|The waves were still high, making a continual roaring sound, punctuated by rolling pebbles as each wave retreated. Diving ducks bob up and down in the distance.|
|Logs piled on the beach, more coming in with each wave.|
|Log-rolling competitors, waiting for the starting gun?|
|Big log coming straight in, advancing a few inches with each wave. (It's perfectly straight; if it looks bent to you, it's an optical illusion.)|
|Wood chewed up by repeated slamming against a stony beach.|
|Drying out, bashed and stained, draped with black eelgrass.|
After the logs, and surpassing them for number and variety, were the plastics. With every step I took, I had to pick up another piece or two. In one small stretch, I collected a full grocery bag of bits and pieces, from broken toys to bags to bottles and containers. Plastic objects (a metre-long drainage pipe, for example) too large to carry along with my bags, I carted up to the blackberry bushes above the tide line; at least they won't slide back down to the beach to be broken up and become gull food. I wished I had more time. I wished I had an army of volunteers with me, all provided with big bags.
I was surprised to see no styrofoam. I wonder why.