Arrive at beach at 5:50 am.
5:54 am, four pelicans sail overhead with a brownish-looking sea gull in tow.
5:55 am, five crows fly by going the other direction. First people arrive at beach.
The sun has not even broken over the horizon and already there is more activity around than I care to listen to. I guess I should have risen sooner - when the chorus of the local wildlife, what little there seems to be, declared that today's sunrise had already been summoned.
I hear cries of excitement from the people on the beach and look up to see a red sun inching its way up, peeking over the horizon. They immediately draw their digital cameras and begin snapping pictures. I do likewise but I can't help but wonder how many sunrises these people will see from hereforth that aren't printed on paper or displayed on a screen.
I've heard the ocean described as having a calming effect on people - peaceful, serene. After sitting here for a bit, I ardently disagree. I find little peace in the ocean, especially at its water/land interface. It seems to be perpetually bereating the land, futilely attempting to make its point. What that point is, I don't know. And the shore, much like a stereotypical teenager, appears to ignore these messages. I find it hard to feel peace when the water seems so perpetually angry, constantly crashing into the shore, over and over and over again.
At about 6:15 I vacate my post in the shelter by the beach. Many people are astir now and the gnat-like bugs are detracting from whatever serenity this site potentially had to offer.
On the walk back to our cabin, I hear a group of military men chanting down the beach. The sun is gaining much intensity now so I'll resort to swim trunks soon and join the ranks of the other tourists in playing in the water. I'll try to forget how much I miss the calm and quiet of a midwestern sunrise.
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