Portumnus lives in a small mobile home by the ocean. It’s not very prepossessing from the outside – cinderblock porch, weed-choked earth lawn, cracked and peeling paint – but he doesn’t care. The important thing has always been the beach, and the ocean, the ever-changing, eternal, thundering, endless ocean beyond. What does it matter what his house looks like? The only time he’s at home is when he’s sleeping; otherwise, he’s on the beach, staring out at the water, watching the sky where it dips down to the horizon.

On clear days he’s restless, prowling up and down the beach, bare feet gouging holes in the wet sand, driving the flocks of plovers ahead of him. On clear days he’s angry, is Portumnus, blocked and frustrated. He growls and claws at the golden ball of the sun, bites his lips until the blood bubbles forth, as salty as the waves breaking against his legs.

On stormy days he’s immobile, braced against the wind, eyes, hungry eyes, locked on the breakers, waiting for the storm to carve him a path home.