Dear friend， you were right： the smell of fish and foam
     and algae 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 hymns， all I knew the words to： the oldest
     motions tuning up in me. There was a horseshoe crab
     shell， a translucent egg sack， a log of a tired jetty，
     and another， and another. I walked miles， holding
     my suffering deeply and courteously， 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， gulls 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.