Old Man Peterbaugh

In all the coves, from Bird Rock to the old Scripps pier, there is no bather or surf rider or diver for abalone who laughs as much or who greets the sea with half the joy of old man Peterbaugh. He teaches boys and girls to swim, flailing long thin arms about like pelican wings; he floats spread-eagled on his back; he swims between the waves, using a shallow side-stroke; he doubles up to rest, his head and feet above the surface, and his bony hands paddling rapidly, turning him around and around, as on a spindle. And when he's done, he slowly swims ashore, rising from the clear green water of the cove— the sea running in torrents from his wrinkled hide, wavelets foaming at his knees, seagulls crying from the rocks— as an old man of the sea might suddenly emerge.