Limits of Oceans and Seas

The man standing on the edge of the beach said he was there to change the sea. He was standing and staring into the distance when he said it—alone, watching the sunrise, dressed in overalls and a hard hat. The thin and foamy edge of the ocean lapped at the tips of his black sneakers.

“Sure,” we said. “You’re here to change the sea.” We laughed and shook our heads, walking further up the beach. It was empty this early, the sand stretching out, deserted in all directions, curving and arching and hugging the water like a child. The sky seemed sprinkled with blush and powder with wispy clouds strung out like crepe paper. You said it was your favorite time to be at the beach, before the crowds. We spread out our towel, put up our umbrella, and got to work on having fun.

As the day got hotter, the crowds caught up to us—children clutching inner tubes and laughing and crying, parents spreading sun-tan lotion, teenagers with kites and volleyballs, all staking their claim on a tiny piece of beachfront property that used to be ours. I cut up strawberries and skinned kiwis that you had packed for our lunch, and we read and laughed and splashed and tanned.

I packed up our stuff a few hours later while the beach was emptying out. I was watching the ground, trying to avoid stepping on any of the soda cans and cigarette butts that lay scattered, half-buried in the sand. You nudged me and pointed. He was still standing there, the man who came to change the sea, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses that reflected the sun reflecting off the waves.

We stopped for a second, you looking at me, me looking at him, him watching the horizon. He noticed us, turned and waved.

“That’s creepy,” you said. “I hope he’s not here again tomorrow.”

He was there again the next day waving to us, only now he had 14 friends standing in a line, all dressed in overalls, hardhats and sunglasses. They all waved. Some of them had on clipboards, one used a theodolite on a tripod. They turned back to look out at the horizon. The beach was empty for miles in either direction—except for them and us.

“If any of them comes near us, use the knife,” you whispered as we walked up the beach. There was a slight chill in the air.

“You brought a knife?” I said.

“The one we brought for the fruit. To skin the kiwis.” You dug in the basket and held it up.

“You mean the table knife?” I said. Its dull edge and round tip gleamed in the sun.

“If it can skin a kiwi, it can skin a man,” you said and waved it at me menacingly.