It was so overcast that there was no sun, so no sunset. Yes, of course there was a sunset, it just wasn’t the usual flashy dramatic show of fiery color that has been so prevalent. It was subtle and set off only a small horizontal band of brightness that faded quickly, then left its reflections dimly bouncing over the surfaces of water and watery sand.
It was cool and damp and the cool went into my bones in that heavy way that seems counter to it being sixty degrees — certainly not cold, really, but still weighty. The kind that sinks into your skin, under your jacket, under your shirt, bypassing layers of thermal protection as if to tisk, tisk at you for thinking you could be immune to its effects. I wonder what it’s like on the beach at 4 am. It gets down to forty around here in what passes for winter. Sixty and sunless felt cold enough; I don’t need to check out 4 am.
All of that made the sky and the water and the very low tide, sheen-of-water sand glimmer, faintly as a pale silvery baby blue, as if they were all one surface, a surface of flowing damp and cool and tantalizing shimmer. The sky and water and sand lost their boundaries, lost their separateness, lost their linear distinction. And it wasn’t really foggy, just blurred. The coasts have their fogs, and I look forward to them. This was perhaps pre-fog. If I were the early-rising sort, I’d be up tomorrow to see if the dawn were fuzzed by fog. (And to see what it’s like if it’s forty degrees!) But someone else will have to do the early morning blog and fog, for I am still a creature of the later hours.