At the beach a grey-haired old man pulled a boat towards the water, leaving footprints. The sky beyond sat indistinct from the water, both equal shades of grey, the water growing angry as the man advanced to his knees, white-capped waves pushing the boat, dipping and summiting curves of ocean, mists of green water and spray, as the man pulled the vessel along like a leashed dog. The man reached for the opposite side of the boat, and pulled himself in. The oars lay together in the bottom, post-coitus.
The shore thinned as the skipper looked over his shoulder. His breathing came as a smoker’s wheeze while rowing, the houses at the beach growing smaller and the muscles in his arms swelling with blood. The coast became an angry line no more than an inch tall, a crevasse in the sea and air. His was the only boat on the water, and it carried reflections, casting across the waves.