The beach

 There’s a quiet fishing beach on the edge of a forgotten coast, one where time seems to gather like driftwood in the corners. The sand is littered with the carcasses of old boats, splintered wood, peeling paint, and rusted nails. They lie there, tilted like forgotten thoughts, heavy with the salt of indecision.


Years ago, a storm tore through the village. Some fishermen, fearing another, never returned to the sea. They dragged their boats up to the dunes “just until it’s safe,” but the days became weeks, and the weeks turned into years. Their boats, once full of purpose, now sag under the weight of what-ifs and maybes. They remain untouched, relics of men who chose caution over risk, waiting for a perfect moment that never arrived.


But beside them, closer to the water, are newer boats—sleek, patched together with hope and effort. These belong to the younger fishermen, or the older ones who remembered what the ocean taught them long ago: that no forecast is ever certain, and no fish is ever caught on land.


These new boats push out into the tide every morning, chasing dreams in the form of fish, knowing full well the sea is unpredictable. Some days they return with nets bursting. Other days, empty. But always, they return with stories. With wisdom. With salt on their skin and wind in their hair.


The beach holds both truths; the fear of the unknown, and the courage to act despite it. But only one set of boats touches the water.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Charles - the Chess Champion (maybe?)

Pyramid of the sun

Three friends