Feet sinking into sand. Sticky air. Heat kissing my face and arms. The sound of waves galloping to shore. Foamy fingers; bubbles popping.The call back home. Birds whistling. Palms rustling. Driftwood everywhere. The sharp scent of smoke. Salt and ash on my tongue. And the foul bowels of low tide. I am here, in my body, tasting every sense, one at a time. My phone is untouched in my backpack. There is no podcast playing. There is no book in my hands. It is just me and the ocean, her heartbeat thumping rhythmically with mine. As a collective, we are losing the experience of presence. The devices in our hands...