On one of those in between gray days, I wanted more than what surrounded me.

My eyes ached for the long lengths of endless beauty stretching out before me.

My mouth yearned for a taste of salty air like sweat on our lips after a hard run.

My ears needed that overpowering sound—a cyclic crashing of waters choreographed by our earth’s dance with the moon.

My heart desired to be alone—for a day, not forever—but long enough to be heard, again.

My hands wanted to feel the flow of sand between my fingers, and my toes agreed, so they begged me to pack my overnight bag into my car.

In the morning, I awoke early.

Kissed my darlings good-bye, and drove away from the sunrise.

I took the back roads, curves winding through the contours of rolling hills covered in grape vines until I followed the road westward to the Pacific.

A solo sojourn to the ocean without a compass, only a crinkled map (no Siri directions—no GPS coordinates, but just an idea of a space where the sky meets the sea). Coffee turning cold. Digital connections ignored. Phone tucked away.

Me. Only me.

Driving toward an unknown, but known destination, I searched for a beach—curve after curve until I saw the sign for a beach at the edge of a bay where waters covered the San Andreas fault.

I parked my car, slipped off my sandals, and ran down the stairs to the beach.

I heard her again—my heart thumping—clearly awakened, as I stood with the ocean caressing my toes. I only needed this feeling, this moment, this sea salty smell of being in an unrequited space, surprisingly called: Heart’s Desire Beach.

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Author: Jes Wright

Editor: Catherine Monkman

Photo: Ekaterina Alexsandrovna /Pixoto