The Beaches Inside Me: A Journey through Waves, Stones, and Silence

The Beaches Inside Me:

A Journey through Waves, Stones, and Silence

There’s something deeply personal about the sea. Each beach, like a different shore of the soul, offers its own kind of dialogue with time, memory, and emotion. For me, the beaches I have encountered aren’t just stretches of sand or rocky coasts; they are intimate landscapes within, quiet places where thoughts rise like waves, crash with the same force, and retreat only to return again. 

Beaches are like nature’s therapy rooms. They come in all moods -wild and windy, calm and serene, bustling with people, or hidden and untouched. The feel of sand under your feet, the sound of waves, the scent of salt and fish – it’s all such a multisensory experience, right?

Some people, like me go to beaches for solitude - to watch the horizon and feel small in a good way. Others go for fun: playing volleyball, building sandcastles, swimming, or chasing waves.

Lengthy sandy beaches, which I love, where time feels like it stretches out just as endlessly as the shoreline. There’s something meditative about those places, isn’t there? You walk and walk, and it’s just you, the sky, the sand, and the ever-speaking sea. But walking on the sand, it’s a tough job. It needs more energy. 

Beaches invite you to have a dialogue with the waves. Not just watch them – they make you feel like you are part of a rhythm, a pulse. The waves never get tired of arriving, breaking, retreating, and returning again. It’s like the sea listens first, then replies softly or fiercely, depending on her mood. Standing or sitting on the beach sand with your hands fold over the knees, you can have started a good, open conversation with the waters.

Sometimes, it feels like the waves are whispering forgotten stories – ancient, salty tales of ships, storms, secrets, and sorrow. The sea takes, but never keeps – those who drown are cast ashore, as the old tale whispers. Other times, it’s like they’re laughing, frothing, and bubbling like they’ve heard a joke the world forgot to remember.

Have you ever had that feeling where the beach makes you speak aloud without realizing? Words, thoughts, maybe even confessions that you wouldn’t share anywhere else? The sea accepts them all. No judgement. No interruption. In her vast, unbroken silence, we find our solace. Stand in front of it and feel. 

And there’s something about that long, smooth stretch of sand… how it holds our footprints for a little while, then erases them gently – as if saying, “Go on, let go, you don’t have to carry everything.” That’s powerful. 

In my memory, I crossed so many beaches, where the waves seemed to speak just to me. Whether it's Chennai's Marina, Kerala's Chavakkad beach, Tiruchendur, Pondicherry, or the wind-bitten shores of Saltburn and Whitby in the UK – the sea remains the same. Timeless. Patient. Watching. It does not ask where you come from or what sorrow you carry. It only opens itself wide, to hold your calm or grief without question.

Chennai's Marina Beach: The Heartbeat of a City

Marina – she’s grand and sprawling, full of history, politics, poetry. That beach is not just sand and sea; it’s a living archive, isn’t it? Statues standing sentinel, lovers sitting close with stories tucked between them, vendors calling out with murukku and sundal, kids flying kites into the sticky Chennai wind. The waves there don’t crash – they hustle, full of city rhythm. You hear them mingling with the pulse of buses, the heartbeat of a restless metropolis. And yet, in the middle of that crowd, if you walk far enough along the shore, there comes a moment of quiet, that belongs to our hearts. The city’s noise fades, and the sea begins her own speech—steady, assuring.

In its expansive shores, I hear the pulse of life. I used to think the beach was never quiet, never still. But that’s not true. It lives – yes – but only part of the day. Mornings and evenings, it bustles with people, vendors, voices, laughter. But come noon, and into the lazy stretch of afternoon – it falls silent. The sand begins to burn. The sea draws back a little. The air thickens with heat. Do you ever walk then? I did. That strange, empty hour. If you wear slippers, you can burn your feet. The heat climbs through the sole. And still, I walked.

Marina, within me, is where I sit, where I observe the world and myself – a moment of pause where the sand underfoot becomes a canvas for thoughts, and the salty air carries whispers of the mind. 

Pondicherry Beach: Stones and Poetry

Then, there is Pondicherry — where thoughts drift like sea breeze, and even stones seem softened by time and light, and rest as if they’ve always belonged there.

I went back long time ago, more than five years from now. The streets hadn’t changed much. The sea still whispered against the rocks, and the yellow walls still held the sun like memory and so did the cafés.

The beach here is alive, but with a different kind of energy. It is not just the vibrant sounds of the ocean and the world around it, but also the silent echoes of Bharathiar’s verses. The beach, lined with stones, and the sea are more than just physical; they hold a quiet defiance, a restless energy that endures. The walking Gandhi statue stands quietly by the shore, a reminder of that spirit.

