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The whooshing rhythmic whistle of the grey pelicans wings were the only accompaniment to the shy lap of clear blue green on the powder pale sand.
This, I thought to myself , is the fantasy you have in midwinter bellingham, when you are driving to work or back home in the dark sleet, trying to see your own headlights. You dream about sitting with your hot coffee on a sand beach, then taking three barefoot steps in warm yielding sand right into the glassy Sea that is everymans theraputic immersion baptism. Relaxation is complete.

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