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Posted on March 22, 2012
“It was four years before that incident in Saint Barts with the sand dollar,” I tell Josh. “I had everything a man could possibly need — or so I thought. The year was 1992 and the place was Jamestown, Rhode Island…”
High on top of a hill rising up from a private, sandy beach sat a gray, shingled Nantucket-style house with six bedrooms, three balconies, and a large deck overlooking the mouth of Narragansett Bay. Scaffolding flanked the house on two sides. Thirty-five-year-old Noah stepped out onto the back deck wearing jogging shorts, a tank top, and running shoes, the sun just moments away from rising over the tranquil sea. He jogged down the numerous wooden steps leading to the beach below and along the vacant shoreline. Seagulls flew out of his way as small waves broke gently against an orange background.
The sun was shining as he made his way back to the house, running by a sand dollar sticking up in the sand, undetected.