this is too small

One early morning, you've left home, wandering down to the docks by the ocean. There's no one else around, and only the gentle beat of the waves and your own footsteps break the silence. The sound of your steps resounds off of pavement, then dirt, and finally wood, softly tapping as you move closer to the water. The water is grey in the dim light, and a heavy fog hangs over the surface that diffuses the ever-increasing rays. Occasionally those tiny droplets catch a sunbeam, casting the spectrum against the haze. The boats that line the docks are gently pushed to and fro by the waves, echoing the sound of wood and metal through the still air. You breathe in, taking in that sharp scent of salt.

As a child of the praries, the ocean is a massive and mysterious thing to you. As you look out towards the horizon, there is no end to the water, which is an alien feeling to you. How many people lived and died on that shifting expanse of water, some great and deliberate beast that ebbs and flows, that gives and just as quickly takes away? It's beautiful, yet terrifying. But now, it is calm, allowing itself to be appreciated as it gently asserts its influence on the scene. You have to admit, there isn't really anything else like it. And you are grateful that you have this chance, like so few do from your homeland, to see it.