A splashing and a gurgled cry sound from the nearby surf. Standing doubled in the surf is a man flailing his arms wildly for a few seconds before reaching into the water and hauling out a large stone, which apparently is attached to his neck by a short rope. Gulping great droughts of air, he looks fairly satisfied with himself. He stands in what appears to be a large bath towel around his waist and the rock as a necktie of sorts. His white hair and beard jut wildly from his head despite the fact that it is good and sodden from brine. Laboriously he hauls the rock up from the sea a little ways where a small wooden plank is set. Dropping the stone to the ground, he is born with it face first into the sand. Spitting curses and sand grains he moves up into a squatting position allowing the stone to rest upon the ground with the rope tight to his neck. He reaches out and picks up a stick about two feet long at which one end is a sponge and the other having been sharpened down to a fine point. Sticking the pointy end into a small inkwell he writes furiously on the piece of paper for a few moments before throwing the stick down in disgust. No no, no no NO! I just don’t have it yet! He cries.
He struggles to lift the stone up again before getting it to chest height and then staggering back into the ocean. Where upon reaching the depth of about waist deep, with the towel floating about him like some cotton jellyfish, he drops the stone back into the water, pulling his head with it.
For a few moments there is nothing but the surf, churning like a great clock, rhythmic in its tides. Then arms begin to spasm splash wildly in the water, foam flying from the struggling figure. When hope is almost lost the wild white hair breaches the water again and the man begins the stager up onto the beach.

OCC: This is my little philosophical forum, so please join me for a little discussion. Oh and this does pertain to my story...