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Despondent waves slog ashore under the white-noise sky. Wind-driven sand skitters behind the be-sneakered feet of those few chapped-cheek shingle walkers hardy enough to brave the October beach. There is no sound but wind and wave; the entire world is damp and chill, and smells of rotten-sweet seaweed and dead crabs.
The days, it seems, have all become the same size. Small, ungainly hours shoved awkwardly into a cheap pink seashore motel, where the luggage was never unpacked.
And this is how it is. Soon the shore will be left behind and the car turned toward home and a hot shower with thick clean towels. Once home, the days will not be ruled by tides or the opening and closing of seaside eateries. In a few weeks that last blustery half-hour on the beach will have turned sunny and warm, the crabs alive and scuttling along a tidy golden shore, and the cheery waves tickling shrimp-pink toes.
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