Hemingway Revisited

It was a warm spring morning, and the forecaster promised a warmer afternoon. I sat alone at a dark corner table of a seaside café. As I watched the beach come alive with people, I saw a peculiar old man standing at the water’s edge. He was dressed in a black suit, wore black shoes, and a black bowler on his head. He seemed sad as he watched the gulls hover, then dive into the water and flying off with their catch. The old man just stood there, oblivious to the crowd that was forming, the waves crashing at his feet. I stared at him in anticipation, wondering if he, too, would dive into the waves and fly off into the horizon. A few moments later, the crowd gasped as the peculiar old man started walking into the water. The old man did not flinch as the icy water closed around his disappearing body, his face as stoic as the rocks on the beach. The crowd’s murmurs turned into shouts of disbelief as the peculiar old man disappeared from sight; the only remnant of his life was the black bowler, floating gently on the water.