Quotes About Beach

Stephanie and I got married publicly on the beach, in front of friends and family, and the local police shut down the highway for us to cross the street back to my cousin's house. Cars backed up for miles, and everybody in town cheered.

It doesn't matter where I am, what I do, whether I'm in the sauna, whether I'm on the beach, whether I'm with my girl at the spa - man's never hot. It's that simple.

Everybody needs a seashell in her bathroom to remind her the ocean is her home.

On Sunday, something washed up on shore.

It was nearly five before Jake walked in. He was sunburnt, wet, and smelled faintly of fish. Sexy as hell. Don't ask me to explain.

I caught sight of Fraser in a pair of tight black Speedos. Ugh. Did he have a permit to carry that thing in public?

The handwriting in the letter was as even as waves along the beach, row on row of neat curls and dots, perfect pebbles and shells on an ordered shore.

The tantalizing scent transported me to a white, sandy beach lapped by a turquoise sea under a tropical sun. Lime and coconut were the getaway flavors my bakery customers needed in April, tax time.

Watch out for flying coconuts.

They stepped outside to the pristine beauty of Rose Bay, to the endless stretch of white beach and the stark blue of the ocean and the differing greens of the trees, of native gums and palms that formed a backdrop to the two lone boat sheds that sat there. As far as the eye could see, there was not another soul in sight.

I could write songs on the beach, but the interior darkness, we have it all. We have it.

PRAXIS DUVEEN, AT THE age of five, sitting on the beach at Brighton, made a pretty picture for the photographer. Round angel face, yellow curls, puffed sleeves, white socks and little white shoes—one on, one off, while she tried to take a pebble from between her tiny pink toes—delightful! The photographer had hoped to include her elder sister Hypatia in the picture, but that sullen, sallow little girl had refused to appear on the same piece of card as her ill-shod sister.

sómente direi que em duas noites que aqui estivemos surtos, nos não davamos por seguros dos lagartos, baldas, peixes e serpentes que de dia tinhamos visto, porque erão tantos os uivos, os assopros c os roncos, e na praia os rinchos dos cavaltos marinhos, que eu me não atrevo a podêl-o declarar com palavras.

It was cold and windy, scarcely the day to take a walk on that long beach Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken, seabirds in ones or twos. The rackety, icy, offshore wind numbed our faces on one side; disrupted the formation of a lone flight of Canada geese; and blew back the low, inaudible rollers in upright, steely mist.

Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind, Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves, The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach, Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow. Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands, With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves, Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

Cocoa-buttered girls were stretched out on the public beach in apparently random alignments, but maybe if a weather satellite zoomed in on one of those bodies and then zoomed back out, the photos would show the curving beach itself was another woman, a fractal image made up of the particulate sunbathers. All the beaches pressed together might form female landmasses, female continents, female planets and galaxies. No wonder men felt tense.

There is anyway a kind of off-color romance to a deserted seaside town in the winter, your heart's opera scored by the sound of the tide crashing over a stony beach, shushing everything as the waves try to make up their mind whether they're leaving or staying. White waves kissing black stones, shushing all around them. Shhh … shhh.

Esperanza's dark beauty brought on images of moonlit skies, night walks on the beach, olive trees in a gentle breeze. She wore hoop earrings. Her long black hair always had the perfect muss to it. Her sheer white blouse had been fitted by a benevolent deity; it may have been open a button too low but it was all working. The

I sat up. Terese Collins. Imagery flooded in—her Class-B-felony bikini, that private island, the sun-kissed beach, her gaze that could melt teeth, her Class-B-felony bikini. It's worth mentioning the bikini twice.

Seabird tracks scattered about the surf's edge like pine needles after a brisk wind.

She loves the sun and the sea. She is her happiest there.

When I wrote the song, I had the sea near Bombay in mind. We stayed at a hotel by the sea, and the fishermen come up at five in the morning and they were all chanting. And we went on the beach and we got chased by a mad dog - big as a donkey.

Dee Dee Ramone was the one who would go to Rockaway Beach, and he wrote that great song about it. He was the beach boy; he loved getting a tan and stuff, and he would ride the bus down Woodhaven Boulevard to Rockaway.

I wrote large chunks of 'The Impostor' and 'The Good Doctor' on a beach in Goa.