Everyone has been burdened with a destination at one time or another, so Jim decided to skip ahead. He strolled between ivory colored tables and chairs, that were wooden, handcrafted and overly ripe. Jim understood this world. It was a time of great excess and little concern for sustainable cost or corrigible responsibility. The women cackled and winked, feigning interest in keeping their hair tightly wrapped, while doing little to hide their recent highlights from their companions or the wind. The men were, apparently, nowhere to be found. Surveying his surroundings, Jim hummed rather loudly, even with the waves breaking, neither sound was enough to smother the gossip or all that was pretend. Jim hated being home. It was both figurative and reassuring. He had long looked for an opportunity to become more consistent in happiness and fulfillment. Yet amongst the women, it was cozy, as if his living room could infinitely extend. The stretch of sand was long and different mile markers yielded a variety of named beaches. Each with a different set of principles and tradition. Jim could always venture on and if nothing was appealing, circle back. But by then, the tables and chairs would be chipped, faded and warped. Someone had gone to great lengths and probably great pains to intricately craft the woodwork. Like Jim, the furniture was meant for the predictability and safety of an interior realm. Maybe, neither were designed to last much longer. It took awhile for Jim to realize that he was no longer humming and the ocean was perfectly flat. He found an empty seat and sat inside one of the familiar communities. Secretly, he hoped the women would eventually get around to telling him that being completely miserable could be wonderfully consistent. But their hair was now frizzy and saturated with salty air. They turned and asked Jim if he knew of a lifeguard named Woody. Jim cackled, winked and chipped a few pieces of wood from his chair. He had not skipped far enough ahead, but at least this was not his destination.