 He's busy now. He's locked in a struggle with a rising wind, trying to shake out the heavy folded shade on the last of the umbrellas, all of which, like the deck chairs, are available for rent, either by the day or by the hour. There, he's done it. Sybil watches him brushing the wet sand from his hands onto his shorts and shaking his beaded hair like a dog drying himself. There are tears in Sybil's eyes when she looks away.