This wasn’t some passive summer zephyr. No gentle breezes to ruffle our beach blankets, and tease the canvas umbrella. It was a tempest moving quickly towards shore.
A broken bar code of rain tumbled headlong across the horizon. Fishing boats struggled through the onslaught of boiling waves, rocking precariously upon the breakers.
Frantic schools of bait fish paced the shallows along the beach, scattering at the slightest ripple. Mantas, undersea leviathans, hovered just below the surface. Their leather wings quivering as lightning coursed through the water, sounding through their receptive skin.
As the wind picked up, salt and sand generously seasoned our skin, and twisted our hair into Palomar knots.
Behind the dunes, the sun, still burning bright and hot, took a stand against the storm. Defying thunderous howls and screeches of outrage, Sol pushed back, holding its ground.
Keeping its distance, feigning indifference, the tempest advanced no further. Giving a wide berth to the sun, it roared one last time then skidded east to intimidate the moon.