Things The Sea Never Said To The Shore

Understanding is not always the destination of everything we experience.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

That morning, I stood again at Pantai Berkas. The place was still the same. The shoreline stretched as long as I remembered and the sea breeze carried that familiar salty scent.

Not far from there, my father rests. His grave lies on slightly higher ground, facing the ocean. From there, the beach opens wide. The waves come and go, the sky feels open, and the horizon fades softly in the distance.

Around it grow leaves called kalanchoe laciniata, known as “daun sedingin” planted as a quiet message to keep the place cool and calm.

Bengkulu always returns through its sea. Pantai Panjang with its white sand and grilled corn. Pantai Tapak Paderi, beautiful from above Benteng Marlborough with its old cannons. I once stood there.

And Pantai Jakat, where people swim in the sea, renting big black tubes like donuts. That was where I almost drowned. I still remember my hand waving, filled with fear.

I still remember running toward the sea, slipping off my sandals mid-step. My feet hit the cold sand and I kept going until the water finally met me. I let both of my feet sink in, feeling the cold slowly rise.

I wanted to stay there, letting the water stay a little longer. But the sea never stays still. It comes in, then pulls back again, taking away what it had just given. My feet were covered for a moment, then felt light again as the water moved away.

That was when I realized the sea never really chooses to return to the shore. It just moves — pulled, then released. And the shore, as always, accepts what comes, never knowing when it will be left again.

I started paying attention to the waves. They were never the same. Sometimes they came slowly, almost like they were unsure. Sometimes they hit without warning. The sea keeps changing, keeps moving. Maybe there really is nothing there that can be fully understood.

From the outside, the sea always looks like that. Moving, shifting, sometimes loud, sometimes calm. Like someone who knows when to come closer, and when to leave without explanation. It can feel warm at one moment, then cold the next, without ever really saying what changed.

There is always a part of it that never reaches the surface.

The shore asked the sea, “What do you keep to yourself? I stand here, but I can never reach your depth. Down there, is there still a living light you never show anyone?”

“And even if I tried to go that deep, would I only end up confused? Because not every depth can be answered? Not everything hidden is meant to be reached?”

I went back to the shore and dried my wet feet.

The shore didn’t move. It just stayed where it was, used to being a place where everything comes and goes. The sand was still cold, slightly wet where the water had just touched it. Every wave that pulled back left a thin trace, then slowly erased itself as if nothing had ever been there.

From the surface, the shore looks simple. Not much seems to happen. But it always receives without ever looking like it is holding anything. Every touch from the sea, whether gentle or rough.

The things the sea never says to the shore are maybe because the shore always stands in the same place, so it assumes the sea always comes the same way. The shore sees the sea only from the surface, from how it touches and then leaves again. But what the shore calls “leaving” is not a choice. It is just part of a movement the sea can never stop. The sea never rejects the shore. It just cannot become whole in front of it.

That is how it is meant to be. Because some things are never created to fully understand each other. Only to exist together, while still leaving a distance that never really disappears.

And I went back to the land, while the sea remained the sea. The shore stayed where it was, holding everything that once came, without ever asking it to stay.

Cheers.