A beach girl is different from those that just enjoy visiting the sea.

She is the one who has salt water flowing through her veins, tides beneath the bluegreen waves in her eyes and salt upon her skin.

She smells like morning mist and hurricane gales—she is the perfect storm.

“She is made up of depths that the ocean could not fathom.” ~Jessica Katoff

A beach girl isn’t really a girl at all.

Although she is innocent, she is far from simple. She isn’t a grown-up though and rebels against those that try to make her act like one.

She is more than just a woman but not quite a mermaid.

As all great things do, she exists between worlds, sometimes drowning in solitude. She tastes the pulse of the earth with her lips and feels the pull of the moon deep between her sensuous thighs.

To love a beach girl is craving her just as she craves the coast.

It desires her sweet innocence and the intoxicating depths of her sexuality. It knows that you can never just look, and instead need to drink her—even then you’ll continually be left with a thirst. A thirst for which none other will do.

She is the one who breathes the sea, as most would just breathe air. She understands its depths and rejoices in its moods. She loves the calm turquoise seas of Eleuthera as much as the gray rolling waves of a North Atlantic winter storm.

For her she knows nothing but the unconditional. She gives herself to those with the all or nothing essence of the sea. She is ebb to your desires and the flow of your dreams.

To love a beach girl is to accept her as she is, nothing more and certainly not less.

It’s thought provoking and simple, but as complicated and mysterious as the search for Atlantis. It’s the salt upon your fingertips and the smell of water upon your skin.

A beach girl is a vacation for the stressed and overworked, whose hearts feel heavy. Those who have been deprived of romance and poetry, who have all but thought such things didn’t exist. She is the wave washing over you. She is the life force unto which men have written novels about. But she is not to be understood, and not really admired either, but rather just simply enjoyed.

To love a beach girl is to not think, but feel.

It’s closing your eyes and feeling the way the tides of her lips roll across your face and lips.

When she traces her fingertips along your skin she is mapping the depths of the oceans, and all the places she wishes to visit if you let her.

A beach girl has a restless soul and is a Piscean Gypsy; she forever is both fish swimming in opposite directions.

The constant tug and pull of the life she has created versus the sand in her toes and the wind in her hair. Her skin soaks up the brilliant sun like oil into her skin, and she forever seems to smell like sunshine and freedom.

To love a beach girl is to swim in the cerulean sea of your forgotten dreams.

It’s relishing the smell of the world upon her skin and the taste of the wind upon her lips. It’s magic and carefree, free from rules and expectations, because her love always flows limitless, like the sea.

A beach girl needs to come and go as she pleases, but like the tides, she promises to always return.

She has no desire to be bottled and kept on your dresser, for those moments you feel homesick for her. She isn’t to be taken in small doses but instead sunk into, until you’re floating amongst her waves glowing with bioluminescence in the full moonlight.

To love a beach girl is to be willing to plunge to great depths with her.

There’s no need to ever fear her storms or rocky ledges, not because you’re unafraid, but because you’re as skilled a sailor that has ever dared to map her uncharted waters. She is waiting for the moment to show you her secrets as an oyster with a pearl.

A beach girl is the taste of fresh mint and sun—she is as awe inspiring as the midsummer hurricane and as peaceful as a tropical lagoon.

She can’t help but confuse you at times, and though her waves may pound your shores, sometimes they will kiss it as well.

She is a midnight drive to the coast and splashing in tide pools. She is peace and adrenaline.

She is as carefree as sand angels and as rare as cobalt beach glass in your hand.

She is simply the trip of a lifetime, one you’ll never want to return from.

~

Relephant Read: 

Apparently, my Butt is the Issue.

~

Author: Kate Rose

Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock

Photo: courtesy of author