Moving on …
June 7, 2009
Wake up with the sun on my face and sand stuck to my legs. I lie there for a few minutes, reach for the bottle of water in the side of my bag, take a swig – watch a seagull tearing meat from a fish head washed up on the tide – then I get up. There is an art to sleeping on the beach that involves ritual. I shake the sand out of my blanket, fold it in two, roll it up, shove it in my bag, brush my hair and slip on my sandals then walk along the line of driftwood, which follows the curve of the beach, making out I’m looking for something amongst the flotsam and jetsam. No-one gives me a second glance. Tonight I will find a different place to sleep. I am moving on.
