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The beach is a mat of pebbles spreading for two miles in a grand broad arc, Nice's stony embrace of the Mediterranean. The sea fondled the shore with gentle sloshing caresses under a gray early morning sky.
No one was on the beach, save one man in a white t-shirt and brown shorts fishing off the end of a curved, jumbled jetty. I crept out onto the jetty and found a flat rock facing east toward blue shadow mountains whose tops followed the waves of an invisible conductor's baton. A dull red haze hung above the highest and nearest peak, surrounded by painful purple bruises.
Soon a trio of old folks strolled up to the shoreline about 50 yards away to look at the sea before disappearing to the east. A small black crab scuttled about on a nearby tan and black rock. The fisherman silently fished.
Nice's beach boulevard, the Promenade des Anglais, is a wide road line with the beach on one side and a long string of Mediterranean hotels, shops and casinos. The city sweeps along the shore before crawling up the flattest inclines on the impossibly slow-moving mountains behind.
Rouge gauze yielded to a brighter red. Long slinky electric pink lines rippled and shimmied along tiny dancing black peaks of sea as the sun's curved head crept over the sloping horizon, slowly like a shy toddler peaking around a corner. Shy immediately burned into a screaming orange that warned of the hot day to come.
More people suddenly dotted the beach; an old bald man in a white undershirt and blue pants walked to the edge of a nearby concrete pier to watch the sea. He was soon replaced by a young man in sunglasses, a black t-shirt and green capri shorts. The fisherman fished.
The sun imposed itself on the sea and extended itself in a long, bright, slithering gold staff, dancing to the sea's hushed charmer. Beachgoers watched; beachgoers swam. City workers cleaned overflowing trash barrels, the onetime battlefield between hungry seagulls and pigeons. Trucks and cars whooshed along the Promenade. A chainsaw growled in the distance. Walkers and joggers crossed on the sidewalk. The fisherman packed up emptyhanded and went home. Silence gave way to commotion; sleep gave way to life. Nice awoke.
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Kevin
non-member comment
...
Gorgeous. Well written. More puhleeze!