Sun baked flesh, freshly oiled, a burnt offering to the gods. Coconut flavored incense wafts in the shimmering August heat. Topless on a terry cloth towel, face down she sleeps while my speedo stirs. Gentle breeze caresses my face tossing my hair like seaweed, long locks tangled beyond beachcombing. The ocean mumbles its endless song, echoed through the shells of its regurgitation. Bare feet are buried in the deeper chill of the sand, flip flops flopped nearby, with one flip Straw hat covers my brew, insulating my buzz, and the wet canvas chair keeps me cool. There is a scent in the air, found nowhere else in the world, a salty tang only realized at seaside, one of the finest spices of life. I rise to go lie on the edge of the sea, to let its power move me, rolling me over and over with it's undulations, a bit of fleshly driftwood, caught up in the demonstration of how insignificant I really am, but nevertheless happy.