A heavy curtain like grey clouds stretched towards the horizon broken only by the indistinct outline of the White Island volcano. The waves, grey with foam washed around his bare feet. The drab atmosphere reflected his mood. A year had passed since the Motu River incident, but Roger didn’t regret what he had done. His conscience was clear. He did not feel remorse. In his mind was justified. Yes, he thought as he slowly wound in the line on his surfcasting rod, it was justified. However, he still mourned Tequila’s death, a consequence of his actions. Her death haunted him, and it would forever.