You want to walk all the way out to the waves that are breaking just where the water enters the bay, a deep channel of swift-flowing tide, in and out. You long to go there to the breakers. Something about it beckons. Firm sand left bare by the low tidal waters, ripples in the sand, like the Sahara Desert, a flatland of sand. Always with mirrors of shallows reflecting the sun and clouds. Like a mirage it is. Every time you go down there during low tide, through the grasses, the long grasses like troll’s hair, and down the trail between the cliffs, you see the sand all barren, and those waves in the far distance breaking, beckoning.