tracks John Hales A beautiful Monterey morning. The sun had burned away early morning fog to reveal a deep blue sky. Wind, pushing the ocean into huge breakers, blew over the peninsula. Ben walked along the railroad tracks hugging the rocky coastline from Carmel to Monterey. The tracks, little used remnants of the peninsula's Cannery Row boom days of the 30's, were perched not far above the crags and tiny beaches of the shoreline. Ben watched the ocean as he walked the rotting ties, noticing the diving seagulls and the mats of greenish-brown seaweed rising and falling with the rolling water. The surf pounded on the large rocks noisily and the sound was blown to him by the stiff wind. The wind blew Ben's hair away from his face and tangled it behind his head. All Ben's senses were involved deeply in experiencing the scene he could even taste the aliveness of the ocean and he felt separated totally from people and responsibility. Even his heavy rucksack and stiff army coat couldn't detract from this feeling of independence. The ride Ben had hitched from Salinas had dropped him in Carmel quite early in the morning. He wasn't in any big hurry to get to San Francisco (for about the first time in Ben's life he wasn't on a schedule) and he'd wandered up north around the point rather than catch a much faster ride across the peninsula. Besides, he didn't even know why he was going to San Francisco. He'd walked for several miles, with foaming swells on one side and the green forest and expensive homes of Pebble Beach on the other. As he rounded the tip he could see Monterey Bay, sheltered by the Coast Guard jetty and dotted with weathered fishing boats. The rusted and empty buildings of Pacific Grove's Cannery Row stood on the shore between long piers and the rusted railroad tracks. Standing on a high rock outcropping towering above the ocean Ben could trace the railroad tracks as they twisted with the irregularities of the shoreline. The tracks seemed to end abruptly amid the burned shells of once-busy canneries. Ben was walking towards Pacific Grove and enjoying the wind and the warm sun when he sensed someone nearby. He glanced quickly at the bushes on the side of the tracks away from the sea. Here the thick bushes parted slightly, forming a sort of windbreak. A small man sat huddled with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head bowed. Ben paused and managed a self-conscious "hello." The man looked up and Ben saw that he was very sick. His face was pale and bony, with hollow cheeks and dark sockets holding moist red eyes. He was shaking, almost convulsively. "What's wrong?" Ben asked, sliding the pack from his shoulders and sitting down beside him. "Just feel sick. Really sick." the man said weakly. He coughed repeatedly. Ben noticed a large, nearly full, bottle of Tokay on the grass beside him. The man took a deep gulp from the bottle and coughed again, spraying the liquid on the ground in front of him. The man's nose was running and Ben was shocked at how small and fragile he looked. His wrists and ankles were unhealthily thin, and the man's black hair was dirty and windblown. He took another huge drink. "This'll do it," the man said, pointing to the bottle. "I just ain't had any for a while."