Floating in the shadows of the Ferry where a famous master once zenned, lived a sippy monk on a tippy barge called The China Sea. Each morning he walked the planks with a satisfied shrug, then untied koans of kelpy line until noon. At lunch he played chess with the seagulls on a skiff, and at high tide, he paddled to the No Name where he drank beer and read Li Po until 2:00. No books were written about him. No one came to his door. But his elegant wisdom glittered like sea glass on the ocean floor. Lifting a conch shell to his ear, he heard the whisper of the universe. And placing the shell to his lips, he answered its call.