Its more contemplative and livelier than other beaches. The rocky shoreline breaks the waves with a rhythmic force. Early mornings are hushed, with soft golden light spilling over the colonial facades nearby, while evenings draw people into gentle conversations and solitary walks along the pavements. The sea here roar – but it breathes, steady and deep, like a meditative presence also. 

Chavakkad Beach, Kerala: The Quiet Whisper of Earth

In stark contrast to Marina’s urban rush, Chavakkad Beach holds a quieter place, physically. Here, the sea does not roar; it whispers. There is no rush in the waves – no urgency to leave or return. It surprised me a lot. Calm blue sea in front of me, calling – not with words, but with the hush of waves, with the pull of something ancient and familiar. It doesn’t ask questions, it simply waits – for feet to sink into wet sand, for hearts to unburden quietly. 

The air smells of fish, fish, and fish – an earthy scent that belongs to its soil. That unmistakable fish scent that never really leaves the breeze. It’s raw, real, deeply tied to life and survival. By chance, we parked the car in the fishing area’s parking lot. No wonder, I can almost smell the beach just by its name.

I don’t need to engage with Chavakkad; No conversations. I stood still; I simply need to be with it. The waves come softly, barely touching the shore, and I find a quiet reconciliation within their pace. They ask nothing of me but to witness, to accept, and to remember. In their retreat, they leave behind not just foam, but a feeling of grounding—a reminder of the enduring strength found in silence.

Chavakkad doesn’t try to be romantic or touristy. It’s everyday ocean—the one that feeds, not just fascinates. The boats lined up like sleeping sea creatures, the fishermen with sun-browned faces and strong hands thrusting fish into ice freezers, slicing and preparing them for the market. It’s a place where the ocean embodies the fisherfolk – their work, faith, and heritage.

Chavakkad, by nature, feels more introverted. Less in tides, less in waves, as I feel. A beach that listens more than it speaks. The waves there aren’t in a hurry. They come in like old friends who know you don’t need noise. Just presence. Even the sea seems more meditative, holding back its roar, offering instead a sense of anchored calm. The kind of place where the heart doesn't leap—it settles.

And the absence of dramatic tides makes it feel safe. Not a performance, but a presence. Stillness, not as silence, but as something held. Time loosens. Thought forgets its way. 

Tiruchendur Seashore: The Beauty of Devotion

Tiruchendur, with its sacred temple sitting so near the ocean, represents the delicate balance between the sacred and the worldly. 

I was here when I was a girl, offering prayers with my family. It is a place where spirituality meets the physical world, where the sea becomes not just a force of nature, but a force of belief. I cannot go beyond that point. But I have written some fictional parts of the beach – those close to my heart, or the parts of my mind I miss and associate with the beach – in my novel in English (yet to be published), ‘Veins of Memory’ (‘Aravi’ in Tamil, published by Kalachuvadu Publishers). 

The beach here is beautiful, visually breathtaking, but it is crowded, or so I felt. Its silence often interrupted by the rustle of rituals, the soft murmurs of devotees, and their mumblings about family affairs. The hush of waves here is often drowned out by chants, chatter, and footsteps. The sacred overwhelms the serene. If you want to sit and simply be, it rarely happens – the space doesn’t quite allow for that kind of slowness.

There happens a special kind of ache in places like that—where beauty exists but isn’t entirely accessible. You see the grace but can’t touch it in the way your spirit craves. Like seeing a peaceful lake with ripples stirred constantly by others’ stones. Sometime in future, I hope to glimpse a new horizon over this beach.

Saltburn Beach, UK: The Silent Reflection of Thought

I’ve travelled far now – from the humid warmth of Marina, the earthy soul of Chavakkad, and the graced shores of Tiruchendur, to the windswept elegance of the UK coast: Saltburn. The name itself seems to utter the sea, doesn’t it?

Saltburn Beach in the United Kingdom is the opposite of these Indian sea shores in many ways. It is cold, windy, and carries a kind of deep silence that demands no action. We must barricade ourselves from the chill, and once fully wrapped, our thoughts start to roam, freed from the usual distractions. 

Saltburn is like poetry etched in grey and blue. It is a long beach. The waves are steady, unyielding, but there is no urgency in them. The black soil spreading here and there on Saltburn Beach is a striking contrast to the usual golden sands of the beach. Its dark hue adds a moody beauty to the beach, especially when wet, making Saltburn's shore feel both raw and elemental. 

The stones, scattered across the beachfront and often used for sitting, are prickly and unforgiving underfoot. My feet throbbed for two more days after walking over them. But beyond that section, the beach opens up into a vast expanse of soft sand and water, smooth and inviting. I let the wind and sea fill my lungs with stillness. 

