At first glance, it looked like a corpse.
The shape, the color, the way it lay half-buried in wet sand — everything screamed: don’t get closer.
My heart was racing, and for a few seconds I was sure I’d stumbled onto something truly horrific.
It wasn’t a creature at all, but an old, discarded cable — likely submarine or industrial — that time and seawater had turned into something unsettlingly lifelike.
The sun had scorched its outer shell, waves had gnawed at its sides, and the torn layers exposed a woven inner structure that looked disturbingly like muscle and skin.
Standing there, I realized how easily our minds rush to the most dramatic explanation, especially when fear walks a few steps ahead of logic.
What I found on that beach wasn’t a body, but a quiet testimony to everything we throw into the ocean and then try to forget.
That cable had once carried power or data; now it carried a warning.
Next time I walk along the shore, I’ll still look for shells and driftwood — but I’ll also be wondering what other “bodies” the tide is waiting to reveal.
