Every year, Sheila visited the ocean for her summer break. The ocean – with its mysterious force which even the most exquisitely-drawn narratives have not done justice to. The ocean, with the whitewashed foam, the sand beds shifty and uncertain, the sea-horses galloping at their own pace, the rising and ebbing tides, had a history all its own. Neither to be lapped up by mainstream accounts nor to be pitched as the most touristy of attractions, the ocean would always hold an exotic charm for this sixteen-year-old. She loved the feel of sands, the ocean bed rocking to and fro, the feel of the waves lapping against her feet, and the feeling of throbbing satisfaction which it left. The ocean was like a tidal front of manifestations which left the world dreamily incognito.
That year, she let herself be wooed by the waves. She became at one with the melting foam and taut rivulets of water. She let the water in over her head. Swooning, mixing, a caricature of itself. The softness and the smoothness iridescent and charming. This must be what heaven felt like.
In season, the daily market was the town’s centerpiece. For streets together, cereal-sellers sit surrounded by sacks of cereals, fishwerwomen with toes reddened by fish blood, and little tubs of still-swimming seafish and catfish. There was something so riveting about it all. The whole expanse of activities related to the sea was charming and devastatingly ripe to the eyes. Sheila never failed to be mesmerized by the onslaught of her senses.
The ocean was always her friend. Seething at times with tempestuous energy it may be, but it was also soft and gentle during midsummer mornings, when the surf would be gentle and dreamy, and the sand curl into her toes with child-like glee. She was the happiest at such times. There was always something to learn from the sea!