That Sea Ache

There’s a certain ache, gentle and deep, that takes hold of those who’ve known the sea in its quiet moments — off-season, wind-blown, and empty.
It’s that sea ache.

It’s not quite nostalgia. Not sadness either. It’s the feeling of something missing but luminous, a calling from far away, like waves you hear when your eyes are closed.

Those who walk the beach in winter know: there’s something sacred in those aimless steps along the shore. The soft foam bubbles, a lone seagull overhead, the salty scent clearing your thoughts.

The ache of the sea always comes when you leave.
When you carry the sand in your shoes, the salt on your skin, and the colours your camera couldn’t catch.
It feels like something stayed behind —
a part of you.

Maybe that’s the truth of the sea: it’s not just a place, but a connection that echoes even at a distance.
And every time you return, it’s still there — vast, faithful, silent, and waiting.
Like a love that never leaves.