the beachcomber

He died in his sleep.

He has tried to cross for years, but just lately, he had seemed to give up the ghost.  He seemed to be at some kind of peace with life.   He kept his hair long, blond, sometimes tangled because he worked ceaselessly when he found a project that he felt was going ‘somewhere’.  A new design in glass… a new piece of furniture from telephone wire spools… a new contraption that will water sections of grass… a new set of waves coming in.

He drown from his aspiration.  He went peaceably.  No pain, he spent too long too much too often in physical pain… he pain was over.  Pipeline was coming up, Peter Gunn played for the beachcomber, once – last time.   His home is Wiamea.  His song is something by the Indigo Girls and his progress is the relentlessness of the waves… he’s gone Home.

This salty taste isn’t the sea, darln’… I miss you, beachcomber.

Swing by now and then and let me know how fine the waves are?


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