Quotes About Beach

I've immersed myself in reading more and more of American literature, but no editor has asked me to comment on Jonathan Franzen or Jennifer Egan. It is assumed I'm an expert on writers who need a little less suntan lotion at the beach.

I run on the beach in the mornings. I've also immensely enjoyed CrossFit with Dheepesh Bhatt.

The evening breeze was strong and from the sea; the three ships moored offshore were nudged parallel, and the fires on the beach threw sparks away from the setting sun toward the black Florida cypress swamps. In the raised hut the pirates had built on a sandy rise just inland of the fires, Beth Hurwood peered out at the sky and the sea, and filled her lungs with the cool sea air, and prayed that the breeze would hold until dawn.

For myself, it took only the early discovery of a golden ammonite, glittering on the beach between Lyme and Charmouth, for me to succumb to the seductive thrill of finding unexpected treasure.

Mary Anning and I are hunting fossils on the beach, she her creatures, I my fish. Our eyes are fastened to the sand and rocks as we make our way along the shore at different paces, first one in front, then the other. Mary stops to split open a nodule and find what may be lodged within. I dig through clay, searching for something new and miraculous. We say very little, for we do not need to. We are silent together, each in her own world, knowing the other is just at her back.

So we continued, arm in arm along the beach, talking until at last we had no more to say, like a storm that blows itself out, and our eyes dropped to the ground, where the curies were waiting for us to find them.

On the beach, they took turns burying one another up to their necks in the sand and then chased each other with jellyfish hanging on the ends of sticks. They stood in the ocean as waves gently broke across their legs while they ate cotton candy that held the slight tang of salt water. If told this kind of happiness was something that could be attained by everyone, the Fangs would not have believed it.

turned to gaze seaward at the grounded vessel that had carried them from home to the forlorn beach, the vessel that looked like nothing more than a dying creature, parts of its skeleton already exposed, in the waning day.

they had landed in the Bermudas. To those on the beach who had any knowledge of the island chain at all, the announcement would have been terrible news. The Bermudas were known, as passenger Sylvester Jourdain noted, as "the most dangerous, infortunate, and most forlorn place in the world." Small wonder, then, that they had never been inhabited, as he wrote, "by any Christian or heathen people."3

As she was making her way back up the sand, she sudd[unclear] Mia exclaim, The cookies are gone!" "What?" [unclear]rushed to her. They looked[unclear] the empty package.

Bone-white driftwood maroons on the sand. Dunes wall in the strand. An island offshore is an overturned teacup. The gulls have abandoned the sea for the roof of the Surf Club.

Sakaki and Osaka lying on towels at the beach) ... Osaka: You know them Hemmorrhoids... Sakaki: ...Eh? =-O Osaka: Some folks call 'em "Hemorrhoids", but others call 'em "Roids". Why does the one not have an "H" in it? Which one's right? Sakaki: ...... Osaka: Would it be under "H" or "R" in the dictionary? Sakaki: ...I don't know. =/

Me and Duncan are going down to the beach to skate. I think I'm late." "Ducan and I," she said. Leonardo rolled his eyes. "What. Ever.

They all fell onto the sand, then huddled up beneath the long wings of the hang glider. "Think we could borrow this thing for a little while?" Christina asked. "Think we could all go to jail with your Papa for stealing airplanes?" Alex retorted.

The salt water tingled my feet and made them feel so good all the rest of the day, and just to think, the same water that bathes the shores of China and Japan came clear across the ocean and bathed my feet.

The women's song was always the same, as monotonous as the beating of the waves against the beach: loss, loss. The conch offered them no enchantment. When they put their ear to it, all they heard was the echo of their mourning.

Lying spread-eagled in the silky water, gazing into the sky, only moving my hands and feet slightly to keep afloat, I was looking at the Milky Way stretched like a chiffon scarf across the sky and wondering how many stars it contained. I could hear the voices of the others, laughing and talking on the beach, echoing over the water

fascinating chains full of coloured seaweed, dead pipe-fish, fishing-net corks that looked good enough to eat – like lumps of rich fruit cake – bits of bottle-glass emeried and carved into translucent jewels by the tide and the sand

you reached a small half-moon bay, rimmed with white sands and great piles of dried ribbon-weed that had been thrown up by the winter storms and lay along the beach like large, badly made birds' nests.

shiny ribbon-weed, looking like dark feather boas, anchored to the sand

to bring us a handful of figs from his tree or a few almonds, milky and fresh, which we would crack between the smooth stones on the beach.

It looked immensely sure of itself as it lay there, flamboyant, on the sand, and immensely dangerous, too.

Today at the beach I could feel the men dressing me with their eyes.

Praise the sea; on shore remain.