A relaxing day on the beach

Why would you choose any b apiece other than Galveston? The Galveston Island beach is two-eyed violetful and serene. The list of natural luxuries this haven provides is endless and as I sit here relaxed, I soak them whole in. In peace at the bound of the water, the myriad cares of the world behind me, the warming rays of the cheerfulness bathe me in their wonder and glory.The world around me drowns out by the sounds of the wind whispering its song a foresightful the coast, and the distant thunder of the shop rolling forward in its never ending struggle to while away the shore.I lose myself in the mist of these beautiful environment, and when I close my eye I am hesitant to open them for fear I aptitude find myself awoke from the most amazing dream. When I do open my eyes, and throw up their gaze outward upon the beautiful blue expanse before me, I contemplate the contrasts of the world in which I am submerged.The warm tally of sun upon my face and shoulders, the cooling se nsations of the water washing over my feet with each surge in the tide, and the sounds of amiable laughter from the seagulls that dance endlessly into the snaps acerbic mixed with the surf roaring in its own baritone voice.Both lack their voice to be heard over the other and yet, in the end, corporate trust into an opera of nature, singing me further into reverie in my chair at the edge of the water.Even the sound of Galveston Island Beach patrollers driving along on their ATVs was average faint enough to blend in with the background sound of the surroundings and still manage to make feel safe and secure. I stick with as the surf crashes on the rocks near the shore and the seagulls fly in swirling poetic patterns.This is paradise in its barest form. Who could ask for more? The Beach blue Could I have chosen a worst vacation recognize?Surrounding me in, what to the casual observer can exclusively be set forth as, a competition for the right to be heard by all are the sounds o f the tourists with their stereos blasting a nuance of different styles of music, there unceasing questioning of their spouses or friends as to the hue of their spit out, and their children screeching incessantly about ownership of some insignificant trinket.The beach is smothered with cigarette butts and reverse cans in the sand, deserted remnants of plastic toys, probably left behind long enough for the children who broke them to grow to adulthood and bring children of their own to uprise their little feet on the same jagged fragments that dig in my heels. The ignored and unforgiving terrain of the beach is at least bearable and it pales in analogy to devastating scents emitting from its tenants.I realize cutting off my nose might be a good idea when down the coast emerges a breeze that, while eagerly anticipated as a source of recess and refreshment from the glaring sun of the day, is now reviled for the scent of what can only be described as rotting seaweed being carried along in its embrace. The smell is so retched, I can taste it.The sand scorched by the sun, and battered by the multitudes of sun worshippers and their children, has become as hot ash from a fire scattered about waiting to greet the soles of the feet of the next brave soul willing to try and reach the edge of the water.If the heat from the sands surface were not enough, the rays from the sun presses against my skin like an endless supply of needles prickling at my flesh, and I hold up not close my eyes for fear the lids might burn calorie-free off dually, Im blinded by this ball of hellfire in the sky. Kill me now.