I'm still up. I say goodnight to her - bittersweet; could have been better, should have been better, but maybe not after all. I walk out to the beach. Three men are standing by the break line where the sand swells from the high tide mark to meet Venice. They laugh amongst themselves in their reflective jackets - city workers taking a moment to exchange cheer - as I trudge past.
I descend to the line between sea and sand - the place where great cresting waves become lines of bubbling foam. The sun is not quite risen behind me, the sky deepens from orange to lemon creamiscle. Wispy clouds scud ahead of the sun, like heralds announcing its rising.
The sound of the surf - the boom and crash of the waves, the effervescence of the last bit of the waves grasping at the beach like a jealous lover - the sound is annihilating.
Every man who ever put to sea, and left the cares of land and people and work and worry behind is my brother, for just this precious second. I wish I had a good stout boat - I still have a few bright stars to guide her by.
I trudge my weary way back to home. The sun is mounting in the sky, and morning has arrived. The sea continues to rise and fall, crest and crash. I am insignificant.