My Khe Beach stretches out like an endless ribbon of pale sand, framed by mountains that loom off to the left like sentinels watching over the shoreline. The water is alive with color—fishing boats bobbing and spinning in every direction, their bright paint chipping from years of use, yet still beautiful against the gray of the sea. Bars spill onto the beach with plastic chairs and cold beers, the kind of places where time drifts slower, where nobody really cares if you’re a local or a lost foreigner looking for a place to sit.
Today the sun refused to play along. A low ceiling of clouds muted the colors, flattened the light. But there’s a kind of charm in that too—when the beach isn’t selling you postcards, it shows you something a little more real. I rented a chair, stretched out under the dull sky, listened to the rhythm of waves punching the shore, and let myself fade into it. There’s peace in simply existing here, whether or not the weather feels like cooperating.
Later, I wandered the length of the beach, feet dragging lines in the sand, before ducking into a small spot for Indian food. A plate of curry, a cold drink, the salty air still clinging to my skin—it was one of those quiet, unassuming days that doesn’t try too hard but ends up perfect anyway.
