With the excitement of a child on a snow day, I arrived at Herring Point in pursuit of the forecasted waves. Walking down the path, a man laughed, saying, “Higher, higher!“ as I rolled up my jeans before stepping onto the beach. I entered into a war zone: the beach and its Amish onlookers were losing, badly. Attempting to peer over the oceanic troops was futile; their gargantuan shoulders walled off the hope of anything beyond where they stood. This was their territory now. And so, seeking safety and solitude, I headed south on the outskirts of the shore. While I trudged along, a rogue wave stretched over the sand and up my shins as that laughing man splashed across my mind. Finally, I found a place to nest with my notebook, away from all of the cameras spying over the great dune.
I sat watching the waves act like an army of brothers; they push past each other, as if mom were sitting on the shore, ringing the dinner bell. In one bite, their white water would swallow the distant jetty and every inch of the meal that was once dry sand. As I sat sheltered by the grassy dunes, a buck and his does stopped to stare; their frightened gaze at me mirroring mine toward the sea. After we soaked in our respective views for a little while longer, they left, and I followed, listening to a sound that could only be matched by a fleet of tanks thundering off into the distance.