He used to come into the grocery store I worked at. He'd ride up on his bike overburdened with his only belongings stored in two barrels strapped precariously to the back of the bike frame. His hair was long, messy, and bleached from the sun. The mass of hair on his chin hung well past his chest. He wore nothing but flip-flops, decaying shorts and many strings of beads and shells around his neck. His skin was blackened from the sun. Sometimes he'd wear a hat made from palm fronds.

He only bought beer. The cheapest he could find.

Eight years later, I still see him at the beach. He's still got a bike loaded with his life.

To most, he's just another beach bum. But the locals have nicknamed him Jesus.