A gust of wind swirls from the darkness to pick up the ends of the tribesmans

soft brown hair and tugs at them like an insistent reminder. He looks at the solid
pine doorway of his local pub and tries to summon the wherewithal to enter the
building but feels frozen. Like a deer caught in the headlights of a car, startled,
frightened and fascinated by the fierce attraction the building has to him. The
ebb and swell of conversations and laughter mingling with the clink of glass and
thump and scrape of stools moving pervades the air. The sound lulls him deeper
into his trance of complacency until the crash of a breaker behind him shocks
him out of his reverie. How could he have forgotten the beach?

The tribesman turns in a brief succinct motion towards the beach and leaves the
light and warmth of the pub for the brisk breeze and soft sand of the beach. As
he walks into the deepening darkness he tries to breathe in the clean and honest
scent of the ocean spray, but smells only his overpowering aftershave. He feels
his bile rise and gags. He stops to take in his surroundings for a moment; the
asphalt of the road giving way to the sand of the beach; the fading ambience
from the pub being overwhelmed by the fury of the ocean; his expensive leather
shoes disappearing into the sand. He needs the beach, he needs its honesty and
rawness; the urge is all consuming and burns through his being.

The bitter wind cuts through his deep blue suit jacket as he begins walking to the
surf again. He gives an involuntary shiver and then spits in obvious disgust and
peels off his jacket and shirt with quick and sure movements of his hands. He
deserves the cold. He leaves his clothes behind him as he moves. The
incongruity of the scene is witnessed by none but the silent swaying grasses. The
tribesman continues to undress heedless of the impending cold snap and stops
only when there is nothing left between him and the world around him. He
smothers another shiver with ferocious determination and walks down to the
edge of the surf naked. Five years ago he would have shrugged off the bitter
weather with indifference yet now; he shudders with less grace then the
vegetation around him and yearns for the warmth and succour of his tailored suit
and oft visited pub.

The tribesman falls to his knees in the sand of the berm and gazes listlessly out
across the black ocean. The ripples of shimmering water dance with the
reflection of the stars in the cold, clear, black sky. The incredible scene brings
tears to his eyes and he digs his hands into the chilly sand, trying to find some
sense of connection with the beach. He closes his eyes slowly and lifts his head
to the heavens, his tears glistening as they teetered-- then fell swiftly down his
smooth cheeks to disappear into the night. He feels nothing. Nature has
abandoned him, his new life has never accepted him and he abandoned his own
people. Despair reared its horrible head within his chest and he gasps aloud and
opens his eyes wide, his eyes darting across the waves, seeking solace--

And settles on the fathomless depths before him. An idea bursts across his
consciousness and he struggles to rise to his feet, his legs numb and seemingly
paralysed from the cold and lack of circulation. He stumbles like a drunken man
towards the waves, wading with a sense of desperation deeper and deeper until
he is knocked off his feet by a wave. He is borne up towards the stars for a
momentthen his world is obliterated as the wave sucks him in greedily. He is
alone, in a tumultuous and terrifying world of strange currents and no hope, for
he never learnt to swim. He forces all the air from his lungs to try to make his
end quicker and resolutely keeps his eyes open, not wanting to die without
looking upon nature once more.

As he feels himself begin to lose touch with this world; as he finally gives himself
to nature for Her judgement, he is born again. He is dumped unceremoniously
upon the berm once more by a massive wave that carries him beyond the
incessant tugs of the lesser waves. He coughs explosively and instinctively and
spasms as life courses through his body fiercer than ever before. Minutes pass by
slowly for him, but as his body recovers from its judgement his soul too begins to
heal. He eventually gets to his feet and looks about with wonderment and awe.
He lives! He begins to smile, and walks with sure-footed steps towards where his
clothes lie.

As he walks he furthers his appreciation of his situation. He begins to realise that

there is naught he can do to go back and change what was past, but the future...
The future is his to shape and morph into whatever creature he wills it to be. The
breeze causes him to shiver again before he can stifle the instinctive reaction. He
does not react to this shiver though; he simply stops pacing and wonders at the
curious sensation. In this moment of inaction the sharp, brutal cold pierces into
him. But instead of refusing the feeling, as he once would have, instead of
fighting the cold and rebuffing it with grim determination he welcomes it.
Welcomes it as a necessary part of who he is for there is no shame in being cold.
And in accepting the cold and darkness and no longer resisting its pull the
tribesman leaves the shell of his old life and embraces the weird duality of his
new existence.

The subtle scent of his aftershave mixes with the salty air around the banker and
with resolution in his heart, he walks slowly but efficiently to his discarded
clothes strewn about the dunes. As he dresses neatly he smiles and begins to
whistle a merry tune.

In moments the banker had left, and nothing moved but the gentle ebb and flow
of the waves and the silent sway of the grass.