Coconut Harry

Every evening, Coconut Harry walks down the molasses encrusted road from his eponymous surf shop to watch the sunset on Playa Guiones. He stands on the bluff at the beach entrance, a small blue cooler hangs from one hand while a sweating can of Imperial beer nestles in the other. He is always shirtless, his body deeply bronzed by the sun and chiseled by years of surfing.

He gazes out at the ocean and the sky as tired, dripping surfers carrying surfboards under one arm return from the ocean. They pay respects as they pass.

"Hi, Harry."
Harry nods imperceptibly and parts his lips in a slight smile.

"Howya doin', Harry?"
Harry lifts his beer a couple inches to acknowledge the greeting.

As the sun sinks closer to the horizon and the colors fade away, he chats with a few locals. Asks them about their rides that day and talks about what the weather will be like in the morning. Harry surfs in the mornings, when the offshore winds hold up the waves in perfect, long cylinders.
This ritual lasts ten months of the year. When the rains kick up from September through November, he returns home to Virginia Beach, just as East Coast surfing improves with hurricane powered waves.