The Coast Of Maine
It’s a bright sunny evening and you’re winding your way down the coast with top down. It’s low tide and you smell the pungency of the kelp drying in the sun and you can almost taste the salt in the air. It’s August but the leaves have already started to turn vibrant shades of reds, oranges, and golds. As you make a turn there’s a gap in the trees and you pull off the road. You get out of the car and make your way down a steep narrow granite gravel trail edged with small shrubs stunted by the harsh beatings of the winter waves and weather. When you reach the bottom you can feel the misty salty spray from the driving waves and see the shore covered with grayish-black granite boulders eroded by the relentless waves, with bleach white barnacles indicating the depth of high tide. You look out at the frigid undulating waves of the Northern Atlantic dotted with two-toned lobster pot buoys bobbing in the ocean. A lobster boat with scratched and peeling paint from years of abuse from the unforgiving ocean, maneuvers around his buoys as if he were driving a jet-ski, followed by a flock of screeching seagulls. He pulls up a trap and pulls out the unwanted spider crabs covered with slimy green algae, as he throws them back into the frigid water a few of the seagulls swoop down and grab the crabs out of mid-air. You look away from the chaos of the boat and see the fiery sky as the sun sets on the horizon of the rolling waves stained red.
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