On a hot spring day I was in Casablanca. I walked near the side of a bay overlooking the ocean. There was no sandy beach and no safe place for swimming. The water was deep, deep ocean. To my left, the bay jutted out into the water and I couldn't see beyond it. As I stood on the road that ran parallel to the shore, I could see gravelly beach and rocky sandbars directly below me. If I had been so inclined and a whole lot braver, I could have carefully made my way down. There were a few fishermen, covered in ocean spray, standing on the rocks.
A man alone was out on the ocean fishing in a round, black rubber raft. I didn't see a motor or oars. As far as I could see, his only way back to the shore the was the motion of the waves pushing the raft back toward the beach.
For about a mile or more as I looked to the right, the shore was lined with boulders shaped exactly like dominoes that had been stacked and then tipped at an angle by some giant hand.
I walked with my family along the road at night, and it was a quiet time. Enormous, white-crested waves crashed in water so deep it sounded terrifying, It was a sound of great power, as if thunder were rumbling constantly under the sea.
A man alone was out on the ocean fishing in a round, black rubber raft. I didn't see a motor or oars. As far as I could see, his only way back to the shore the was the motion of the waves pushing the raft back toward the beach.
For about a mile or more as I looked to the right, the shore was lined with boulders shaped exactly like dominoes that had been stacked and then tipped at an angle by some giant hand.
I walked with my family along the road at night, and it was a quiet time. Enormous, white-crested waves crashed in water so deep it sounded terrifying, It was a sound of great power, as if thunder were rumbling constantly under the sea.
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