Despcriptive Essay

This was an essay during the observation unit. THe goal was to describe (in detail) our favorite place. Here's my South Beach essay
Anna Knox
A Day on South Beach
The smooth sound of the car cruising over the pavement turns to the crunch of a Goodyear tire on gravel and the car slows. As soon as the car rolls to a stop, I jump out, running into the mossy green forests and down the path to the beach.
It’s not the type of beach that is ever crowded. The Olympic Peninsula isn’t your average vacation spot. There’s little sunshine, lots of rain and New Age shops. The ocean is cold and dangerous. The beach seems to stretch on forever in either direction. The wet sand between the gray ocean and lighter grey sand is shining silver in what little light that filters through the thick coverage of roiling black clouds. Huge driftwood trees lie uprooted on the sand, some of them with trunks so wide that, laying on its side the tree is taller than me, and I have to climb to get over them.
Years of saltwater damage has turned the ancient trees a soft white, and made their bark smooth and soft from years of wear. The trees are tall and they lay along the beach as an archaic reminder of the great forest that once stood. Their roots are like their branches now, because the branches they once had were torn away in the storms that carried them here. I like to try to follow the patterns of the roots as they twist and turn in on each other.
My favorite place to sit is in cradled in the roots tangled arms and to watch the ocean. I am safe and supported in the hard woods, and kept dry from the constant drizzle of cool rain. I run my hands over the smooth wood, enjoying the way it rubs against my hand. I listen to the roaring of the ocean, and to the sounds of the animals that live in the rainforest. Far above me I can hear a gull screaming.
When I walk along the beach I scan the waves for a flash of black head in the water. Sometimes I can hear the seals barking over the roar of the waves, or I can see them basking on the rocky cliffs and mountains that jut from the water. The water is cold when it rushes over my feet, and if I stand still, I can feel the sand I stand on pulled away.
I’ll find anemones among black sharp black rocks. When I place my fingers on the slimy lavender surface, I can feel it gently sucking on my finger, trying to get nutrients from me. I gently pull my finger away and pick up a smooth piece of clouded mint green sea glass. I put the cold sea glass in my sweat shirt pocket, but I can’t stop running my fingers over its once-sharp edges.
The salty smell of the ocean is overpowering here. As I walk back to my family, I can smell the smoke of a driftwood fire. The sand is dotted with bright white pebbles and fragments of shells, and the occasional stark black of volcanic rock cuts against my bare feet. Otherwise the sand is cool and smooth on me feet. I arrive at the campfire and sit on a driftwood log, watching the warm red and yellow flames dance in slight breeze. The fire is warm enough to dry my clothes again, and heat me to the core as well. Sometimes when the wind direction changes, it blows thick white smoke into my face that stings my eyes and chokes me.
The smooth wood of the roasting sticks handle is much harder the soft feeling of driftwood I’ve grown used over the day. I slowly turn my hot dog over the fire while trying to make sure the hot dog is equally blistered on all sides. As soon as it’s done I put it on a bun and start eating while the hot dog is still scorching hot. I haven’t eaten all day and the spicy hot dog hits my stomach just right. It’s a little saltier than usual, but that’s because of the salt on my lips.
I only see the sun for a few minutes as it sinks below the distant silver horizon, painting the dark clouds a glowing orange color, and then it’s dark out except for the glow of the fire. The soft background noises from the forest begin to grow louder as the woods awaken. I find comfort from the strange sounds in the crackling fire, the constant low murmur of the ocean, and the soft patter of the rain on sand. As it rains harder, the fire begins to splutter and die. As I walk back to the car with my family, I can see the moon behind the clouds, lighting them a purple color.
In the car I turn my sea glass over in my hand, my fingers learning it smooth surface. I turn to watch as the beach is slowly swallowed up by the dark forest, and the salty smell is slowly traded for the smell of moss and rain. I close my eyes to call to my mind the image of the bland, gray, beach burned and made brilliant by a blazing sunset.