The brown sand beach of Belfast pales in comparison to many coastal towns I have visited. For instance, the gravel isn't as fine and white, nor is it littered with fragments of seashells and mollusks.
As rain falls like a sketch, I wander aimlessly along the brown beach from which the waves have receded, like a traveler lingering, reluctant to return home.
The vast ocean repairs my depression, yet it amplifies my loneliness, deepening my inquiry into the past and intensifying my regret for leaving the ring at the Long House.
I see something buried under the gravel, with a corner exposed. I use my shoe to uncover it—a rivet-studded wooden plank, recognizable as having fallen off a medium-sized sailboat—such familiar things can awaken lost memories.
So I walk along the tide toward the distant Rodest Port, hoping for a surprise there.
