Another exercise from Ursula Le Guinn’s Steering the Craft book. This time, to write something gorgeous. To play with the language and not worry about getting too ornate.
Calypso arrived at Bondi as the early morning exercise crowds left for work, while the backpackers were still in their bunks after another night of beers and snogging, before the tourist buses arrived with their loads of camera-waving, matching-tracksuit wearing, sneakers-in-the-sand retirees.
It was a quiet, golden moment, the soft waves washing onto white sand then retreating to the deeper blues of the middle of the bay.
She descended the stairs at the south end, walking barefoot at the top of the wet sand, the edges of the most daring waves tickling her toes.
This wasn’t a purposeful walk, it wasn’t exercise. It was a stolen moment of peace, and she paused a few times to watch the surfers leap and glide across the sparkling waters.
She closed her eyes, raising her face to the kiss of the sun, still gentle at this time, and breathed in the air with its final traces of dawn’s salty chill.
Her path took her past a man, crouched by a surfboard, anchoring it to him with rope and Velcro. He spared her an admiring glance, then focused on the waves. The sea was the lady he’d come to dance with this morning, and Calypso was glad of it.