Not at that hub of idiot tourists, where they photograph the megaliths, squealing about the perfect compositions of the rock formations. Not there, but on the beach. That’s where you see it, on the damp smooth sand. The sand that gives slightly, oozing between your toes and squidging out a map of your sole. When the wind blows you hunker down and watch the top layer of sand rise up and dance.
Sand and wind entwine and snake across the beach, an elemental tango, seductive and sharp. Staying low you spread your arms wide, you throw yourself in their path, tumbling and rolling but they blank you, sweeping past, stinging your eyes when you dare to stare. They couldn’t hold you anyway but there is something that could. The sea would be a willing partner.
From first contact you feel the thrill. You are bold, liberated by the free form nature of the dance. Your nerves tingle as the eager sea rushes to greet you, overfamiliar, kissing you everywhere: behind your knees, between your legs, in your arm pits, under your hair. And now the dance begins in earnest and you must let him lead.
The rhythm is improvised, sometimes three four time, forward and back in the waltzing waves, sometimes a frantic hand jive, rocking and rolling in the seaweed fringes, ultimately a soaring ballet.
The strength of your partner is impressive and frightening, taking your breath away. When the dance ends he must politely escort you from the dance floor and return you to your rightful place, your natural element. You lie draped in a tragic heroic pose on a high flat rock. The tourists gasp and lift their cameras.