“Well, you know my rules, Alexandria. I have to meet their parents before I take a child anywhere.”
Annoyed, my heart sank and I wished I could beat my head against a wall. That was my grandmother; so old-fashioned you’d think she was born in the 1900s, not the early 2200s. Somehow, I would have to figure out a way to get around Gran’s ancient ideals. Even if Dylan were to return to the restricted beach, I had no way of letting him know about the trip to San Fran. No way he’d turn down a trip like this—he’d want to go with me. I would just have to wait at the beach every day this week until he returned.
I was going to have to make up more lies. My newfound thirst for adventure had turned me from being an honest human being into a chronic liar.
“Okay, Gran. I’ll try to figure something out.”
“Good. Now, it’s time to eat. Dinner’s almost ready.”
. . .
Sand seeped between my toes as I made my way down the slope to the waterline of the restricted beach. The gentle waves lapped to shore rhythmically with a calming sound. Judging the distance between the water and the rocky zone, I noticed the waterline was out further than I had ever seen it. It must be the lowest tide of the month.
At the edge of the low tide zone, I observed what appeared to be slimy, green grass covering the rocks and sand. Smiling, I swung my backpack off my shoulders and braced it on the ground as I dug for the library book I’d been hoarding. With great delight, Dylan had found a way to check out a science book for me from the archives in Oceania a couple weeks ago. So far, I hadn’t had time to read it, but now seemed like a good time. Knowing that Dylan probably wasn’t going to be here today, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to brush up on my ocean knowledge.
Grasping the thick, heavy, leather book, I tugged it out. There had to be at least 1,000 pages in it. Brushing my fingers across the cover, I read the title: The Complete Guide of Tidal Flora and Fauna of Central and Northern California.
Trudging confidently to the waterline, my feet slipped as soon as they contacted the slimy, wet, grass, causing me to fall straight on my butt. I made up my mind that one of these days I was going to remember not to slip on the grass. Luckily, I hadn’t let go of the book when I fell, so it was still dry. Standing back up, I slid my feet on the slickness of the grass, careful to keep my balance until I found a suitable place to sit down.
Opening the book, it creaked as the old binding came apart slightly in one section. Tenderly cradling it in the crook of my left arm and balancing it against my bent knees, I turned a few pages until I found the table of contents. Instantly, I recognized that everything was grouped by kingdom, phylum, class, order, and so on. Thank goodness, they had the common names as well as the scientific ones for everything. It took me a bit, but I was able to identify the grass I was sitting in as surfgrass, or Phyllospadix torreyi. Running my hands over the surfgrass, I could feel the slick, slimy fibers of the strands. Based on what the book said, the sliminess I felt was used to help keep it from drying out too much in the sun. I guess it was the plant’s version of SPF-45.
Gingerly, I stood up on the surfgrass and made my way down the beach to the incoming surf. Exploring the wet sand region, I observed two different starfish. One was very purple and somewhat large. Spindly-looking veins spread out from the star-shaped center with a dot in the middle to cover the entire starfish. The other one had bright orange skin that appeared to be trapped between deciding if it had scales or ridge-like dots on its body.
Reaching down, I tried to pick up the purple one, but as I tugged and tugged, it refused to loosen its grip on the rock. Giving up, I moved to the bright orange one and lifted it with ease. Turning it over, it was much paler than its orange posterior. Grooves ran down each arm with tiny little hair-like things that reminded me of the bristles of a limp toothbrush. Sweeping my fingertip down the length of the arm, I felt how soft, yet clingy the bristle-like things were. The starfish began to move minutely as I held it, making me feel guilty for disturbing it. Squatting, I replaced it exactly where I had found it, bright side up.
Plucking the book out from under my arm where I’d tucked it, I hastily looked up both starfish. When I searched for starfish, I discovered the correct word for it was sea star. Finding the corresponding pages for the ones in front of me, I learned the purple one was called an ochre sea star, or Pisaster ochraceus. The orange one was a bat star, or Patiria miniata.
As I continued walking down the beach, the surf lapping up to my ankles with each incoming wave, I encountered more and more sea stars. Eventually, they became so numerous that I had a hard time not stepping on some of them. I began to wonder how people bought the lie about pollution spoiling the beaches here. This area was thriving. Then it dawned on me that it was probably thriving because humans were staying away.
Fearing I’d wind up stepping on one of the sea stars, I moved back towards the top of the beach to examine some of the tidepools Dylan had shown me the
