SS-TheBeachcomber

November 4, 1996

The Atlantic waves curled over and pounded the beach. Each crashing breaker shot up a fountain of spray, leaving
a light mist hanging over the water's edge. The December air bit at the exposed flesh of his face and hands. A tear
streamed out of his right eye as he squinted to shield himself from the bright sun reflecting off the clean white sand
and translucent green water. With his head down and shoulders leading into the stiff wind, he plodded his way up
the beach, eyes scanning back and forth, covering as much ground as his vision would absorb.

Suddenly, the needle on the gauge tilted to the red side as he passed over a small mound of sand. His metal
detector beeped as its magnetic sensors picked up the presence of metal below the surface, and his attention
narrowed down to the area, the size of a shoe box. His heart began to race, almost like it used to when he was about
to make a risky stock trade years ago. The beachcomber caught himself thinking about the times he invested large
sums of clients' money on a hunch or a rumor. These high-anxiety trades could surge upward tens of points within
minutes or could crash to pennies on the dollar depending on ...well, practically the way the wind was blowing up
and down Wall Street.

His thoughts shot back to the prospect at hand as the delicate needle bounced wildly against the silver post at the
end of the gauge. A reading of that intensity could be a sign of a gold watch or a bracelet, something valuable he
could trade in for cash. "Okay, it's time to start digging."

With his left hand, he probed the sand using a makeshift auger he’d created by lashing a garden trowel to the end
of a broken umbrella pole found in the dunes one day.

The beach was deserted except for a jogger and a woman facing the ocean on the packed, wet sand from the
outgoing tide. She was looking over the water towards the giant supertankers crisscrossing the shipping lanes. The
outline of the Manhattan skyline was clearly visible to the northeast, across the white-capped ocean swells. The
beachcomber rarely noticed the sights of the shore as his field of vision was limited to a yard to the left and a yard to
the right of his worn-out work boots. During his 50 years, he had experienced enough of the industrial creations of
modern society. To look up meant to observe, and to observe caused involvement and attachment to a world he
had left behind.

The digging resumed with his bare hands. He didn’t want to damage anything expensive with the point of the garden
tool. The sand grew cold and damp just a few inches below the surface, sun-bleached powder giving way to darker,
wetter clumps. The beachcomber's fingers were callused and his nails uneven and cracked from his nomadic life—
living and sleeping here and there, on the beach, in the woods, and occasionally in roadside motels. Sometimes, he
would get jobs working as a mate on fishing boats sailing out of Manasquan Inlet, and the captains would let him
sleep on the boats overnight. Mostly, he just wandered up and down the shore cashing in his meager finds,
spending the loose coins he had dug up and using the boardwalk for year-round shelter, except when the weather
was severe.

With his metal detector and umbrella pole rig beside him, the beachcomber dug down about eight inches before his
leathery fingers hit a hard object. Then he thought, "If it's worth a lot of money, I'll stop prospecting for a while. I
don't want too much money, just enough to get by. Surplus is bad, possessions breed passions and then the
craziness will start all over again." The vicious cycle to make more, spend more, borrow more ...it had almost killed
him. He’d stolen, cheated, swindled, drank and got in trouble
…
These thoughts flooded his mind and he hoped maybe wasn’t not a gold watch after all, that his life wouldn’t change
from yesterday and tomorrow would be the same. He thought that would be fine.

The windblown sand pelted his worn parka and felt like needles sticking into his forehead, frozen cheeks, and
exposed forearms. A large grey cloud drifted in front of the sun, soaking up the day's remaining warmth. The jogger
jogged away and the horizon gazer retreated back to her car where a hot thermos of coffee waited on the front seat.

New York City looked greyer and darker without the sun glistening off the skyscrapers. The oceangoing ships sailed
beyond the horizon while the beachcomber frantically worked his fingers under the object. With a forceful pull the
beachcomber snapped the object out of the sand. He fell backwards as the object flew over his head and landed a
few feet away. He turned to inspect his treasure. It was metal, and it had been buried for a long, long time. Brushing
away the sand, he found a dented hubcap, buried possibly ten or fifteen years ago in this unlikely spot.

The beachcomber hurled the metal disk into the crashing breakers and kicked sand back into the hole with the side
of his boot. He bent over, picked up his tools, and walked up the beach towards the boardwalk. Checking his
pockets to see how much loose change he had, he decided to make his way into town for a bowl of soup. Relieved,
he put his head down and kept walking.

The Beachcomber

by Michael Domino

Short Stories Page 1