Tres Palmas with it’s long stretch of lush tropical beach greets me in its early morning silence. It is 6.30 and the air is already warm, a kiss on my naked arm and bare legs. I check my sneakers under a nearby coconut tree and begin my ritual of the walk.
It is the lull in the day that prepares me for the non stop movement and demands and hustle and flow that will greet me when I return. Each time I walk I am reminded why it is I love this place and living here.
I take in the vibes. It is raw, polished, beautiful, dangerous, destructive, creative all at once. From the intricate patterns of broken sea fans washed up on the beach, to the clumsiness and silliness of the side walking hermit crab I find myself intrigued by and studying. For what feels like hours at a time, I have forgotten the outside world.
With the constant sound of wind in my ear and the crashing waves pushing bits of coral and shell at my bare feet I investigate what it means to be tumbled,sculpted, carved of the sea. From sand dunes to shells to rocks , to trees, even the very beach itself is sculpted. They are all an ever changing work of art. The wind and the wave are their master sculptors. I take in the lesson. I note the curves, the harshness, the gentleness, the lift and fall. I file them away for reference later.
The Pelican and Frigate birds are off in a distance. There is fish some where close by. Their calculated dives are a dance they have mastered. It is another art form. The art of gliding and fishing.
All along the shore I find pieces of sand blasted tumbled glass..sea glass, my next passion. They too have been sculpted by the power of nature. They glitter like jewels when wet and in the morning sun. My shadow stretches out behind me as I bend to pick them up..the sun now is almost at eight in the sky. I can feel a tug that I can not ignore pulling me away from the beach. The art lessons are over, for now.
After, I climb the hill, passed the Bamboo patch and find my way back into the valley. My daughter is running out to meet me, chattering away. Her beautiful face is alive and sleepy at the same time, my husband is rustling in the kitchen, breakfast is on. My senses are diverted now. The quiet is slipping away fast now and I let it. Later I will find it again, when I sit in the studio drawing, drafting, sculpting art pieces that have worked its way out of my subconsciousness onto raw clay.