It's an odd dichotomy; the rich scent of salt water wafting through the air mixed with chill of a winter's day stinging the wary bones of a weathered, cracking husk of a man.  A place known for summer leisure, pleasures and youthful joy made foreboding by the monochrome palatte which had seemingly been washed upon the land by the hollering winds and pounding of water upon a stone jetty protruding out into the wicked sea.  If not for the faint strands of the vibrant green grass of the sand dunes still clinging to life through the snow and the splintering dark browns offered by the rotting sand fence, it would appear as though the color of the world had been washed out to sea with the vicious tide.

     Tattered boots crunching the snow beneath them barely contained the excess of the waders which extended past his growing gut, expanding as his mortal form travels with the ills of time.  The waders no doubt felt the strain of his life as well, the outer material flaking off in certain areas, exposing the inner layers of his clothing to the elements they were never meant to face alone.  The straps of hardened leather matched the same dark grey of his sweater, whose once proudly displayed branding had long since faded, leaving but only a few traces left of what message was to be conveyed, mixed with the dried salt which now clung onto its threads in an attempt to lay claim to the fabric.  Same could be said of the knit cap which adorned the tired brow of the wretched soul whose face was as jagged as the rocks of the jetty he now faced before him.

     Though protruding from the ocean in a gnarled, hellish pattern, the man proficiently navigated the terrain.  He glided along his path soaked in the slushy mix of salt water and ice which permeated from every crevice as he approached the rushing waves that would condemn him to an early grave with one misjudged placement of his damp boots.  His journey ended abruptly on a level plateau, several car lengths away from the shoreline.  His whiskers danced, the unforgiving storm front seemingly attempting to rip them from his face, yet they defiantly remained with their master.  Shattered lips separated for what seemed like the first time in days, his vice-like bite displayed with contumacious ferocity, gripping onto the plastic rod he held in his hand and raising it towards the sky.  The faint glimmer of lights from the shoreline reflected off the vibrant length, brilliantly challenging the diffusing blankets in the stratosphere.  And at the opposite end of the grand staff rested but a singular metal oval, attached to a thin hook.

     Or at least it did but for a moment.  Releasing a hurried mix of a sigh and grunt, rod was thrust forward, as too was the lure, disregarding the whipping forces surrounding it to dive into the choppy surf.  The once strained tether now relaxed with the muscles of the figure controlling the movement of the pole with subtle jerks and swift yanks in several directions.  For what rhyme or reason escapes comprehension; the display which more related to the convulsions of a committed loon than the precise movements of a professional.  His grimace had faded, replaced with the same chiseled visage that had adorned his profile when he'd entered the beachfront.  The elusive tug on the other end of the line eluded his every haul, throwing his shoulders back to no avail.  When he finally was returned his lure, no bounty was attached to it.

     No matter.  With a deep gasp rivaling the force of the winds he struggled again, he once again cast out his line, resuming his toil with destiny and fate.