That morning, when the beach was still empty, the sea was speaking out loud.
It rolled onto the shore as if performing an ancient ritual — loud, yet inevitably solemn. Each wave was a word, silently received by the sand. Breaking against the stone, the word turned into an echo and dissolved above the water like a memory slipping away.
It rolled onto the shore as if performing an ancient ritual — loud, yet inevitably solemn. Each wave was a word, silently received by the sand. Breaking against the stone, the word turned into an echo and dissolved above the water like a memory slipping away.
He was here for the first time and did not know the language of the waves.
This sea, this deserted beach, became a true revelation for people like him — those seeking silent solitude. The waves did not ask where he came from; the sand did not demand a name. They simply carried on their conversation, and he, standing on the shore under the harsh sun, became its accidental witness — no more lasting than the footprints left upon it.
This sea, this deserted beach, became a true revelation for people like him — those seeking silent solitude. The waves did not ask where he came from; the sand did not demand a name. They simply carried on their conversation, and he, standing on the shore under the harsh sun, became its accidental witness — no more lasting than the footprints left upon it.
The sea was telling him a story he didn’t grasp at once. Perhaps they were nothing more than thoughts in his own mind — but isn’t that how all true revelations begin?
And so this surf, this ancient maritime ritual involving only sky, water, and stone, became that very revelation for him. He suddenly remembered the first time he took his wife to the sea: she had been afraid to go in too deep, and always laughed when a wave splashed her with spray.
Solitude is a good thing, he thought — especially in the morning, when the world has not yet woken. But it offers no shelter from the cold of night.
Solitude is a good thing, he thought — especially in the morning, when the world has not yet woken. But it offers no shelter from the cold of night.
The sea continued its endless conversation, and he stood there smiling, feeling something inside let go. Strangely enough, it was precisely this that reminded him: the ability to be alone is a necessary condition for the ability to love.
Thank you for your attention!
p.s. This essay was originally written in my native language, based on memories of my first trip to the Greek island of Lefkada nearly twelve years ago. The English translation is my own, though stylistically refined with the help of an LLM. The final sentence is quoted from Erich Fromm’s The Art of Loving.
p.s. This essay was originally written in my native language, based on memories of my first trip to the Greek island of Lefkada nearly twelve years ago. The English translation is my own, though stylistically refined with the help of an LLM. The final sentence is quoted from Erich Fromm’s The Art of Loving.
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