The day is warm and the air is bright. There is a hammock stretched between two main legs of the pier. Getting into it is difficult, the boat operator warns him, but it is worth it. They pull up underneath the hammock and he is told that he will need to climb to the top deck. When he is up there he reaches out, and then deftly rolls himself into the swinging mesh. 

He is only wearing a pair of shorts and a smile as he waves the boat away. Laying there, staring at the underside of the jetty's hard-wood treads, he hears the lapping of water beneath him, a faint screech of a lone seagull, the quiet hum of motorisation on the hard-surface world in the distance, a creaking which he knows is this grand old structure, and the occasional steps of people walking above. It feels almost clandestine knowing that he is aware of them and they know not of him, but then he knows his purpose is pure. 

He smells the salty sea, that aroma you could bottle, and remembers it so fresh on the skin of his lover that night they skinny dipped off the rocks down the coast. He feels a peace come over him, it is almost meditative. He looks above him and sees reflected light painting mottled shapes on the rustic underside of the pier. He observes the shifting patterns and considers their parallel with life, never the same, always changing in shade from dark to light, and yet heavenly beautiful in their constant movement...