BY ODESSA IKELS
Claire crouched in the cool wet sand, marveling at how the topwater surrounded the sides of her feet, small sandals abandoned behind her. The ocean roared in her left ear, cliffs invading her peripheral vision as she examined the place where the water meets the shore. Her parents were waiting where the spray couldn’t reach them, contented with a distant appreciation of the water. They had only taken her to the beach a few times before, but never when it was so cold, when the water bit into her skin instead of washing away heat.
Distantly, she registered the advancing wave, tumbling low and losing speed where it approached her. How friendly it seemed, gently washing over where she stood. The rushing filled her ears, enveloping her. The wave made it not far past her before retreating back into itself, inviting her closer.
The tide left behind ridges of seafoam bubbles, marking how far the waves had reached. Claire wanted to scoop them up. She imagined her small hand running over the clumps of iridescence, gently cupping them. She would cradle them like another’s hand, tracing the grooves and life lines with reverence. The vision retreated; why did she want to disturb the foam all? Why not be content to observe the waves’ creation from her vantage point, toes going cold, and see what might come of it if left alone? It could deliver some new embodiment of beauty right to her feet. She wouldn’t reach out, she decided. She could be patient.
Yet, almost against her will, Claire could feel her hands extending before her, fingertips tingling in anticipation of contact. As she did, the foam began dissolving, the bubbles popping, their shimmer diffusing into the ordinary shine of the wet sand. She was too late. It was as if a hand had scraped across the foam, stealing the opportunity from her.
She wondered at her own certainty that the seafoam should be aware of her, retreating in relation to her delayed approach. How could she expect it to last, to stand there waiting for her to gather her courage? The tides dipped in and out; didn’t pause for her.
The sun was sinking into the ocean beyond the breaking waves, quickening hues of the sky reflected in the thin membrane of salt water blanketing the sand. The receding waves, the disappearing seafoam, the footprints washed away, the sand’s endlessly windblown pattern; it all whispered impermanence. What was she waiting for? She should take a step, yell, reach out her hand and take. It would all change one way or another.
Writer | Odessa Ikels ‘28 | sikels28@amherst.edu
Editor | Aidan Cahill ‘28 | acahill28@amherst.edu