The Salt on the Skin

The air at the edge of the tide tastes of sharp, wet minerals and the metallic tang of deep water. I remember the feeling of sand between my toes—not the dry, loose kind, but the packed, damp earth that yields just enough to hold the shape of a footfall before the ocean rushes in to erase it. There is a specific rhythm to running near the surf, a frantic, heavy pulse where the legs grow tired and the lungs burn with the cold, damp mist. It is a sensation of being suspended between the solid ground and the infinite pull of the horizon. We spend so much of our lives trying to leave a mark, pressing our weight into the world, yet the water always waits to smooth the surface back into a mirror. Does the earth remember the pressure of our stride, or are we merely ghosts passing over the surface of a vast, indifferent blue?