Green Dreams at Sunset
There's this wild phenomenon I’ve been dying to witness—like a rare gem that only appears when the universe decides you’re worthy. It’s called the green flash, this almost mythical burst of emerald light that allegedly flares up right as the sun dips below the ocean’s edge. I first heard about it years ago, and since then, it's felt like my personal quest—like some noble knight off to find the Holy Grail, but instead, it's just me and a stubborn horizon line I’m staring down as if I can make magic happen through sheer willpower.
And here’s the irony. I’m a mountain person through and through. Give me peaks, give me ridges, give me the pure rush of high-altitude air and the ache of trekking up a never-ending switchback. That’s where I’m at home. There’s no mystery in mountains—they just are, unapologetically, magnificently—and I love them for that. But then, I found out about the green flash. And suddenly, I’m willing to trade in my trekking poles for a chance at this elusive blink of color, something I’ve only ever heard about in hushed tones, as if the moment itself is sacred.
But let’s be real: how is it that this green flash is so elusive? It's like a wink from nature, something you could blink and miss entirely, a flash so fast that if you’re even a second late, it's gone. Just like that. You’re either blessed with it, or you get nothing but a perfectly ordinary sunset, while everyone else around you is none the wiser, completely oblivious to your heartbreak. It feels almost personal, like the ocean is teasing me. And I can’t help but think the universe is having a bit of fun at my expense, giving me all the beautiful sunsets in the world but refusing to toss in that tiny green gem of light.
Believe me, I’ve tried. Every time I’m by the ocean, I’m there, squinting at the horizon like a kid watching their balloon float further and further out of reach. Meanwhile, everyone else on the beach is there for a different reason. They’re relaxed, lying back on their towels, sipping drinks, laughing in that carefree way people do when they aren’t obsessed with capturing the sun’s final, millisecond glow. And then there’s me, staring with laser focus as the sun dips lower, lower… only for it to disappear without so much as a hint of green. It’s the ultimate cosmic tease.
And that’s what makes it funny. I could have all the sunsets in the world in some of the most beautiful places imaginable, but I’m laser-focused on that one-second miracle that might never happen. The mountains, with all their steady, grounded splendor, would never do this to me. They’re solid, honest. I get peaks and valleys. I get snow-capped summits and the thrill of the climb. But the ocean? The sun? Oh, they’ve got secrets, and they know exactly how to keep them just out of reach.
So, I’m left in this funny, infuriating love-hate dynamic with the green flash, this oceanic promise of beauty that always seems to slip away the moment I dare to reach for it. Maybe one day, when I least expect it, that flicker of green will finally appear, right there on the horizon, like a whisper of acknowledgment. Until then, I’ll be the one at the beach with eyes wide open and an ever-so-slightly hopeful smile, waiting for a gift that’s never guaranteed.
