You’ve come further than you think. The wind is in your face and chest and thighs and your hair straightens behind you like a flag. Sandflies stirred by the rising gale scribble a warning in the air just before soft bullets glance off your cheeks. They crackle in your hair and round your ears so you keep your mouth closed until you’ve passed the wrack line. Like a dream, the tide has slipped out to lay a huge glassy sky on the beach that is too bright and huge to look at. The bay stretches forever and your legs move forward without moving you forward. Not a soul to be seen. Not a soul to be seen.