Sequoia Coast i'm not like them, but i can pretend.

there was a rough slap of ocean on a grey strand; rannveig watched the white froth as it sucked back sand, shells, foam and all. christ, it was cold.

it wasn't that he missed warsaw; he didn't. but he missed the comforts that came with it. he was used to a certain treatment that nature simply wasn't measuring up to: here he had to scratch and claw for a living, same as anyone else.

oh well. he shrugged and took a deep breath of bitingly cold air.

it was a dog's life.