Salt on the Skin

The memory of the sea is never in the eyes; it is in the grit of salt drying on your collarbone. It is the way the air feels thick and heavy, like a damp wool blanket draped over your shoulders after a long day in the sun. I remember the taste of brine on my lips, a sharp, metallic tang that lingers long after the tide has retreated. There is a specific texture to the wind near the water—it pulls at your hair and leaves a fine, chalky dust on your fingertips, a reminder that the earth is constantly crumbling into the blue. We carry these sensations in the hollows of our joints and the creases of our palms, stored away like smooth stones collected in a pocket. When the world feels too loud, I close my eyes and reach for that phantom chill of the spray against my neck. Does the body ever truly leave the places where it has felt most alive?

Marissa Tejada has captured this feeling in her beautiful image titled Stunning Beach. The way the light hits the water reminds me of that exact, bracing salt-spray on my skin. Can you feel the breeze coming off the water as you look at it?