Racing up and down the wet silk sand, digging as easily as if air and water and sand were the same thing. We would lie near them on the dry hot sand, just above the wet marks of the waves, and watch them at their level. You would find an empty crab carapace, marvel at the sandy lines, the delicate whorls of patterns, wondering how something so fragile could withstand the pounding waves. Magic, I would tell you. And you would believe me implicitly.