Marching toward Inishglora

A fine spray from the Atlantic rollers pounding to the shore drifted over the long strand.  JJ Lavelle stared at the horizon and the low, black isle of Inishglora.  He slowly removed his jacket dropping it to the wet sand, followed by his shirt.  He slipped his feet from worn, brown brogues, tugged off two odd socks, then undid his belt and let his trousers drop.  Standing in a vest and underpants he walked towards the sea and into the shallows.  The rush of a breaker surged over his thighs and he marched on undeterred into the freezing, churning water.