Rebecca Allen ’25
Staff Writer
Waves break and
Overhead gulls cry,
Feasting on sandwiches.
They litter the greasy
Cement parking lot
Facing the beach.
In the horizon,
Cargo ships.
I imagine them
As the contemporary
Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria.
With their dull lights illuminating
The water around them,
They are merely black dots
If you squint hard enough.
In the water,
A lone surfer
Rides a wave
Just barely escaping
Its collapse,
Gliding eternally into
The horizon.
The water is
Briny and opaque,
There are no shells here
Only tar spots and
Dissolving driftwood.
Image Source: Trip Advisor
