I went for my (clear) nightly bike ride to Point Gratiot beach in Dunkirk to watch the sunset.

You won’t find seashells on this beach. Empty beer cans maybe. Generally half buried pens and bits of washed up fast food bags – condom wrappers definitely. “I love…” and “she loves…” graffiti-carved driftwood and rocks too. Once and awhile you’ll notice a jellyfish-like blob bouncing in the receding tide – most likely the graffiti-carvers’ unwanted children who are now swimming with the fish.

I sat on a long white log that was smoothed, probably from time spent in the water. Long grass surrounded the seashell-less sand like a balding man’s head – there were patches here and there. Most were brown and stubbly, but there were a few strands that were long and green. They were still alive.

Even with the litter and lanky grass, I considered that the beach was still beautiful somehow. One just had to know how to look.

After the sun melted into the horizon, a middle age balding man who was dressed in all black sped up in his car. As he walked towards the water, he appeared to me as the shadow of a man; someone who weaves through, yet around the crowds of people; someone who is never really noticed. Even as I watched him intently, he blended into the scenery. And yet, at the same time, I could not take my eyes off of him. He was uniquely ordinary, somehow. Something like the beach.

With his sneakers still on, the shadow man walked into and waded in the grey waves while frantically snapping pictures of the faded distance. He moved out until he was almost hip deep in the chilly jellyfish infested waters. But he did not look cold or disappointed. He kept his camera pointed at the water, and took endless pictures of nothingness.

When I moved towards my bike to ride home, I could not help but think: this man knows how to look. And that made him unique.