Our tilted heads all focussed on the rock ledge where he hugged his knees. A woman with a new red tan, hands at the back of her hips, watched him with her mouth open, suggested rubber bullets. A few still swam. Police vans, ambulances, rescue cars, fire-trucks, children eating sweets, humidity and pale glare off the sea. On the beach a fence of orange plastic cones keeps the crowd at bay.
Nobody surfs the perfect waves.
Someone with a mirror shines the sun up to where he crouches on his ledge. We hear that he threw stones, and told the cops that he would stay up there until he died. There is a red fire-engine in the middle of men. Men shout orders. A middle-aged man with a megaphone stands six rungs up a ladder wears a helmet, has a shield.