He stood there observing as the violent waves crashed onto the shore. Rising, crashing, retreating, returning. The waves represent life so aptly, he thought. Life ebbs and flows like the waves. The rising waves symbolic of the highs in life — exuberance, success, love, passion. The crashing and retreating waves epitomizing failure, separation, sorrow, loneliness.
So much activity out here, he thought looking at the waves, but so quiet and calm far out there, where the water seemed still with ripples embroidered on it. Further away, where it seemed that the water has merged with the sky, it is only a limitation of our vision and the business of topography, he assured himself. The ocean’s magnificence is boundless.
About 200 meters ahead, he saw the first waves rise. First like the bulge on a woman’s chest, and then erecting like a man’s genital, and then rolling over the shore like two desperate lovers climbing onto each other. The sound of the tide and the sound of pleasure indistinguishable.
At other times it felt like an army of waves were fighting for the possession of the shore. Each soldier wave seemed to be determined to breach the coastline. Wash up the shore. Draw up further on the coast to establish its claim. Swooosh — the sound of the waves seemed like their warcry. Some angry waves packed a punch, some feebly swept the shore. Attacking and retreating seemed to be at the center of their war strategy.
He stood there observing, slowly fading. Vanishing into oblivion. Surrendering to the waves, to its love, to its claim.