I encountered the most curious driftwood fort the other morning. It was smoking in the fog. It was half charred and ready to collapse. I saw a can malt liquor in the ashes near its base. Of course. A party of some kind the night before. Whoever they were, they didn’t even bother breaking down the fort. They just lit it up.
I shored it up the fort with some smoking pieces of wood. I gathered more wood and stoked the embers. I got the fire going, good and crackling. It was burning in the fog like a beacon. Probably no one would see the beacon because visibility was 50 yards and no one was around for a half mile. I don’t generally leave fires on the beach unattended, but this one seemed safe. Maybe it would arouse a metaphor or two if a beachcomber did come this way.