Rowan Marie Abbott
I have a complicated relationship with the beach.
On one hand, I’m obsessed with it. I have a list of addresses on my phone titled “For Your Regularly Scheduled Mental Breakdowns”—they’re all boardwalks.
There’s something comforting about that vastness. I can wade into the water and let it swallow me up. Nothing but ocean for miles and miles; and I get to be a small little dot buried within it. Within that mass, stressing over deadlines or arguments feels trivial.
And the waves? Oh my god, the waves.
I’m treading water and then, suddenly, this wall of sheer force rises up from nowhere and comes crashing down on me. I’m sent tumbling through, smashing into the sand and seaweed, and spat onto shore coughing up saltwater. If serenity isn’t enough to take me out of my own head, the beach is more than happy to try violence instead.
And it works! In that moment, I’m not a buttoned-up professional. I’m a stupid mammal covered in flesh and hair. I’m susceptible to cold and wet and salt and inertia. And I’m alive, I’m so alive. As soon as I catch my breath, I run back, returning to the ocean just as quickly as it spat me out. The ocean makes an unabashed masochist out of me.












