Day 1. The other side of the ocean is in stark relief— where there is land, pencil line sketches of individual trees, and where there is not, oil rigs and ships and the waves that toss them.

Day 2. Still sanddollars by the hundreds and thousands, stranded green and spongy. I’m rescuing by ones and twos instead of dozens now, there are just far too many.

Day 3. The sky bleached white at the horizon, heavy blue above; the waves lap like a lake over the sandbar. Two dolphins chase each other into the surf, close enough to spray.

Day 4. Warm and quiet. The dolphins swim out and in, out and in, for over an hour; I fall asleep on the sand and sleep and sleep, they’re still there.

Day 5. Rain makes me the only living soul on the beach, save for two old men. The sky and sea are exactly the same hazy layered gray, giving a heady
sensation of being suspended in glass, no horizon. One of the men stands, hands clasped, facing out to sea; the other walks, separately, and endlessly chases the sandpipers, flapping around when he thinks no one sees. The setting sun finds an opening and slips through the clouds, painting our half-domed world with gold.

Day 6. The underbelly of a kite white against the white-gray sky. This is okay with me— rainbow colors or graphically emblazoned butterflies would not be, not today. A whole pod of the dolphins swim parallel to me, all along the shore.