Walking: Mapping Senses

I walked along the route I take when I go surfing. It is along the beach. It's generally quiet and gives me time to escape and think.

The thud of my car door signals my beginning. I walk down the wooden stairs and I can hear the sand between the wood and my boots.

I can hear smooth crackle of the sand and the ocean. The waves crashing. Someone's faint voice in the distance. Once in a while the train goes by. It comes slowly from a distance with its lights like eyes and ubruptly yonks it's horn right before it gets to me. Crash. A waves hits. Ssssssss and it cleans the sand. There is a tickling sound from the ocean breeze.

I can taste nothing but the combination of chips and salsa with the salty ocean air. Wait, I can taste some Dr. Pepper! Yes, I've been eating mexican food, Pedros Tacos to be exact.

It's fairly bright. My sensitive eyes need to squint in order to survive this time of day. I can see the ocean stretching far and wide. It's vastness allows my mind to think. The rocking of the ocean wraps a blanket around me, like a comforting little lullaby. Don't get me wrong, I respect its vastness and its power, but I'd like to say it's really opening up to me right now. Leaves are bright green from a good season of rain. Summer hasn't stated just yet, no not yet, I don't see the tourists walking around.

I can feel my camera, its plastic, weighted and cold body welcome my fingers. The wood guard rail helps me on the way down. The corse wood reminds me that I'm experiencing something authentic, maybe this is how they did it thirty years ago. Maybe this is how my mother and father did it... The sand is at is always is. Uncomfortable and a pest, it doesn't want to leave my hands. It sticks and it rubs between the crevices of my fingers. Yep, and the water is a bitter cold, still waiting for the south swell and still walking its way towards the August warmth.