It was easy to sit at the beach.
The sea could've been swirling around her toes, if she so wished, she could've been leaping up and jumping over the waves with gay abandon, giggling, squealing with delight as they tickled the hem of her skirt.
Or the sand could've been squelching between her toes, getting stuck in niggling places, to be found later on as she padded barefoot through the house (except that she wouldn't be barefoot, she'd be sandfoot - grains attaching themselves to her skin and not leaving for days - weeks? - on end).
Or she could have been lying, lazy, under a bright sun, not heeding the warnings that everyone gave, ignoring the need for sun lotion - a tan was a better prize, and she was young, she could recover from sunburn, it was a transient state.
She didn't do any of those things - she wasn't certain she ever had done, not consciously. Memories were constructed, not felt. She was just a woman, standing, looking at a sea.
She didn't feel anything here - it probably should've been worrying, but in truth that was a release, a comfort in and of itself. Not to feel.
She didn't forget, but she didn't feel, and that was close enough. She could look back and see facts, not feel guilty, afraid, angry, miserable -
Just events, coming and going, washing in and out.