Empty Stretch of Sand

I remember a time when I was young and fragile and inexperienced in the world.  It was winter in south Texas, a time when the wind was constant and cold.  I walked alone along the emptiness of Padre Island, feeling kinship with the isolation of the beach and the crash of sand-laden waves.  The desolation of those dunes and strips of cold, wet sand struck a chord in me, a chord I can still hear.  Memories of the cold sand blown against my face are always fresh when they come to mind.  I felt utterly alone, yet oddly connected to that desolate stretch of beach.