While he was sitting there one day, a man approached him, a fat man carrying fins and a face mask.

“Saw three whitetips,” the man said. “Under that ledge.”

“Really.”

“You got three types of sharks here in Hawaii—your tiger shark, your great white, and your whitetip. But your whitetip is mellow. They just stared at me, like ‘Who’s this guy?’ and I swam right past them.”

The man was pale and flabby, with rented fins and a mask, and he stood beside Sharkey, his feet planted in the sand, still talking about his encounter with the sharks. He was earnest in a salesman’s way, selling his information, and now he was talking about the configuration of the clouds in the distance.

Sharkey stared with defiance. He thinks I’m a tourist.With his bandaged foot and his binoculars he might have looked the part, but how did that square with all his tattoos? He became indignant, insulted to be unrecognized and, worse, having to listen to this ignorant man lecture him, telling him what he knew.

“Why are you giving me a fucking weather report?” Sharkey said. “I’ve lived here my whole life.”

“Take it easy.” The man was rattled by Sharkey’s sudden outburst. “All I said was I saw some sharks.”

“I’ve seen a million sharks! I’m a shark!”

Backing away, the man said, “Know what, pal? You got a problem. You need help.” And walking off, attempting to be brisk, he sank and stumbled in the sand, a clumsiness that—Sharkey saw—spoiled the effect of his scolding.

The next day a young man with a camera approached him. Sharkey believed he had recognized him and was going to take his picture. He was not sure whether he should cooperate or snub him. But the man said, “Mind taking my picture?” and handed him his camera. Sharkey obliged; the man lingered, standing too close.

“This sand is so coarse. It’s not like this in Louisiana, where I come from. We got a more powdery kind of sand—real soft. But this stuff is amazing, the way it feels on your feet, gritty-like. I guess it’s a different kind of sand altogether. I thought there was only one type of sand. But there’s more. The way I see it . . .”

I have traveled the world, treading the sand of a thousand beaches, Sharkey thought, and this man is lecturing me, like that other man with the sharks, not listening, no questions, just assuming that I am, like him, another tourist from the mainland, an old retiree on an island vacation.