The Weight of the Tide

When I was seven, my uncle took me to the coast in a heavy, rusted sedan that smelled of damp wool and old tobacco. He drove right onto the sand, the tires sinking slightly, making a sound like grinding teeth. I remember the terror of it—the idea that the ocean, which I knew to be a hungry, moving thing, might decide to reach up and pull us into its throat. I sat perfectly still, watching the water retreat, convinced that if I made a sound, the balance would tip. We were intruders on a floor that belonged to the moon. As an adult, I see that we spend our lives trying to stake claims on places that are fundamentally temporary. We build our tracks, we park our machines, and we wait for the tide to tell us when our time is up. Do we ever truly own the ground we stand on, or are we just borrowing it until the salt returns?

Photographer Diana Ivanova has captured this fleeting stillness in her image titled To Ocean. It reminds me that even the heaviest things are only guests on the shore. Does the sand remember the weight of the wheels once the water has smoothed it over?