Twilight Waves and the Gift of Now

Twilight draped the sand in pinks and blues,

and the sea, warm as an old secret,

welcomed bare feet with a whisper.

Children charged the waves like warriors unarmed,

hoodies heavy with salt, laughter ringing against the tide.

🌊

The wind was a whip,

but joy outshouted the chill,

each splash a sermon,

each stumble a psalm.

🌊

How foolish we are,

waiting for perfect weather,

for weekends unbroken,

for some tomorrow that never arrives.

Perfection is a myth,

but presence?

presence is divine.

🌊

One hour in the waves

for three on the road.

A poor bargain to the careful man,

a priceless one to those who know

that memories are minted in madness,

not managed by schedules.

🌊

The sky closed like an eyelid,

and we carried the sea on our skin

to the salt of hot chips,

to songs shouted half in tune,

to the holy weariness of joy.

🌊

This is life:

not someday,

but now.

🌊

So climb the fallen tree,

skim the stone,

kick the wave,

run until your lungs are fire.

We are children of earth and air,

and this one wild chance

is the only one (probably).

🌊

Do not wait.

Do not waste.

Live like the tide.

Restless, reckless,

and entirely alive.

🌊

The sky was bleeding out its last light when we reached the beach. Mablethorpe at twilight—wind sharp, waves restless, sand already cooling into shadow. The kind of evening most people dismiss with a shake of the head: too late, too chilly, too much hassle with the kids. But we went anyway. Because sometimes the forge of memory is not found in planning, but in reckless spontaneity.

The water shocked me with its warmth, as though the sea itself had been hiding a secret from the wind. The boys splashed straight in—hoodies still on, shoes tossed somewhere, shrieking like wildlings finally released from their chains. Every kick of water, every laugh, every stumble was a reminder: this is life. Not the calendar dates. Not the appointments. This. Cold sand. Salt spray. Twilight waves.

The boys became warriors of the tide, kicking foam as if to wage war against the very sea. Naruto and Marvel hoodies—bright banners of their childhood tribes—clung wet to their skin. They didn’t care. Children never do. They throw themselves into joy with the kind of abandon we adults have forgotten. Somewhere between bills, schedules, and what’s for dinner, we traded our birthright of play for the leash of responsibility.

And yet—watching them run, I remembered. The tide does not care about your deadlines. The clouds do not pause for your permission. Nature whispers the same lesson again and again: joy is waiting, if you’d only stop waiting for perfection to arrive first.

We do this, don’t we? We hold out for the “perfect weekend,” the “perfect weather,” the “perfect mood.” We wait until the stars align, until there’s no work tomorrow, until we feel rested. But perfect is a liar. It never comes. Life is not stitched together by perfect days—it is hammered into shape by the messy, half-mad, wonderful ones we seize with both hands.

So we seized it. We gave ourselves to the waves until the sun died into gold and grey, then trudged back, clothes soaked, hair plastered, skin tingling. We ate fish and chips with salt still drying on our faces, laughing at nothing, at everything. The car ride home was a raucous mess of loud music, awful singing, snack wrappers flying, and the kind of tired that feels holy. We rolled in after 11pm, exhausted but victorious. One hour of chaos for three hours on the road. Was it worth it? Absolutely. We forged a memory, etched deep, that will outlast all the forgettable evenings of sitting at home.

Here’s the truth: our lives are nothing more than a chain of moments. Most slip away unmarked. A handful burn eternal. And we never know which will be which, until they happen.

I look at my son and nephew in these photos—grins wide, eyes lit with fire—and I see gods in small form. Not the marble gods of myth, but real ones: beings of mud and laughter, salt water and light. Beings of the earth. Children of the divine spark. And they remind me of something we adults desperately need to remember: we don’t get another shot at this (probably).

This one life, this one chance to splash, to wrestle, to run barefoot into the waves at dusk—it’s the only one we’re promised. Waiting is cowardice. Action is worship. The world is our temple, and play is our prayer.

So take it from me, from them, from the sea itself: stop waiting. Skim stones across a lake until your arm aches. Swing from fallen trees. Let yourself be a fool in the waves. Wrestle your children in the grass. Get drenched, get muddy, get tired, and laugh until your lungs burn.

We are not meant to be prisoners of convenience. We are meant to be alive.

And being alive is a wild, messy, wonderful thing.

Seize it. Right now.

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You can see all the photos and videos from last night’s adventure over at Facebook 😊

If you liked this merging of journal, poetry, and adventure, please consider subscribing to my vocal. I plan to post lots more like this in the coming weeks and months, and would love to share these moments with you.