The Train to the Sea

Start writing...I had never taken the long train to the coast before. People always said it was too slow, too old, and not worth the trip. But I didn’t care. That morning, when the sky was pale blue and the air smelled like fresh bread from the bakery near my street, I packed a small bag and decided to go.

The train arrived with a squeal of metal wheels and a puff of smoke that reminded me of a campfire. It looked tired, like it had carried too many travelers in its life. The paint was chipped, and the seats were faded. But when I stepped on, I felt a strange excitement in my chest, as if the train itself whispered, Welcome, wanderer.

I chose a seat by the window. The cushion was rough, but the view was worth it. As the train began to move, I saw the city slip away—gray buildings, shops with bright signs, children chasing a ball down an alley. Soon, the busy streets gave way to fields of gold wheat, stretching far and wide. The stalks swayed gently, almost like they were waving goodbye.

Across from me sat an old man with kind eyes. He wore a cap that looked older than the train itself. In his lap, he carried a small wooden box with carvings of birds on it. For the first hour, we didn’t speak. We just listened to the steady rhythm of the wheels—clack-clack, clack-clack—like a heartbeat.

Finally, he looked up and said, “First time?”

I nodded.

“The train teaches patience,” he said with a smile. “You’ll see things you’d miss otherwise.”

He was right. Out the window, I saw hills painted in shades of green and brown, dotted with sheep like tiny clouds resting on the earth. I saw rivers that sparkled under the sun, twisting like silver ribbons. I even saw a boy standing alone near a broken fence, holding a red kite that refused to fly. For a moment, I wanted to get off and help him, but the train kept moving forward, and soon he disappeared from sight.

At the next stop, a young woman climbed aboard. She wore headphones and carried a sketchbook. She sat beside me and started to draw almost at once, her pencil dancing quickly over the page. I tried not to stare, but I was curious. After a while, she tilted the book toward me. It was a sketch of the boy with the red kite.

“You saw him too?” I asked.

She nodded. “I draw the things I don’t want to forget.”

That simple answer stayed with me. Maybe the journey wasn’t just about reaching the sea. Maybe it was about collecting moments that would otherwise fade.

Hours passed. The old man told us stories about his childhood—how he used to fish near the coast, how he built kites with his brother, how he once carved the same birds that decorated his wooden box. The young woman kept sketching—fields, rivers, clouds, even the wrinkled smile of the ticket collector who came through the aisle. I just listened, watched, and breathed.

Finally, the air began to change. It grew salty, damp, filled with the promise of the sea. The train slowed, groaned, and came to its last stop. When I stepped down onto the platform, I heard it—the endless roar of waves crashing against rocks. The sound was wild but steady, like the earth’s own music.

We walked together, the three of us, until we stood at the edge of the shore. The sea stretched out, endless and alive, glittering under the afternoon sun. Seagulls wheeled overhead, calling out like old friends.

The old man opened his wooden box. Inside was a small paper boat, neatly folded. He placed it on the water, and we watched as the waves carried it away, farther and farther, until it was just a white speck against the blue.

The young woman sat on a rock and began to draw the scene. I simply closed my eyes and let the wind touch my face.

The train had been slow, yes. But it had given me a gift: a reminder that life is not only about reaching the destination. It’s about noticing the red kite that won’t fly, the stories hidden in a wooden box, and the people you meet along the way.

And in that moment, with the sea before me and the journey behind me, I felt full.