessee Williams, whose writing I abhor but its corner was leaning out as I passed the bookcase, Sweet Bird of Youth.

The sun is setting behind the carnation houses and scattered surfers linger in the last light of day. A haze blankets the shore and moves out to sea. Shards of salt pierce my face and eyes as I begin to run, my breath tears upward from my belly ripping through my lungs.

Sinking down on the sand behind…