That beach has a dignified quiet, a kind of melancholic grace. The pier reaching out like a question into the North Sea, the cliffs watching like old storytellers, the cold that kisses your skin with a touch of steel and memory. It’s not a beach that demands your joy – it allows your stillness. Your solitude. Your depth. I stood there for a long time, letting the water wet my feet. I tasted it — not as salty as our Indian seas. Or perhaps the cold had numbed the salt, hiding it beneath its chill. 

There’s something about walking along Saltburn when it’s cloudy, maybe drizzling, the wind wrapping around your coat, the sea turning silver and moody - it’s like you’re inside a novel. A quiet protagonist with thoughts bigger than words. It rained, actually, while we were there. As usual, we all ran to take shelter near the shop. It’s quite a mystery, isn’t it? We love the rain, yet we run from getting drenched. And there, the rain seemed to drench itself in chill — it pierced the skin. Save the skin!

The tramway, a lifeline between the cliffs and the beach, stands in quiet defiance, its iron tracks gleaming faintly in the misty sea breeze. It’s a striking contrast—the manmade structure bracing against the fury of nature. A line of small children, waiting patiently for the tram to descend. One little one tugs at her teacher’s hand, whispering a request for ice cream. The teacher smiles gently, presses a finger to her lips, and hushes her with a soft 'Shhh' – the kind that wraps silence in care. 

After the rain, I walked along the watery piers, where the sea meets weathered wood in quiet rhythm. There’s a strange beauty in feeling the sea’s cool embrace beneath your feet. Why weren’t we born of the sea?

Whitby Beach, UK: The Pathways to the Horizon

Whitby is a different kind of invitation. While other beaches pull you into their moods, their tides, and their rhythms, Whitby welcomes you with open arms and long, winding piers. The space here feels open and vast, stretching out into the horizon, leaving you with a sense of quiet isolation. It’s as if the land and sea part at Whitby, creating a place where you are neither here nor there, but somewhere in between – a threshold, a meeting point.

Those long, thin stretches of wood and iron piers stand within the sea. When I walk along them, the world behind me fades. All that remains is the sound of the sea gulls over my head, the endless whistle of the wind, and the wide ocean ahead. The lighthouses, east and west, perched high above, cast a silent gaze over the water, a sentinel watching, guiding, but saying nothing. It is the stillness of Whitby that I love. There are no sudden changes, no chaotic waves crashing, no urgent whispers in the wind. Just the quiet hum of nature and the occasional call of the sea gulls. I photographed the seagulls, simply resting – perhaps after a flight, a meal, or who knows what else. 

Inside me, Whitby Beach feels like a personal journey. It is a place for walking, thinking, and breathing deeply. The long pier stretches like a metaphor for life’s own path – sometimes narrow, sometimes open, but always leading somewhere, even if that somewhere is just a deeper understanding of the self.

The ocean here feels expansive, almost eternal. And yet, walking along the pier, I realize it is not the ocean that pulls me, it’s the path itself, the act of walking through time while the world seems to stand still. I pass the lighthouse, a symbol of guidance, of constant presence, and feel as if I, too, am searching for something like the lighthouse – though I’m not quite sure what. Maybe it’s clarity, or maybe it’s just the feeling of the journey itself.

The Beaches Inside Me

In each of these beaches, I have found something of myself – whether it be the lively pulse of Marina, the quiet acceptance of Chavakkad, the spiritual yearning at Tiruchendur, the rocky feeling at Pondicherry, the silent reflection of Saltburn, or the long, open paths of Whitby. They are all pieces of me, woven together like the ebb and flow of the sea, a retreat and return.

In each wave, I see something of my own longing, my own stillness, my own questions. And just like the tides, they return to me—sometimes with force, sometimes with gentleness, but always, always, they are a part of me.

I’ve travelled across very different coasts. It says something about my inner world – that it’s as wide and layered as the oceans themselves.

I felt that I can be one who observes, admires, but never claims a sea. Like standing before a sacred altar and bowing in silence. You love the sea the way one might love an ancient tree – not for what it gives, but for what it simply is.

Each time I reached to pluck a flower, my granddaughter would stop me - 'Let it be on the plant,' she’d say. In her simple plea was a truth I had long forgotten. Beauty need not be possessed, but to be cherished. Some things are meant to be admired where they belong, untouched, unclaimed. It carries a deep awareness – of boundaries, of reverence. 

You’re not there to conquer the sea, not even to leave a trace. Just to be with it, to listen to it breathe, like a silent companionship where presence is enough.

The beaches are not shouting for attention. It is simply being, offering a place to walk, to think, and to become part of a much bigger unwritten story. And I, sitting on the shore, letting the breeze speak, the salt air coat the skin, watching the horizon where sky folds into sea, it feels like I’m not just visiting the beach. I’m part of its story, silently written into its pages.

Seagulls in Whitby Beach