We walked to the shore the next day. There was a fog out; moisture clung to the air. A bridge pathway of rocks set out from the beach towards a watch-tower some 50 yards from where the water began. You could no longer see the sand from where the pathway ended.
Along the way, I met a fisherman.
"They bitin?"
"Wasat?"
"You catch anything?"
"Not much," he said, opening a small travel cooler and showing me a crumpled smelt fish at the bottom.
"Mind if I take a picture?"
"Go ahead," he told me.
I took up a few minutes of his time trying to understand his salty drawl but eventually gave up and moved on.
The end of the path. We made camp and caught the mist of crashing waves on our faces. I climbed the dubious watchtower. The bars that were its ladder were wet. I wore sneakers that slid and squeaked as I risked my life climbing to the top. Thankfully, I did not plummet to my death. And I believe this shot was worth the risk. The lad on the left is pissing.
When more stragglers showed up, a sing-a-long of The Kinks' "Picture Book" ensued. Strangers followed the music from the shore and sauntered away when they saw we were drunk.
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