Mortimer J. Snow, Ph.D. had finally made it to the beach.  Through 10 grueling days of hitchhiking, during which he had been a passenger in 29 cars, 15 pickup trucks, 6 minivans, 4 tractor trailers, 2 garbage trucks, and one Volkswagen bug, he managed to travel the 2,044 miles from his home in central North Dakota to the park bench just north of some condos on the Atlantic side of south Florida.  He had vacationed here with his parents one summer when he was a child, and the experience made a lasting impression on his youthful mind.  He vowed to return when he got older, and even had fantasies of one day owning a house in this area, so he could look out over the ocean and listen to the soothing sound of the waves crashing on the beach.
    Time went by and Mort grew up.  He earned his doctorate in clinical psychology, got married, had two children, and became a world-renown scholar at Brinkster University, publishing 10 books and numerous articles on human behavior and psychotherapeutic techniques.  While the desire of his heart had always been to return to the beach, for one reason or another, the demands of family and career inevitably took priority. One day recently, to his dismay, he calculated that his house was as far away from either ocean as it could be, and still be in the continental United States.  In his more cynical moments he felt mocked by fate, drawn so strongly to the sun’s warmth and the comfort of the ocean breeze.
    At last, here he was just 50 yards from the water.  It was a balmy late June night and, as he stood there silently gazing at the surf, with his shoulders drooped and arms hanging limp, the moon’s reflection silhouetted his lanky frame.  His disheveled gray locks, which should have graced the floor of a barber shop several weeks previously, still revealed a hint of black, but his ten day old beard was completely white.  With his wrinkled Hawaiian shirt tucked half-way into his light orange Bermuda shorts, he had both the appearance and odor of a professional beach bum, but his lily-white calves were a dead giveaway; it was painfully obvious that he was a snowbird from either the East or Midwest.  
    A pair of old brown moccasin shoes, adorned with coffee stains, completed a motley ensemble.  He remained motionless for several minutes, captivated by the light dancing like gems on the water’s surface, with only the sound of a motor boat passing in the distance, and the smell of the salt spray, before unzipping his fly and relieving himself on the light brown sand.  Resembling an image out of a Van Gogh painting more than the author of the successful book, The Psychology of Choice, which was a big seller several years back, he finally breathed a sigh of relief.  A sweet smile of victory gradually filled his face, as he raised his arms in the air and with clinched fists whispered repeatedly, “I made it,” “I made it.”
    He had a strong urge to run down the sand and jump in the warm, clear water, but it was 2:00 a.m. and the trip had left him totally exhausted.  Deciding to savor the thought of his first plunge until morning, he collapsed on the park bench, closed his eyes, and allowed the sound of the soft, gentle waves to lull him to sleep.  Suddenly, at 6:30 a.m., just as the morning sun began to appear on the horizon, Mort was jostled awake unceremoniously by two policemen.
    “Stand up and put your hands behind your head,” the first policeman ordered, while the second policeman started frisking him for weapons and drugs.
    Disoriented and bewildered, Mort cried out, “What are you doing?  I haven’t done anything wrong!”
    “He’s clean,” the second policeman announced.
    “Let me see your identification,” the first policeman barked.
    “I don’t have any identification,” Mort replied.
    “Then what’s your name?” the second policeman asked.
    “I choose to remain anonymous,” Mort exclaimed.
    “Oh, I’m sure you do,” replied the first policeman.  “All troublemakers want to remain anonymous.”
    “I’m not a troublemaker, I’m just a beachcomber,” Mort responded.
    “Beachcomber, troublemaker—what’s the difference?” the second policeman said obviously annoyed.
    “A distraught woman called us several hours ago and reported that a man was exposing himself on the beach,” the first policeman said.  “It was a wild night in town, so we weren’t able to get here until now.  From the description she gave, it sure sounds like you.”
    “You don’t understand, officer,” Mort explained.  “I had to go real bad but there weren’t any bathrooms around.  It was dark out and I didn’t think anyone would notice.”
    “Well you weren’t careful enough,” the first policeman said.  “People around here are real suspicious of vagrants.  I’m arresting you for vagrancy and public lewdness.”
    “Look, I’m sure we can clear this up informally,” Mort said, as the second policeman began handcuffing him.
    Seeing that the policemen were intent on bringing him in, Mort pleaded, “Look, I’ve just traveled 2,000 miles to get here and I haven’t even been in the ocean yet.  If you let me jump in the water one time, I promise to contribute to the Fraternal Order of Police next year.  In fact, I’ll even attend the policemen’s ball.  What do you say?”
    “No, I’m afraid not,” the first policeman responded.  “We try to keep undesirables like you from polluting the water.”
    Determined to dive in the ocean, Mort struggled to free himself from the second policeman and, with one arm handcuffed, started running toward the beach.  Both policemen took off after him.  The second policeman lunged toward Mort, grabbed his legs and tackled him from behind.  Mort landed on his face in the sand, ten feet from the water’s edge.  A wave lapped in front of him, just out of reach.
    “No, let me go,” Mort screamed, as the second policeman finished handcuffing him, and a small group of spectators began congregating.
    “So, you’re not a troublemaker,” the first policeman said in obvious frustration.  “Now I’m adding attempting to bribe an officer and resisting arrest to your charges.”
    The crowd began laughing; it was a pathetic scene as the police led Mort toward their car.  He kept repeating, “I have to get to the water, I have to get to the water,” as more laughter and shouts of “bum,” “drug addict,” and “derelict,” came from the increasingly raucous crowd that had gathered to enjoy the show.
    After they arrived at the police station and Mort was booked, the first policeman asked him again, “Are you sure you won’t tell me your name?”
    “I may have told you my first name if you’d been more polite, but you treated me like a common criminal,” Mort responded.
    “Have it your own way,” the first policeman said in frustration.  “