Each and every Sunday morning, Elizabeth's father would rise just before dawn. Before he read the morning edition, before he drank his glass of grape juice, and even before he put on a ful set of clothing, he changed into his swim trunks and flip-flops and got into his car.
He drove his car to the shore and parked it in an empty parking lot behind Fred's Public House No. 1. He stretched for a little while. Afterwards, he waded into the surf and swam into the English Channel.
He had followed this routine precisely every Sunday for as long as he lived in St. Ives.
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