Rays of the sun scorched the tender sand. The turquoise waters of Horseshoe Bay were quite warm, yet appeared cool and calming as the cocktail moistening my palm. The waves rolled over themselves in gentle fury, stirring up small clouds of sand and empty shells. As the pulses of the tide resolved, the sea would slip to the edge of the beach. Led by thin white froth, it glided along the shore. The waves melted into the cream colored sands, and left them a light tan in their wake. The ocean was a brainless beast with a mind of its own. Gin stung sweetly against my tongue. Lying back, no breeze in the air, no clouds in the sky, the sun shining down, pain seemed a place far away.

            A man of war washed ashore. A minute violet fruit. A cocktail garnish. More of a frigate than a war machine. Each sailor riddled with drought, they sat perfectly still. Anchored to the beach, its hull shone with a glaze. It’s bilaterally symmetrical gas fueled sail served no purpose when run aground (besides mere dead weight). Even so, it was beautiful. Watching its last moments was tranquil and despondent.

            A crowd gathered around and stared down at the colony in silence. The subtle roar of the waves subsided, the gulls ceased to caw, and the bartender stopped sipping at his scotch and soda. A small child stepped forward. He loomed over the shipwrecked crew, nearing a tendril or two. Warm footprints in the mud. The people around jutted forward with mechanical delayed reaction. Someone from each side of the semicircle grasped the boy from underneath the upper arm and gently pulled him away. They all remained, marveling at the man o’ war’s tragic and hazardous drift.

            Rays of the sun scorched the tender jelly. Marmalade was spread thin over dry toast. The air smelled of juniper berries. I crushed a dozen in my right hand and allowed the juice to seep through each one of my fingers until droplets fell into my glass. We felt nothing.