He’d come to the beach to stay. Time didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the beach.
Sometimes he fished, but he always let them go in the end. He didn’t like to see them in such pain.
Sometimes he walked, but the walking got harder as the days went by.
Sometimes he sat and watched the ocean. Daydreamed he could fly out under the waves, a thousand miles in a moment; freedom.
Sometimes he sat and slept. Dreamed about the salt in his blood mixing with the waves, the ache of faraway places.
One time, he just walked into the water.
A Writer's Life 
I wonder what he ate, if he always let the fish go
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To me this reads like a very old man saying good-bye and yearning to become one with everything at the same time. Very peaceful despite the underlying sadness.
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I was thinking along similar lines.
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It seems that loneliness got to him in the end. Nicely done.
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A lonely soul that knew when it was time to follow his dream. A poignant piece indeed.
My story!
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