A hundred various other lonely kids come here, up rooted from the high school car port and on this seashore. they come below to sit on these older docks and toss cigarette butts in the waves. That they gather in packs and drink beer until that they tumble in the sand, sweaty palms clutching fists full of earth. discover something about this beac that makes me experience alive. -and yet, one would hardly call it a seaside. unkempt green shoots develop from a blanket of golden sand, cut short by the winding docks that curve throughout the land. and though they end short, all of us never apparently mind. this wooden walkway stands naked against the dunes. those boards moan in protest underneath eer stage that we consider, bending towards the weight of your scuffed up steakers. yet we still press in, along these old vasque that led us into a wooden table. and here we were, finally, a place to stay up past our bedtimes. " Diana's Beach" as we called it, didn't can be useful for anyone different in this world. When ever David Guterson wrote " here were free to take off endlessly and to furtively enjoy our guy wanderers, thousands upon thousands of milling unknown people who have come with the purpose of burning off themselves", he couldn't have already been more correct. At least about this area, this beach front this small edge of land that was free- just like there were wanted to become. when you left down a the end of Eaton Street, you met a whole masses of kids, more messed up than you- with one thing in prevalent: the freedom that you had been looking for.