A winter morning by the waves

It’s 5 in the morning—a chilly winter morning—and I can hear people outside my room shouting excitedly, urging each other to run to the beach. Mind you, the beach is right in front of the hotel, but, well, people, right?

Meanwhile, here I am, half-asleep and disoriented, trying to figure out what day it is and why we’re supposed to head to the beach so early. I mean, come on, we’re on vacation! Can’t we just sleep in?

But then it hits me—I'm with my family. Which means I don’t really have a choice. Family rules, you know? Drag yourself out of bed, even if you’d rather stay under the covers.

Here’s the thing: I’m not a big fan of beaches. Never have been. I don’t know why—they just don’t appeal to me. But my family? They love them. For them, every vacation has to involve a beach. This time, it’s their bright idea to watch the sunrise by the sea. Sure, it’s a nice thought, but waking up early? That’s the real struggle.

Still, I somehow managed to pull myself together, get ready, and step out into the freezing cold. The world outside was eerily quiet, the only sound being the rhythm of the waves crashing on the shore. It was oddly soothing, yet a little unnerving.

Since it was still dark, we stopped by a tea shop across the road, huddling there for warmth while we waited for dawn. About half an hour later, we headed to the beach. To my relief, there weren’t many people around yet. But the icy sea breeze? Let’s just say it was brutal

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While everyone else seemed enthralled by the beach, I did what I do best—scroll through my phone, trying to pass the time. Finally, at 6:15, the sun began its ascent. Slowly, it rose above the horizon, painting the sky with shades of orange and casting its warm glow on the restless waves. For a moment, I forgot the cold and the early morning grumbles.

As I stood there, watching the sun climb higher, I realized how rare it was for me to pause and truly notice these simple moments. Life, with all its noise and chaos, rarely offers such quiet—this unfiltered joy, shared by strangers.

Kids ran into the waves, as if trying to catch the sun itself. Others focused on building sandcastles, their tiny hands working with pure intent. Nearby, a few people strolled along the shore, their faces serene. An old man led children on camel rides, their giggles carried by the breeze.

As I watched, I felt an unexpected sense of peace. The simplicity of it all—people finding joy in little things, their smiles contagious, their happiness shared effortlessly—washed over me. The moment felt pure, serene, almost therapeutic. 

Yes, people can be annoying. But watching them light up over small, fleeting joys reminded me of something profound. That morning, I was surrounded by a calmness I didn’t know I needed. The sunrise wasn’t just a beautiful scene—it was a reminder. A reminder to breathe, to notice, to let go of the noise in my head.