I’m on the beach, Emerald Island, North Carolina and it’s just before dawn. There’s good and great and sometimes bad in any vacation, but this time, this place is the greatest. If I plan correctly I can spend the first few moments of my day or the last few minutes of my night conferring with the waves as they crash and roll and run about under an indigo colored, sun-less sky.
It’s not about the sun rise, really. The sun is the climax of the event, and there is joy and beauty and triumph and relief when it rises. But it’s those moments before that I savor. When the sky is making it’s transition from pitch-black night to bright-blue day, when all is silent save for the wind and the surf and the worm-getting early birds, where the ocean stretches between infinity and my toes half-buried in the sleeping sand and the clouds drift along at whatever pace that suits them, that’s the when and the where I want to be. To bask in the event of a moment in transition. Waiting for the sun. There’s potent magic there.