Ivana Vasilj

I woke up to the scent of pines, olives, and salt. Morning sounds were so ambiental—little waves barely reaching the rocks, with occasional though rhytmic hubbub of gulls—much as the music my yoga teacher regularly played during the end of the class. I needed a few moments to recollect where was this exactly that I woke up, but that didn't take long. First, I was in a small tent. (I did sleep great. The ground was fairly comfortable, though quite a nice exercise for the back.) Second, those vivid morning notes from the outside were what I loved the most about my beloved Croatian coast.

My tent was facing a rocky and pebbled beach, just a few feet away. At 8 a.m. the beach was still empty.

The best thing about tents is that you're up and on the move immediately after opening your eyes. You don't need comfort—you need a rest from comfort, time freed from comfort and given to experience. But the first thing I wanted was to let the soft yellow light touch my skin. I put on my swim suit and went out.

The breeze was gently cool, mixed with the sunrays' warmth. I walked to the sea, and stepped on my favourite rock. I kept standing there for a few moments, gazing at the brightly lit rows of little houses, distant on the left side of the bay. The town seemed already lively and ready for tourists.

I looked in front of me. The sea was indescribably beautiful—starting from the lovely beige of pebbles, gradually becoming a lovely turquoise, and, continuing the gradient of blue, joined the indigo vastness.

I take a deep breath and plunge into the water. That moment—when my head dives in, when my eyes open to a new world, mute and blue—that's an instant of an overwhelming sensation that I could never relinquish. I say, "Good morning, Earth." And let the moment last.