At a certain point on the beach there is a barrier, and after that barrier in a low beach chair sits a coast guard officer guarding the nesting ground / military space. She is pretending to read a thick book and eyeing those who come too close to the line. Of course the sand looks cleaner and fluffier over by her. And the best seashells are way over there, down the long beach, rising up large, creamy, and perfectly smooth from the dark, wet sand. The little sharp-beaked sandpipers dance around undisturbed, leaving their little ephemeral pointy prints, taunting me.