The waves roll into the shore flooding the gaps in the boulders. Lapping the darkened sand and tattered shells. Scooping up small scraps of seaweed and exposing speedy, little, crabs. The birds glide across the tasteless sky. Some pecking the ground for a mid-day snack. The storms in this part of the world are rather brutal and punishing. Their clouds, for those who know what is to arrive. The wind picked up its speed and whipped the grass to flex uncomfortably. The barren tree limbs shook with its energy. 

The storm is more obvious and its wall of dark gray now flooding the landscape, the animals are chattering through the trees to take cover and prepare for the worst.

The tide is now crashing into the shoreline brushing through the little cracks in the rocks. Its dark complexion would frighten any seaman. 

Reverberating through the sky and shooting luminous cracks of light through the clouds to adorn the quivering ground. A simple pattern of a flash then a boom, A flash, and boom. The rain pelted the ground and the branches and trees. Picking up its rate and now the deep, dim water is bashing into the rocky face of the beach.  

At this I walked to the shore, the waves breaking at my knees and soaking the hem of my shorts. 29189 days passed. And I still remember the beach. I still remember the boys that fought and the boys who never went home, the boys who never even landed on the beach.