The pier was covered in a blanket of mist.
He leaned forward, lifting himself off the rocks. The dock lurched above him, in rhythm with the crashing waves.
Picking the twigs from his beard, he noticed that the tide was only a few feet from his bed. He had overslept, again.
This had to be his second month, squatting under the docks at WestShore. He was memorizing the tides, when the fishermen's boots would start creaking above him. The sun was coming through the fog. The low lying clouds, breaking apart. Soon, he could head down the main road, where the tourists got their breakfast and coffee every morning. Where he could beg up some food.
He rolled up his sleeping bag, grabbed his pack, and stumbled out onto the rocky beach. Seagulls were tearing apart the carcass of a dead seal. Meat dangling from their beaks; screeching like it was the only meal they might ever get.
On the main road, there was a small cafe, run by a kind old woman. She didn't mind him sitting outside the door with his cardboard sign, which simply read, "God Bless."
He looked down at his clothes. Patched up and so dirty that he couldn't even tell what color they used to be. His boots were tattered and holes were forming along the soles.
He wondered what his daughter would think, if she saw him now. Back in Tennessee, she didn't have to worry about him, anymore. His birthday was a few months ago. She hadn't bothered to call. He gave up on keeping a phone, since then.
That's when he decided to go West. To the ocean. He'd always wanted to be a sailor, but he was old. He'd wasted his life away in bar fights and bottles of whiskey. He didn't think there was any chance left for him, but at least he could die by the sea, where he'd always wanted to be.
It must've been around noon, because the lady who ran the cafe' came out with her weak, but honest smile. She handed him a box of donuts and scones. The leftovers from breakfast.