Running Past 17th Street

The surf washes along the shore, just reaching my feet. The coolness enshrouds the sole of each foot, reminding me that it's getting too late to go running in.

"It's been a long day."

Glancing to my right, I ask what he means. 

"Oh, I dunno. Just after the drive and everything."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Still, it could have been worse."

"Uh huh." 

Standing in silence, he leans forward to grab a handful of small stones and begins tossing them into the waves. Picking up a few rocks for myself, I start chucking them out into the ocean too.

"You know, Port, you still throw like a girl."

Towering over me in stature, he moves his grizzled jaw only to laugh at me.

"Laugh all you want, I can still beat you up."

Finally he replies, "All right, see if you can throw a rock farther than this," and he hurls one out farther than I can hope to match.

Clutching a speckled stone in my hand, I nearly rip my arm out of place trying to get it past his mark.

Laughing again, he says, "What were you saying about being a girl?"

"You're blind, bro; mine must have gone at least twice as far as yours!"

"Haha, sure. Whatever makes you feel better."

While rubbing my sore shoulder, I look up and down the beach. To our left at least seven piers jut out into the ocean before the falling dusk blocks anything more from my view. 

"Is everyone already back at the hotel?"

Giving me an odd look while I remove my sandals and stretch, he curtly affirms my assumption and asks, "What are you doing?"

"I think I'm going to go for a run. Take off your shoes and come with."

Hesitating, he asks, "But won't our shoes get stolen?"

"Ha, maybe your shoes, but not my sandals. Come on."

The damp sand mercifully cushions each step that I take, giving me reason to run faster. Porter heaves beside me as we pass one pier after the next. We're forced to take a detour around a fisherman sitting on a cooler next to his fat hound. The sight of his fishing pole puts the nerves in my feet on alert for the next few minutes. Every grain of sand is suddenly palpable as my soles expect a painful hook with each succeeding step.

"Is this the eighth or ninth pier?" Porter manages to ask me through two wheezing breaths. Stopping next to a wooden pillar, I clutch my knees and shake my head. 

"No, gasp this is the gasp tenth pier."

"We've been running wheeze forever; let's wheeze head back."

Running back, I had no idea how far we had come. Now that the sun has gone down, I worry that I won't be able to recognize our section of this monotonous beach. With each step, my feet sink unmercifully into the damp sand; the arches of my feet searing with pain. Damn sand.

At last having passed, I think, nine piers, we stop. 

"Our shoes wheeze should be here wheeze, right?"

Scanning the dark beach from my stooped position, I can't focus on anything. 

"Yeah, gasp somewhere around here gasp. You keep looking."

Lying out on the sand, the waves glint menacingly at me in the moonlight. I just hope that I'm lying close enough for the surf to soak my feet.