The Screamer
A homeless man, young, bearded, gaunt, bereft of possessions, stood on the road above Bastendorff Beach at 7:30 on a foggy morning, screaming profanities at the ocean. I couldn’t discern anything of the nature of his anger. It was sheer, inarticulate, guttural rage.
Elmer and I left him alone and commenced our walk to the jetty.
What had driven this man to such a moment? A crisis of mental health seemed an obvious but inadequate explanation.
How had he come to be standing where he was, a remote area of the Southern Oregon Coast at such an hour? Where would he go after his outburst? Was it somehow connected to drug abuse or something more complicated.
At least he was raging at the ocean. Thankfully, the ocean does not respond with canned expensive therapy, homilies or religious superstition.
To quote E.B. White: The sea answers all questions, and always in the same way.
Forty-five minutes later, Elmer and I were driving home. I saw the man crumpled on the side of the road. I didn’t stop.