At the first light of dawn, I'd reached the azure sea and golden sand. The water was crystal blue, surging with tiny whitecaps. The sand was so fine that it sank in upon itself, soft and warm like cotton. Far in the distance, where the sea and sky meet, a few small boats floated, silhouetted against the pale blue sky. There were still few tourists, and a few barefoot children played and chased the waves, their laughter carried far on the sea breeze. I also removed my shoes and socks, letting the seawater wash over my feet, its coolness penetrating my heart. The beach was strewn with shells of all colors, some shaped like fans, others like snails. I picked one up and pressed it to my ear, and sure enough, it echoed the hum of the tide.
At noon, the sun grew stronger, and people retreated beneath colorful parasols. I sat alone on the beach, watching the tide ebb and flow, and suddenly realized that compared to the sea, I am but a grain of sand. Yet the sea remains as azure, the sand as golden, as it has been for a thousand years.