I was on the shore.

The pier was a few miles distant.

I exited the hatchback.

My wingtips scraping up wet sand and sullying my slacks.

It was empty.

Not a soul in sight.

An occasional seagull or distant pelican were my only companions.

The grey cloud littered sky threatened neither rain nor shine in its resigned indifference.

I was not indifferent.

I had to know.

The old man lived on an island just a half mile from the coast.

The pier was ancient. Whatever lumber or process had been used was definitely excellent. The antique bolts and joists spoke of a long forgotten century.

The dinghy was moored to a post.

I should have dressed more appropriately.

But I also should have been warned of a swim.

That was all irrelevant.

I waded almost to my waist and awkwardly hauled myself into the boat.

Motor traffic was strictly prohibited in the cove.

I began to row.