15. Weather
We should have turned around as soon as we saw the surf – all choppy and muddy.
But he insists that the churn is good. “That’s how you find the best shark’s teeth,” after all.
We drag our feet through the coarse quartz sands, settling on a spot just far enough away from the rocks but not too far from the car. I unfold my long chair and get set up with my usual defences; a big hat, book, frayed oversized t-shirt, and sunglasses. Meanwhile, he peels his layers off, collects his equipment and shoves his clothes into the spot where my things were tightly packed.
“Have fun,” I tell him, “be careful.”
He gives me a kiss, grabs his sifter, and heads towards the thrashing waves.
And so begins our usual routine. I read, with a pencil in hand to underline any striking prose, and he sifts for prehistoric treasures. I’ve tried my own hand at it, but always found the iridescent shards of abalone more striking. He keeps the pieces he comes across in his pocket for me. Maybe one day I’ll make something with the jar of shards that sits on my desk.
Shark’s teeth, stingray plates, and glyptodon scoots all have a place in our home. He sorts them by location; ocean or river, then by beach or creek. I prefer to avoid anywhere that alligators loom. I never knew about any of this until him. A fragment of a megalodon tooth stares at me from his desk, kept safe in a baseball display box.
The waves smash against him but he stands unshaken, peering at his latest dig that he’s washing with the waves. The swell has indeed churned up treasures. His white knuckles grip the sun-faded pool noodles zip-tied to the PVC frame of his sifter in anticipation. He fervently picks out the prized teeth and plates and pops them into an old peanut jar that he salvaged on our last trip. He has carefully tied it to the sifter and it bobs in the waves once he’s fastened the lid.
“Rivers are better for fossils,” he once explained to me. They preserve things better. Less thrashing and erosion that comes with the harsh swells of saltwater. Still, I prefer the beaches. Rivers remind me that we’re in a swamp, but beaches feel close to home.
The shoreline calls out with the beating sound of an angry ocean. Any thought I had before we stepped onto the sand has been drowned out. He is sprayed by the surf as he routinely turns his back on the waves that break against him. I put my book down, no words are sinking in, and notice that the beach has cleared. A black sky is moving in from the south and a cold breeze is drifting in under the close sun. I shout to him and he looks to where I’m pointing. He scrunches his face with disappointment.
“Five minutes,” he mouths, gesturing with his hand. I nod and begin the motions of packing up our tiny setup. It suddenly feels like a long way back to the car, standing in the hot, sinking quartz sand. I wonder if the weather will trap us on the beach where he is grinning over his latest, prehistoric, prize.
