Flesh, too much, from taut and toned to sag and flab, from scaly leather to scorched pink to sun-virginal white. Men in skimpy swimwear who should know better. Ditto women in bikinis. A man bobbing and weaving to photograph a tanned, flabby, thirty-five-going-on-forty-five woman in a black, gold-spangled bikini striking model poses quasi Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition (leaning forward hands on knees, then on tiptoe with arms stretched wide – look at me! – then absurdly and precariously on one leg) all the time with a fixed and desperate smile, comical and grotesque and ridiculous and so, so sad. The morning beach like a freshly groomed ski trail after being mysteriously dragged overnight. A seventy-something man, skin like polished rosewood, thatch of white hair, thick white sideburns, paunch and jowls, tripping along the waters edge in tiny red Speedos. Self-righteous strutting look-at-me beach walkers all jutting elbows and arms pumping at the carefully correct angle. A middle-aged man with beach cart and beach umbrella and beach mat and beach chair and carefully wrapped picnic sitting alone all afternoon. Snowy egrets, reddish egrets, sandpipers, turnstones picking along the waters edge disregarding people. Terns dipping and kamikaze-ing into inches of water. Pelicans cruising effortlessly. Sunsets like evensong.