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I saw him first after the storm. The waves rushed up onto the beach, chasing each other and racing each other to scoop up sand and grit and churn it back into the sea. The gray billows of moisture swiftly retreated from the horizon, allowing a single golden-orange ray of early morning sunlight to pierce the brooding sky and plunge into the dark green abyss several miles out into the sea from my apartment. I watched this from my fifth floor perch, looking east over the beach to the expanse of green and black and flecks of white. The gulls had not yet returned, screeching their greetings, foraging for food.

Then he appeared, walking barefoot along the beach, the pulsating waves of foam swirling furiously around his ankles, his long, black hair blowing west with the wind, his feet making hardly any impression in the wet sand. He wore a simple pair of brownish gray shorts and no shirt. His skin was brown, tinged with gold, and from where I sat—about 50 yards from the shoreline—I could not determine his age. He walked like someone who knew the sand, the sea, and the storm. He walked like he belonged there.

I had arrived in Ocean City, MD about 4 pm the previous Saturday with my family for our annual beach vacation. It had been a very long and stressful couple of months at work, and I was looking forward to the break. We were all looking forward to long days on the beach, long walks along the shore, long evenings on the boardwalk wandering in and out of the shops, stopping for funnel cake and ice cream, finally making it back to our apartment. After unpacking our Honda CRV and carrying all of our suitcases, beach chairs, coolers, and assorted boxes and bags up the 5 rickety flights of stairs on the back side of the Majestic apartments, we walked out onto our "Crows' Nest" porch facing the ocean and took a few minutes to breathe in the air and get our bearings. Being on the boardwalk at 7th street was perfect. We were in the middle of the action, with food and entertainment all around us, and the beach right in front of us, just 5 flights of stairs and less than a hundred yards to the water. A few seagulls squawked hello, landing on our balcony and letting the wind ripple through their wings. The sky was blue, dotted here and there with little white puffs of happiness. The ocean water was calm and rhythmic. The breeze was warm but surprisingly refreshing. The weather forecast called for mild temperatures and occasional chances of rain through the week, but nothing major. It was going to be a great week. We finished unpacking our essentials, headed out for a bite to eat at Harborside, then returned for a quick boardgame before bed. We wanted to be rested for our first full day of vacation.

Sunday came early, with the girls waking us up, eager to get to the beach. We ate a quick breakfast of waffles, fruit, milk, and coffee—for my wife and myself—then we put on our suits, lathered up with sunscreen, grabbed our umbrella, towels, chairs, pails, and shovels and headed down the creaking staircase, around through the secret alleyway between the hotel and the apartment building, and out to the beach. At 9:30 am, the sun was well risen into the eastern sky, the air was about 76 beautiful degrees, and a gentle breeze was blowing off the Atlantic up along the beach. I could feel work-life-stress dissolving and trickling out through my toes into the soft, cool sand with each step. After finding the perfect spot just behind the high tide line, we pitched our umbrella, dug our chairs into the sand, and settled in. The girls took their pails and shovels and skittered off to the wet sand-within our line of sight, of course—to build castles and motes and dungeons, while my wife took out her book and I took out my Kindle, ready for a day of relaxing, snacking, occasional dipping in the ocean, reapplying sunscreen, eating lunch, and more relaxing. Around 4 pm, the girls were happily exhausted, so we headed back to our apartment to shower, nap, and prepare for our evening.

The evening was perfect just as our day had been. We walked out onto the boardwalk at 7th Street and sauntered north, stopping at shops whenever we wanted, grabbing treats along the way, pausing from time to time to sit on the benches and peer out across the beaches, watching people fly kites, throw footballs and Frisbees, and run along the shoreline. The girls wanted to fly kites—we assured them we could do that another day after we visited the Kite Loft, which was just two blocks south of our apartment at 5th and Boardwalk. We figured we would walk that way the next afternoon or evening, after another day on the beach, making our way down to Ripley's Believe it or Not, and the Life Saving Station Museum, if we arrived before they closed for the day. We'd catch dinner at Harrison's Harbor Watch at the south end of the boardwalk. On the way back, we'd play some Skeeball, and if we had time, take the girls on the Haunted House ride. We didn't count on the storm.