I can hear the beach - a constant rush of water not the rhythm of waves breaking. Seagulls squawk, people call to their dog - 'Rusty, Rusty' and laugh at his antics. Cars go past somewhere in the distance. A motor boat put-puts to the shore. The rattle of Geronimo running past.
The sun is setting. Colours reflect off the buildings in the city making them look like a cheap plastic hologram toy, something that would amuse a child for five minutes.
Awk, Awk - seagullls.
The air smells of salt and dead briny fish. The sand is murky and squelchy, not fine and grainy like real beach sand. But mud with the grittiness of shells. Geronimo comes past to show me a fish skeleton she has found. I am not impressed. I try to distract her but she goes back for another sniff. The train toots as it passes.
A soft breeze ripples through cheesecloth sleeves and tickles sarong fringe. It isn't cold but will be soon.
Puddles on the sand turn salmon pink, the sand around them in hard ridges.