The gray stretched out to the horizon. The mid-summer sky had been bright and clear, the heat oppressive, when they’d left, but as they drew closer to the coast, the temperature began to dip and clouds covered the sun. Carrie had expected better weather. Her expectations were always high.
The weather-beaten shingles of the houses were gray, exhausted by time. Even the water was gray; a tired grayish-blue, broken by the white caps of waves that broke fifty yards off shore, arriving with no energy.
Sturdy green pines rose from the cliffs, but even they bent under the weight of the sea breeze. It tossed the gray sand they were sitting in across the beach, adding grit to their coffee.
They’d been sitting for 45 minutes when Carrie suggested they walk down the beach. He hadn’t been able to read her energy on the drive, but now she seemed unsettled, uncomfortable sitting still, but looking for a place to stop.
He agreed. He always agreed. They loaded their books and blankets back into his pack and set off.
He moved them down closer to the waterline where the sand was hard-packed and damp. He wanted to feel the water. He needed it.
Carrie walked at the edge of the waterline, fearing the numbing cold of the Pacific. She curled in on herself against the wind.
He moved further into the surf until it came to his knees. The cold was unbearable. He could think of nothing but the pain. He watched the water split around his legs and felt each toe go numb. He was desperate to move back to the warmer sand.
He looked back for Carrie. His feet ached. She had continued down the beach.
He wondered if he walked out into the waves, if it would all disappear.
