By Tony Rehagen
We run barefoot down the boardwalk as first light breaks. The still invisible sun paints the horizon purple and blue before setting fire to the streaking clouds with a sudden blaze of orange. The ocean is calm, a distorted mirror of the sky. We trace the seam of water and land, where gentle waves wipe the shore smooth. Sand is cold between our toes as the receding sea pulls the ground from beneath our feet. The sun is rising, but we cast our gaze downward. We scour the ground for shells: lettered olive, angel wing, channeled duckclam, calico scallop, and knobbed whelk. Once a mollusk’s home, abandoned and cast aside, it’s now our treasure. Everyone else is still asleep, no competition—just us and the ghost crabs scuttling along. The tide is low, exposing a trove of shells, and if we’re lucky, maybe a shark’s tooth or a sea dollar intact. The morning hunt is good.
