The Moon Nearly Full

I was going to take a drive up the West Tisbury Road, but it seemed foolish to pass up the chance of being as close to the ocean as possible, since that is why I have stayed. The moon is nearly full, so when I get to the beach, it is light enough to get out of my car and go take in the beauty of the ocean at night, which is such a fierce, dangerous, untamed beauty. The darkness of the ocean is almost palpable in stark desolation under the pale moon, exuding a faintly sinister sense of danger. The wind pushes me back and I fight to stand firm in the sand so that I can stay and gaze at the churning water. The motion and sound transfix me, and I am almost afraid to turn away, as if the sea would reach up and out and pull me to it, so that I would never leave its violent beauty. There is a certain creepiness to being alone on the beach at night, which is why I want to turn away. As much as I would like to be hypnotized by the black, crashing waves long into the night, it is almost as if I am violating something by being there. As if I am trespassing on nature's most powerful secret. The ocean threatens to mesmerize me, but the wind pushes and pushes against me, urging me to go, telling me I do not belong, that I am not part of this high magic. I turn reluctantly and race down the sand to the man-made safety of my car, forgetting to take care and not get too much sand in my new flip-flops, my shoes suddenly seeming trivial in the surroundings. As I get in my car, I feel both relief and sadness, for nights like this are rare -- I am not always so carefree and daring and the moon cannot always be nearly full.