Beach Buoy left work at 3-09pm.
He only works ten minutes away.
It was a clear day.
As he approached Seaton Carew it became clear
that it wasn't clear.
Mist was hugging the seaside like it was a long lost friend.
He went to collect Stubborn Dog and make a coffee to go.
They went.
They arrived at the beach car park at 3-38 pm.
There was a strong breeze from the north, a breeze laden with water droplets.
A sea fret filled the Bay.
Saltburn had gone.
The Wind Turbines were barely visible, looking like faint pencil sketches of a planned idea.
A small friendly Dog called Bella ran up to Beach Buoy wanting to say hello.
Beach Buoy and Stubborn Dog walked the shingle.
Beach regulars were walking north near the water's edge.
A man with his Yorkshire Terriers (x2)
A man with his trousers tucked into his socks (x2)
They headed south with an almost monochrome sea for company.
Beach Buoy was wearing a fleece again, an anorak might have been a better choice but it felt like a backward step; going back to a bigger coat.
A tall dark haired man walked the strand line with a blonde lady, half his height.
They both had cups of coffee in hand......
Beach Buoy could see a lone beach fisherman ahead.
Beyond him, he could see that the tide was low enough to allow beach access to North Gare Corner.
They headed up to stack the stack.
As they did so, a cyclist belted along the water's edge towards the fisherman.
It was a fisherman's friend.
The two men chatted as the stack was stacked.
Beach Buoy looked to the misty west.
The Nuclear Power Station was an anagram of itself.
Beach Buoy and Stubborn Dog headed back to the beach before wandering down to North Gare Corner.
By the time they approached the South end of the beach, the sea was already introducing itself to the World War Two tank traps.
Beach Buoy mooched the shingle and recorded the few finds that he found.
They headed back to the north eventually.
The sea had moved in and was about to meet the grey rocks.
Beach Buoy glanced up........
The fisherman and his friend were still chatting.
A few moments later he glanced up once more, the cyclist had vanished.
Either the fisherman's friend was Bradly Wiggins or the sea fret was becoming a fog.
It was a slow damp walk back to the van.
Beach Buoy's fleece was as wet as a used bath towel.
Another beach regular was up near the dune edge, he and Beach Buoy exchanged distanced raised arms in recognition.
The other regular's dog; Amber was digging for victory in the sand.
Meanwhile Stubborn Dog trailed at the end of a long lead looked like a stricken fishing boat, being towed back into Port by a lifeboat called Beach Buoy.
BEACH BUOY.
