The ocean studies us carefully.
It has trouble understanding why we'd rather worship a glass screen or have conversations it renders meaningless than marvel at its regal beauty in silence, like we have for thousands of years.
Should it lose interest in us, the obnoxious bright umbrellas that pierce through its gritty surface and the empty cans of beer floating in melted ice, that boredom could swell into rage.
We'd be there, under this enormous wave as it furiously hurls itself over our heads.
The balmy tranquility would vanish, and we'd find ourselves frozen with panic in the heart of summer. But we wouldn't be destroyed; simply reclaimed.
At any given time, we're moments from becoming driftwood.