Alone on the beach, a desolate place of privacy and not easy access. There’s something nearby of civilization, a hose on hand to wash clear to salt and sand when ready; a house ramshackle or spectacular somewhere in the hill behind him. And he sits on a long ago wood deck that’s being absorbed back into the elements. He watches where he’s just done battle with the Pacific. Watching to see what he’s missing on shore, what’s lost and found, feeling the connecting in his flesh alive with the pounding he got, with the wind, with the sun.