It really is

Silvery white waves of foam on pristine blue. Rising in a glorious ark and then stooping down, its peak glistening in the afternoon sun. This is where it all happens. The sun is only drooping down on us, bathing us. But the sea has secrets in it. It ancient and roaring and sad. I stand there for a while, scooping up sand and throwing it into the waters, but the sea's decided long ago - it won't take anything from us. We may bathe ourselves all we want. We may dance on its waves, feel its tremor over our skin, rinse ourselves of all the loss of purity, but we can never be a part of it.

This is where we die a happy death. People sitting on the sand, couples making love, people making love with their own selves, with the waters. I stare around in complete awe, for this is a fiesta, a great giant orgy of human flesh and water, a mingling of existences, a chance to go beyond the conformity of your shoes and clothes.

There is always the chance that you may run past the sea. You will feel a breeze gently kissing your shoulders, the receding waters lapping your feet. You will have to stop and look around and it hits you again.

You may not believe me. You can't, not till you've come here and seen it all for yourself. It really is the sea.