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Volleyball nets sag. The pier juts into the azure cerulean, a single lamp on a pole at its end. A gentle quiet.
It is quiet, just the continuous light wave noise, rushing onto sand here, ebbing there, a continuous presence in the air, yet a welcomed one.
Dark Mexican women carrying bags arrive for work. A plane rises into the blue from LAX, just a few miles up the beach. A man pushes a stroller along the strand, another passes him on a bicycle. All is serene, here in the morning, all movement on the strand passing by soundlessly.
Seagulls congregate to the left, the south, toward Redondo, massed stillness, sleep. A lone woman sits on a swing, staring at the surfer who has just risen, wavering, onto his mound.
Women jog by on the strand. An older man in a red shirt and glasses, awaiting his wife, stands against the railing, staring. Trash trucks move slowly along the strand, their gentle intrusion quickly passing. A large tanker pushes slowly out to sea as a smaller, white fishing boat slides by, about four hundred yards off the beach. I sip my coffee, large-to-go from Scotty's by the Strand, tap out these few words. All is quiet on the western front.
I am alone at the Sea Sprite. It is early morning, before I enter the cacophony.