Over the recent spring break, I went to the beach. The weather was cold and windy, and the afternoon I went down to the beach, I only had to share the view of the Gulf with a bunch of windswept seagulls who didn’t seem overjoyed with life at that moment. The wind blew steadily across the sand, and I could feel tiny grains of it on my face like little needles. My mouth felt gritty and dry. Whitecaps dotted the ocean just off the beach and surf was at times over five feet high. Only a few oddballs like me were keeping the seagulls company. The sky was a leaden gray color, if you call that a color–more of an anti-color if anything. The air was moist, and either there was some spray in the air or there was a little mist falling from that dull sky. Two guys sold firewood from the back of a metal container, but they were as solitary as I was. Random fishermen stood tending their lines, turning their faces from the wind. I looked at my tracks in the sand as if I were the last person on earth. On a day when the beach should have been full of spring breakers, sun, warmth, and sand, it was a lonely, cold place with only the usual suspects–fisherman and seagulls. I felt like a solitary shipwreck survivor who has not only lost his ship, but his way in life as well. The wind blew, a seagull complained, a jeep with some errant young people went buy without making a sound. I left to go look for something to quench my thirst.