The Loner

A pewter gray sky draped the sparsely populated beachtown on the coast of the North Atlantic. The winter sun managed on occasion to rip a hole in the canopy, and the temperature would slowly begin to rise before its rays were once again rebuffed by thick cloud cover. A seasonably cold sustained wind swept the boardwalk, stores boarded up since Labor Day promising re-opening on the weekends by St. Patty’s Day. Heavily bundled dog walkers and their pooches were the only signs of life on the boards. In a steady, rolling succession, waves pounded the empty beach. Summer, winter — the Old Lady cared not whether there were swimmers, surfers, fishermen. She had assaulted the coast since the dawn of time, attempting to eat away at the sand and stone, and the activities and machinations of man were irrelevant and powerless to distract her from her raison d’etre. A lone figure, motionless and covered by a long dark hooded jacket bracing himself against the elements, hunched over the rail of the boardwalk facing the ocean. Aside from occasionally alternating feet on the lower pipe of the railing, from left to right and then back again, he didn’t move. From the time I spotted and began watching him he seemed deeply absorbed in thought, ignoring even the screaming seagulls that flew close to him.