The Search for Rare Colours – Saylor Perez-Haynes
September 16, 2025
On the Beach everything looks the same, tinted with both the colour of hardcore yearning and the colour of blithe indifference. What you’re searching for though, is a colour so rare the last time you saw it was laying in your mother’s bed, age 6, you shut your eyes so tight you see ornamental patterns you interpret as some kind of secret code. It’s the interpretation that matters. And when you open your eyes? Everything is the colour of revealed secrets.
As far as you can see, miniature palm trees are organized into neat rows and columns, probably farmed, and that cold-hearted artificiality hits you to your core. Oh fuck – something sinister is bubbling up, like black coagulated petroleum from an oil well. You ignore it, it’s time to go down to the water. You hear the music you’re supposed to hear on the Beach. But the cliché is kind of nice, so you soak it up. Ok, now you’re really in it. The sand is warming you in a way that feels like you’re cooking from the inside instead of blowtorched like a salmon. Thank God.
A golden surfer comes up and asks if you want to share his joint, he’s fine as hell and you’re tempted, but you deny, you don’t get high you tell him.
But that’s only partially true, isn’t it? You’re always trying to meditate and write and move in a way that ‘raises your consciousness’, maybe to mimic that glimmer of universal-truth you witnessed at age 6. “Remember the patterns” you mutter to yourself. Fuck, did i just say that out loud? This guy must think i’m a total nut case. Whatever, this place is full of hippie chics anyways. i stand up, dust off, and run down the sand in a way that i hope exudes effortless cool, like a girl who’s just been struck with the primordial desire to ‘splash around.’ Yes, facing the infinite horizon of white sun, the salty water sure feels good. i can hear the voices of everyone i’ve ever met chanting: “the ocean heals.”
i turn around in slow motion to flash my surfer a hollywood smile.
He’s not there. Fuck – wait, oh my god no one’s here. The Beach is totally desolate except for a stray dog barking at me like a warning. Fear. Nope. Something stranger. The ocean retreats but i can’t move, the dog rolls his eyes at me and makes a break for the mainland, it’s everyone for themselves now i guess. i see him shrink and then disappear into the field of miniature palms.
Behind me is a wave so big it seems to touch neptune. Fuck. Everything is purple under water. There’s nothing i can do but ride this one out or drown. It’s always live or die, isn’t it? The eternal question… jesus, what on earth am i getting myself into?
The wave is merciful and releases me to the shore and – ok, i can breathe. i do. Everyone’s back on the sand gleaming and the whole world smells like the all-natural tanning oil sold up and down the Beach. It’s serene. There’s no dog and my surfer is waiting for me with a smile and a coconut. i accept and forget all about the search for rare colours. It feels good to have a friend.