Just Me and the Irish Sea

Fridays are the best days; no class, no obligations, no crowds. On this particular Friday I walked to Whiterock Beach to be alone and clear my head. Good choice.
When I reached the beach I approached it like some do a temple. I removed my shoes and socks and daintily stepped onto the cool sand. I sat in the middle of the beach, turned off my phone, took out my pen and moleskine and took a deep breath. I knew my surroundings were worth writing down, but was overwhelmed with no idea of where to begin.
Then I had an idea. I would play a game, which I named The Senses Game, and focus on one sense at a time to describe what was around me. Here's what I wrote down (taste was n/a, mostly because there was so much else to take in, and I became cold and left):
Sound - A paradox, these waves. How powerful they are; push, push, crash. But they're actually big softies; hush, shh, shh, fizz.
Smell - Sea...not salty, not heavy. I struggle with placing it. When I inhale through my nostrils they are cleared. Refreshed. (I am ill, complete with a stuffy nose.)
A side note, since I thought the first beach visitors were notable - Humans are silly. They flit around just like the birds. I enjoy watching the older woman run from the waves like a child. She laughs, I smile. I think she enjoys it too.
Feel - Grains between my toes as I dig them into the sand. How can individual grains feel so different than when I run my fingers along the surface? I still invite the grains to make a home in every crease of my jeans, under my finger nails. The smooth texture of this shriveled seaweed. I'm curious to know how, when I rip it to further explore, its innards are still wet. The warmth on my face granted by a groggy sun and in the depths of my pockets for my feelers. In the name of research I tested the water. The froth was a teaser, my barefeet just got a moment of the frigid wet before I played the role of child and danced back to my camp in the dry sand grains.
Sight - A man only wearing shorts, smiling, arms out, strolling the surf as I amuse the idea of him taking a dip. I mutter, "he's crazy", pause and finish with, "we all are". The divots and cast shadows on the sand. It reminds me of my father telling me that it's all about lighting. Beyond the man amoung the waves are sleepy mountain tops met by streaks of cloud. Jutting rocks that don't give in to pushy waves. Flittering white specks in the sky that are the gulls when sun hits their wings. The itself...I think of John Lennon's description of his mother's eyes in "my" song, I know what color her eyes were.

I left the beach feeling centered and in good spirits. I told myself that if ever again I lose sight, touch, control of my day, to find the nearest tranquility and take time to know what I'm living in. I have often said "words cannot express" in reference to the quality of this life, but my little game might bring me closer to finding the right words.