Entry #1–15:32

I am now going to the beach. It is a twenty minute walk. I am bringing my pen, paper, sketchbook and book. Because I might go into the saltwater, I have decided to wear a pale olive-green swimsuit. Seeing the door, I stuff a washed-out pink towel into my cotton bag.

Entry #1–15:54

The beach is splendid. My way there was quite adventurous: I ducked under a few elderly, British golf players. They shot white, stale balls across the lawn. Just as I ducked under, I pictured squirrels collecting golf balls, not nuts and so I laughed. Possibly though, my laugh was covered by the thrashing waves and so they did not hear.

Entry #2–16:10

I am sitting in a cove on wet sand. The tide is pushing in. Or out? Either way, the sand is damp, not dusty. Under the sun, I see a turquoise. A Turquoise Mineral! my mind goes. My fingers turn the object around. It is the remains of a washed-up washing peg. A Turquoise Plastic. I take out my grass-green sketchbook to commemorate the triste remnant of the washing peg.

Entry #3–16:14

The first page of my sketchbook holds a few hasty lines in sandstone red Faber Castell pencil. Waves are pushing in further every minute and about a minute ago, I moved up to the elevated stone, pushing myself against the cove’s edge. I have also noticed how futile the intended commemoration of the washing peg is: my sketchbook will degrade faster than the peg itself. Meaning, the subject of commemoration would outlive the commemoration itself. That defeats the purpose, I think. Now, I have further concluded that the tide is pushing in, not out. I have decided to depart from the cornered cove.

Entry #5–16:24

I am walking on the edge of the cliffs. If the ocean decides to dump a dinosaur wave at this very instant, I would be flattened against the stone like a pancake. I am awfully aware that any attempts of escape are futile.

Entry #8–16:28

Until now, only the frothing waves’ crust has reached the stone and my feet. As I think about me flat as a pancake against the stone, I run my fingers over the cliffs’ sediments. Stones are stuck together, compressed like stone composts. Time is never in turmoil, I think. It ticks, and it ticks and it ticks — always at the same pace. It is never in a hurry, so why am I? What if I thought of time as sediments? As my life (of course, only metaphorically) being sandwiched between one of those layers. I think that would be lovely! I would see myself in the grand scope of the history and future of sediments. Life composts. Like a circle.

Entry #13 — N.A.

I just took a few moments of reflection, because I saw a lifeless bunny washed up on the beach. And so I have written “N.A.” because for the bunny, time’s ticking has stopped. I wonder, like the turquoise mineral washing peg, where it came from and what its story is? Its ears did not twitch as a wave washed over the bunny. I think of the flat pancake. And then I think of the pancake I had this morning.

Entry #21–16:51

I have given diligent thought to my past entry. Did time’s ticking really stop, for the bunny? Not really, if I think of the stone composts. Those say that time is circular: a layer of stone sediment can only be a layer, because something came before and will come after. And thus — metaphorically — the bunny would be sandwiched in the grand scheme of things. Mathematically, there are infinitely many points on a circle. I decide to declare the stone compost nature’s static painting of the cercle de la vie.

Entry #34–16:54

I see the wooden staircase on the cliffs, leading up to the Marriott hotel. The tide tugs at my skirt: give me space to wash away the day’s markings in the sand! give me space to exhale, it is telling me.

Entry #55–16:57

It has happened. I am drenching in saltwater and smell of algae. Shortly before the wooden staircase, I was washed over (by water): up until my belly, including my cotton bag with my now sandy sketchbook. The man from the Marriot was checking the coast for more ridiculous people like me: walking against cliffs at high-tide. Now, I am on the wooden staircase and look out upon the sediments, the stone and somewhere, the bunny. And the turquoise mineral washing peg. I think they are all flat pancakes now.

Entry #89–17:05

I am sitting on the wooden staircase and admire the ocean and its ocean mist. I think it is as beautiful as a butterfly. And a butterfly is really, really, really beautiful.

Entry #144 — 17:13

In entry #1, I forgot to mention that I have also brought raspberries. They have stained my cotton bag raspberry-red. Now, I taste one and it tastes slightly salty and I hold a sea snail species with a spiralling shell in my right hand (this remained in my bag from yesterday’s walk). Now I am re-reading entry #21, I think of myself in the cercle of life. Like the Fibonacci spiral on the gastropod I am holding, it is (theoretically) infinite. I think of the attempted commemoration of the washing peg and the limp bunny’s ears, as the saltwater dries on my turquoise skirt. Lastly, I think of the infinite entries to come.

I wrote this today after a most memorable walk on the beach in Portugal. These entries recount that walk. Parts are true, others are not. One thing is sure: the turquoise washing peg and the dead bunny are not made up. In case it is confusing, the numbers of the entries, are the Fibonacci sequence.

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Beach Walk: A Butterfly Is Really, Really, Really Beautiful was originally published in Scribe on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.