Waves onto and off the beach scudding my ankles in the blue pall, fog hazy down the beach obscuring highrise beachfront units and fat Midwesterners dipping toes in the surf then squealing piggies smoke from a pork roast rummaging through the salt air and redneck cigarette smoke and we’re just miles from that thunder and now it’s thundering for real, far out and off the beach, out to sea, a mysterious Christopher Columbus hurricaney boom wet with mist and wondering.  These Midwesterners, though, don’t share this wonder, they only wonder how the Twins fared against the Sox, do they want their steaks rare or medium, how many emails when they get back to the office and meanwhile the eyes of the Florida South glare salt and bloodrimmed…