Two boys stand at the edge of the world throwing stones into the face of a storm while waves crash endlessly into the shore. The gulls cry with their heads bent, staring straight into heaven, eyes open, jaws screaming, water raging like I had never seen. A young girl walks to the edge alone, to the edge where the land meets, with a great dignity and tranquility and strength about her while she walks along, taking the last glimpses and final steps, before leaving. Though the storm has passed, the wind that carried it lingers. The waves are indebted to it. The lifeguard, the likeness, from the experience of the water, from the perspective of the wind, or the eyes of the others now, up in the tower, looking down, watching her watch them, maybe from the buoy her hands are wrapped around, held onto tight. She is a bastion, and what are we to her, beyond her duty, as we must drown to be seen. The rain comes and she stands alone again, on the shore at the edge of the water, throwing stones.