Here, the wind carries salt, like a blaring truck carries exhaust fumes.
It sticks to your skin; tacky — dry and somehow wet at the same time.
If I licked my hand in the sprawling metropolitan forest, it would taste of diesel residue and the artificial scent enhancers pumped from the nearest Krispy Kreams.
Here, it tastes like penguin piss and seaweed, blown fresh on the Antarctic wind.
Writers wax tales of the raging oceans, but reading can not compare when your eyebrows are caked and your hands are damp and the soles of your feet are dry and cracked,
and the nagging breeze makes your eyes water with salty tears.