It was winter clip. The air current was crisp yet refreshingThe coastline was wholly bare. The Grey stone beach lead up to a Grey stone drop face. There was no flora to be seen. no mark of life and no manner up the perpendicular stone face. The sweep of unwelcoming Grey stretched far in forepart and far behind. like an ocean of stone. The laguna interrupted what was otherwise a thick line of white-gold sand. Behind the sand was an eternal concrete jungle of flats and hotels stretching every bit far as the oculus could see. On any summer twenty-four hours the sand would be wholly obscured by holiday departers in their multicoloured board trunkss and Bikini. sunbathing and acquiring burnt. But this was the off season. and the beach was bathed in the first visible radiation of morning. How beautiful it must hold been a hundred old ages ago. The coastline had no beaches. The thick jungle met the ocean straight. sometimes with a little stony talus. Largely the overhanging subdivisions of the trees hid the rocks from sight.
From a boat it appeared to be an impenetrable wall of green. stretching every bit far as the oculus could see in any way and so wildly curved that the bays could conceal any figure of the plagiarists. The coastline was superb in the forenoon Sun with it’s calcareous white thread of drops. jagged and folded. shriveling into the distance. Below the drops were beaches of stones made rough by the cirripeds upon them. Each beach was divided by wooden breakwaters that stretched out to recognize the coming moving ridges. some like gap-toothed kids. were losing boards. In the distance a tongue stretched out into the sea and upon the terminal was a beacon. lonely and abandoned. The foaming crests of the crashing moving ridges were the lone sound other than the call of the chumps.