Beach Buoy woke at 4-27 a.m.
He and Another Dog reached the beach at Subaru o' clock; 5-55.
No cars in car park, just one overnight HGV.
A Pied Wagtail drank from a car park puddle.
Someone had drawn a phallic symbol on the promenade, using the medium of windblown sand.
There was about 75 percent cloud cover.
The tide was a canny way out and a mild breeze was from the west.
They headed for the sea.
A pre-sunrise blood orange glow warmed the horizon.
The sun rose as a river bound ship passed by.
Beach Buoy walked the water's edge, heading south.
He took photographs as he walked.
The light was lovely.
The sea had left gorgeous patterns in the wet reflecting sand.
"We could walk there."
thought Beach Buoy.
He opted for a different, cooler route, as he and Another Dog crossed the beach diagonally from the sea to the stack.
He collected suitable stack stones along the way.
"Morning Mate."
He added the selection collection.
He patted
THE
stone.
The 7 a.m. club had passed the stack.
The club continued south on the beach below as they walked as far as the Pier before returning to the north and the waiting village beyond.
They, like Beach Buoy and many others who walk the beach from north to south then south to north.
Travelling along like typewriter carriages, each writing their own stories on a blank beach of sand.
Another beach author travelled the water's edge with his two dogs; full stop and comma.
"See you mate."
Beach Buoy left the stack behind for now.
The planted driftwood goal keeper tried to save the sun for another day.
The 7 a.m. club headed back.
Beach Buoy had walked the dune edge for a couple of hundred metres but turned back to rejoin the beach.
A cloak covered the Sun but to the north the village glowed in morning sunlight.
Beach Buoy scanned the sky.
No sign of the Sand Martins.
Beach Buoy found the perfect tank trap.
It was barnacle covered thereby offering grip.
The height and angle of the offset concrete square felt made to measure.
He took out his coffee.
He drank to a Sea and Skylark sound track.
It was mild, so mild a small black fly flew inches from Beach Buoy's nose.
"If the flies are here, The Sand Martins can't be too far away?"
Almost instinctavly Beach Buoy turned to check again.
There they were!
13 April.
First Sand Martins of the season.
Beach Buoy burst into tears.
It felt strange.
He was elated.
He was sad.
Stubborn Dog not here to share the moment as he always had been.
Maybe it was joy in a crap world.
A crap life.
He watched the pair a good while as they swooped around that tiny corner of the beach.
It was an honour.
They headed back, leaving the Sand Martins to explore their surroundings in peace.
Shadows of sunshine, not shadows of doubt.
Beach Buoy and Another Dog headed north.
Mr Gunn/ Nunn approached with Alfie, his wonderful little dog.
They had discussed the Sand Martins previously.
Beach Buoy told the tale, minus the tears.
Mr Gunn/Nunn was keen to see them.
He told Beach Buoy that a couple had been nearby, looking for the Sand Martins without success for the last three weekends.
They said their goodbyes.
Beach Buoy and Another Dog continued north.
A distant pair of salmon pink wellingtons left the car park, heading for the sea.
A distant dog barked.
A distant arm was raised and waved.
Beach Buoy returned the wave from a distance.
