An old man, easily 70, jogged past me. It was a slow pace, but with good form and very light footfalls. I caught up to him on the boardwalk, at which point he was engaging a younger man in spirited conversation. The dynamic, at a glance, seemed to consist of the old man as passionate teacher and the younger man as over-achieving student.
“And then, the power just comes up through you!” said the old man, miming a ball of energy rising up through his feet and settling in his chest.
Out at the edge of the horizon, a massive cargo ship drifted south. The dull red and blue of its containers, stacked at least a dozen high, looked more like plastic Legos than welded steel.
The manhole covers in the area are inconsistent, some engraved with the names of local companies, others with only an “S” surrounded by a crude geometric sunburst. But a handful read either WATER or SEWER across the center, with this smaller engraving along the edge: “Made in India.” I like to imagine that the water itself was made in India, then imported to keep our sewers flowing.