Dear friend， you were right： the smell of fish and foam¹

    and algae² makes one green smell together. It clears

    my head. It empties me enough to fit down in my own

    skin for a while， singleminded as a surfer. The first

    day here， there was nobody， from one distance

    to the other. Rain rose from the waves like steam，

    dark lifted off the dark. All I could think of

    were hymns³， all I knew the words to： the oldest

    motions tuning⁴ up in me. There was a horseshoe crab⁵

    shell， a translucent⁶ egg sack， a log of a tired jetty，

    and another， and another. I walked miles， holding

    my suffering deeply and courteously⁷， as if I were holding

    a package for somebody else who would come back

    like sunlight. In the morning， the boardwalk opened

    wide and white with sun， gulls⁸ on one leg in the slicks.

    Cold waves， cold air， and people out in heavy coats，

    arm in arm along the sheen of waves. A single boy

    in shorts rode his skimboard out thigh-high， making

    intricate moves across the March ice-water. I thought

    he must be painfully cold， but， I hear you say， he had

    all the world emptied， to practice his smooth stand.

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