During September, hurricane season, the weather was usually fair. The days were warm and cloudless and the stars were unimpeded in their nightly travels. From one side of the horizon to the other, they inched their way across the inky black sky, never meeting a cloud. When a storm came, as they sometimes did, there would be a day or two of overcast skies and misty weather. It depended on how far off the coast the storm stayed. Always though, even when the eye was hundreds of miles out, the waves came in. Huge and angry, they crashed into the rocks on the point, sucking back with a fury that suggested a drain plug had been pulled somewhere deep, somewhere near. If the wind was right, they reared up high and clean along the long beach, but when it was wrong, the breakers were a scene of immense chaos. Whitewater crashing into walls of dark blue water, sand pulled out and rushed back in seconds later. After a big storm, logs would be scattered across the sand and tossed high on the rocks. One year, the lobstermen did not anticipate the size of the waves. Most of their traps were moved out, but not far enough. On the sunny day after the storm, when the waves were biggest, the beach was covered in them. Piles of mangled metal, warp line tangled into balls too big to heft alone; inside the traps lay lobsters, caught before the traps were wrested from the bottom by the great swell. In the sun, they rotted and stank.
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