Foamy waters smashed against the monolithic cliff wall, beating it relentlessly, though the only proof of its monstrous attack were the sharp, jutting, gray stones shaped like teeth feet away from the concave wall. Salt sprayed like blood from the mighty feud, filling the air with a wet, musty, though comforting, perfume that only beaches could truly copy. A lone red, white, and blue spiraled lighthouse was home there, a beacon of home, of peril, of dreams left on the tide, standing watch over the feud like the ancient Greek Gods on Mount Olympus, to the mortals below.
BRAVA!