The driftwood, in its marred glory, sat half-ways buried in sand, packed further in by the waves, rough things that liked to tease and torment the stretch of shore. Anarchy on the shores, lugworm burrows created uneven lumps on the otherwise even sand, which was beaten into submission by the constructing waves. They were intent on creating the perfect pavement. And a splash sharper than that of water hitting water and water hitting rock was heard. And its source was still at the water's surface. There it went, above the sandbar, a fleeting dorsal belonging to some form of aquatic life. No doubt it was a shark. It ran up sharply, fell sharply, and then turned back in, because a small point was detached from the body as in the manner of the shark. The dolphin is known for a dorsal like a sloping hill. This was a crag, a steep, mountainous crag, a jutting edge that disappeared amongst the dark outline of water and froth of wave crest and wave beatings and wave disturbances. With one come many, and despite being invisible, there were others. Swiveling beneath the surface, plotting under the waves, the sharks grow strong as nature gives them their tools. Jellyfish were carried amongst the tides to places old and new, a seed rustled out of a tree and sent to go on adventures. A seed does not care when deceptive winds reveal their tricks and send it on its way to the jaws of a predator. Jellyfish are unlike to care when the bossy waves send them to a watery grave, or into a mass of plastics. They do not care because they do not have feelings. Perhaps if they did have feelings, they would know that the wind and waves have also been kind for starting their adventure in the first place. And that the elements did not target them, and that this is the way of things. And humanity was just described on the water's edge, all the pushers and downtrodden and rebels and drifters. But we do not blame ourselves, or even harbor no blame. Everything is their fault. Everyone is out to get me, and you. As explained on the beach.