Steve took me to Savannah for a few days,
a sweet birthday gift, maybe the very nicest part of turning fifty.
We left our spectacular room at the East Bay Inn and made the twenty-minute
drive to Tybee Island.
The early morning view was jaw-dropping. We roamed the beach and found a small, live sand dollar.
Completely engaged in watching its tiny bristles move in the stiff beach breeze,
we didn't notice her approach.
A hat-wearing beachcomber leaned in like an old friend, wanting a better view of the sand dollar.
In shaky, ominous tones, the older woman narrated the plight of the sea creatures around
Tybee due to recent offshore dredging. Obviously concerned for the life
of the sand dollar still bristling
in my husband's hand, she testified that the best policy is to
"throw it back into the waves, and give it a fighting chance."
As she edged nearer, I got the idea that she planned to snatch the sand dollar
from my husband's hand and run into the waves, alone on a daring
rescue mission to return it safely to Neptune's bosom.
So my husband threw it into the waves himself, saving her the trouble,
and she walked on with a smile and a casual (but triumphant) wave.