Long Summer

They're a long way from the city now, well, it certainly feels like it anyway. They've left behind the expectant feeling of the morning exodus. Roads filled with cars filled with people heading away, all heading to somewhere they'd rather be. The roads are like the silhouette of a tree in winter, thick and solid close to the base, and slowly thinning out as all of the branches head their separate ways, find their own little private space closer to the sun.

But the expectation has left them by this point in the journey, there are few other cars on the road here, the road has turned to gravel, and it winds enough to slow the pace of the driving. It feels like they've already arrived. This part isn't the last of the journey it’s the start of the holiday. Sometimes the road winds itself around a point to a bay scattered with little buildings. Tents are speckled on lawns and families enjoying the sun populate front decks. Boats of all sizes dot the gulf and highlight the distance back to the city, just shimmering in the distance, above the sheen of water.

The car comes over the crest of the last hill and the bay opens up in front of them, a long white sand horseshoe pointing north. There isn't a whole lot at the bay, one or two houses on the periphery, some buildings at the heart of the camping ground, and a sprinkling of tents in a chain along the green strip on the edge of the sand. It's like a picture in front of them, static and pretty, frozen summer imagery. There are other people at the camping ground, but not too many. It's busy enough to feel festive but empty enough to feel remote. And it is remote, the road only goes on for another kilometer or so, then that's it, it stops at the next bay. 

They're only here for a week but after one day it already feels like that much time has passed. It feels like the tent has been standing for at least that long, and the drive up to the bay feels like a lifetime away now that the sun is setting for their first night. On their second morning they wake up to the warmth of sun shining into a tent. The early morning summer sun is white and all encompassing, it's the kind of light that feels eternal. They walk from the tent, down the gentle slope of the beach, and into the water for a morning swim. The actions feel slow, a sleepy ritual. When they're back from the cool salty wake-up they lie on their towels. Out towards the horizon they notice something odd. 

There's a wall of water in the distance, a wave but bigger than they've ever seen. It looks almost still; it could be coming closer, maybe. They both lie back on their towels for a moment, the moment stretches on as their limbs stretch out and absorb the heat that's bouncing back up off the sand, coming from all angles. Nothing is happening, even the sun seems to be shining more slowly. The wave on the horizon has moved closer, its speed slowing. They lie on the beach and feel the summer on their skin, the kind of summer feeling that lasts forever in their childhood memories. The wave slows but keeps moving towards them, growing bigger, inching towards them, an imminent disaster. They don’t feel panicked. It feels to them like the tsunami will never come, not in this ever slowing, comfortable, eternal summer.