Cold Comforts

Beyond the wave-sacked pebbles lie the pockmarked dunes, sea-wind swept heaps, burrowed by the claws of scaly thrashers. Here they huddle, the working class, flogging grim pleasures, wolfing eggy sandwiches, dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers as a chill summer drizzles on. I am a brine-spattered small fry, a boyhood caught in a swirl and flounder, bare feet skimming the slimy kelp, stalking an ankle tugging surf. Mother, her demeanor soggy and sagging at last, pleads to be led back to the creaking camper. Father smokes a plug of leathery shag, grunts upright, walks toward the sea, looks to see God knows what, then turns to drag me away, from our holiday day.