Washington Waves

The water in Washington has a way of meeting you halfway.

In this moment, the shore is a simple line of sand and scattered seaweed, and the waves come in with a steady, unbothered rhythm. The surface shifts from pale, glassy green near the beach to a deeper blue farther out, like the day is gently deciding what mood it wants to keep. Across the water, the land sits low and quiet, softened by distance. Above it all, the sky is bright and wide, patched with light clouds that look as if they were placed there without urgency.

I like how places like this make room for thinking. Not the loud kind that demands answers, but the slow kind that just notices: the hiss of foam as it thins on the sand, the way the next wave erases the last wave’s edge, the small bits the tide returns and takes back again.

“Washington Waves” feels like the right name for it, because it isn’t only about motion. It’s about repetition that doesn’t get old. It’s about standing still long enough to feel how the world keeps moving without you, and how comforting that can be.

If you’re near the water, let yourself linger. Let the shoreline do what it does best—keep time, quietly.