I jump into the waves, body surf them into the shore. It’s glorious. Down the beach is a seething throng of humanity. Police officers stand by on horseback. Huge black geldings, occasionally stomping their shod feet impatiently. I come out of the ocean and wring my hair into the sand.

I read for a while, and then I hear the drumming start. I pack up my bag and am heading for the bike rack when I realize that I actually have nowhere to be.

I turn around and walk towards the crowd. I breathe in the drifting marijuana smoke, look at all of the people. My hair tousled and wavy, lank down my back. My black romper and my red sunglasses, my black sandals dangling from my right hand. I am invisible.

I continue into the heart of the drum circle. I move into the space where people dance, and I join them. The drumming resonates inside my chest. I move my hips and raise my arms, and my feet are bare in the sand. I look around at all of the beauty that exists here.

The music is made by humans of all ages, shapes, and colours. The music comes from authentic traditional instruments as well as improvised buckets and empty bottles. Everyone is smiling.

The drumming ebbs and flows like the tide. It builds and builds and quickens and people start to shout and cheer. The energy is infectious. The drumming pulses through me, and I'm so happy. The plunge into the cold ocean, the drumming against my arching ribs, a shy smile to an interesting man.

How my days are divided. My working hours sitting in an air-conditioned office, meeting about projects, creating spreadsheets, drafting designs, my hair tied up in a tidy bun. By night, I dance on the sand in the setting sun, wild and free, my romper falling from my shoulders and sand stuck to my legs.