Beach Descriptive Writing

I draw the zip slowly down, and warm light floods the small tent. The day is brilliant, all bright hot sand, the deep tropic green jungle, and the mysterious turbulence of the ocean, crashing down, forming, destroying, and re-forming the beach. Emerging from the tent, I leave behind all my possessions, the measly little collection that it is, mostly tools and fishing gear, and depart into the paradise of the waterfront. The set of the morning rolls in, beating the rocky outcrops, just as they do every morning. Turning my back on the headland I begin the daily ritual of my morning, unchanging as the beach itself, though far paling in age. The sand is already hot, the glare of the sun burning it, most couldn't cope with the heat, but my dried and cracked feet are used to it by now, and my last shoes have long since been lost. The cool water provides my feet some comfort as it approaches and recedes, icily cold, almost more unpleasant than the burning of the sand. A lone boat is visible among the waves, a small yacht, clearly not designed for long voyages. It disappears once again behind another mound of icy water. I love sailing. Or well I used to, before I sacrificed that life. A small plastic bottle crunches under my foot. It, the boat, and my tent the only signs of humanity in this world. That one bottle passes the beach, abusing its beauty. So do I, I suppose, but that doesn't seem so terrible.