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.
