I'm not a preacher, and I'm certainly not a good example, but I have my own feelings about God. I'm kind of a nature guy. My cathedral is forests, or the prairies, or the beach.
I'm always looking for that place, you know, where there's no rednecks, that place where people get along, and I never find it. I went to Australia, right, and I thought Australia was gonna be a groovy, surfnoid, smoke-a-joint wombat, you know? 'G'day mate!' 'No worries!' And it's like Arkansas with a beach. It's a whole country with a 'No Fat Chicks' sticker on it.
I would like a partner but I can see myself without a marriage. I'd love to have someone to sit and talk with and walk on the beach with at 80.
Waihi Beach. It's a lovely beach, and we're right on the shore and I get a lot of pleasure out of waking up in the morning and hearing the waves roll in.
Mom and I were walking onteh beach and I was explaining to her how I wantd to "GET OVER all my INSECURITIES" and "La La. . . La. . ". . . . and she looked at me and said "Sabrina, does anyone realy feel good about themselves for MORE than 5 minutes?" We both laughed. I was releaved to know she felt that way becuae she seems SO graceful, calm and beautiful, which she is. . but also full of so much more. Auestions, doubts + WONDER. I think that if we can aim for just five minutes a day of complete acceptance of ourselves, we are doing very well!
Besides great climates and lovely beaches, California and Greece share a fondness for dysfunctional politics and feckless budgeting.
Gentlemen, we are being killed on the beaches. Lets go inland and be killed.
I try to dream about peaceful things, beaches, that is what I cannot understand. Why are they chasing me?
Preston Sturges, who wrote The Palm Beach Story, said screenplay writing is architecture. That's why it's so rare to read one that's any good.
The best drink I've ever had was a mojito in St. Barts at Nikki Beach. That drink changed my life.
My memories of my childhood are wonderful memories. I feel that I was privileged because I grew up in a beautiful city. It is Catania, on the eastern coast of Sicily. It's a place filled with sun, close to the beach.
Land! An island! We devoured it greedily with our eyes and woke the others, who tumbled out drowsily and stared in all directions as if they thought our bow was about to run on to a beach. Screaming seabirds formed a bridge across the sky in the direction of the distant island, which stood out sharper against the horizon as the red background widened and turned gold with the approach of the sun and the full daylight.
I spent the day today at Brighton Beach, walking around. It's a RussianJewish neighborhood. And I was in a store and I saw a board game called 'Let My People Go,' based on the Jews' exodus from Egypt. I was like, 'Too soon.
There's something to be said for useless days. You know, those days when you have nothing to do and all day to do it. . . Trust me, a beach and a bottomless drink may not cure the world's problems but it can really get your head in the right place. Those are my favorite kind of days.
My dream is to have a house on the beach, even just a little shack somewhere so I can wake up, have coffee, look at dolphins, be quiet and breathe the air.
You never know how many friends you have until you rent a house on the beach.
It's really intimidating to go on the beach in a bikini.
Sundown. The distressed sloop, its mainmast shattered by lightning, its sails ripped by the winds of the open sea, drifted into the small, quiet beach of a private island in the Lesser Antilles
That narrow stretch of sand knows nothing in the world better than it does the white waves that whip it , caress it , collapse on to it. The white foam knows nothing better than those sands which wait for it , rise to it and suck it in. but what do the waves know of the massed, hot, still sands of the desert just twenty , no , ten feet beyond the scalloped edge ? And what does the beach knows of depths, the cold, the currents just there, where-do you see it? - Where the water turns a deeper blue.
There was something I needed to say. “Sorry. About before. ” Fang shot a sideways glance at me, his eyes dark and inscrutable, as always. He looked back out at the water. I didn’t expect any more acknowledgment than that. Fang never- “You almost gave me a heart attack,” he said quietly. “When I saw you, and all that blood. . . ” He threw a small rock as hard as he could down the beach. “I’m sorry. ” “Don’t do it again,” he said. I swallowed hard. “I won’t. ” Something changed right then, but I didn’t know what.