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Sea otters, like streaks of silver, swim with rolling gait among the waves far, far below. I stand atop the red-hued cliff, tall grasses swinging wildly in the wind. The day before, I wandered across the soft sand and over the slanted sheet of rock slick with the sea. The barnacles are tiny and make no impression on my bare feet. Sea imp hair, white with age, clings to the rock around me. They’ve left for the sea to grow their new hair, green and iridescent.

I want to get a picture of that archway and the churning waves beyond. I am running out of time. The tide is coming in and will soon close my escape route. White froth spills over my giant’s table. Just beyond another arch is a pebbly beach. I remember it from my dreams. But it is that arch among the sea I want.

Ocean spray fills my shot. I try again. The sea slides over that hump of rock just beyond. One eye on the sea nearly surrounding me, I take one shot after another. Leave it to Man to stop time and freeze it. I look over my shoulder. A river of seawater divides me from that distant beach. I walk to the edge of the table, wait for the sea to draw in its breath, then I step into the water and cross.