Hopewell Rocks, August 1961. I am standing at the edge of the North Atlantic, icy water swirling around my feet as the lazy waves encroach and slither away. I am six years old and furious. I have no idea why.

In this bay the tides are among the most extreme in the world. The moon must have a strong pull in this part of Canada. Now at the lowest of lows, columns of rock loom over me like fossilized giants buried up to their necks in sand, their craggy faces capped with pine trees for hair. These islands are so very old and so strange, stranded in the drained out bay. Later today the water will come back, forty feet high, and the islands will be islands once more.

But now I am standing alone in the empty bay, snapping seaweed. Each loud pop is more satisfying than the last. My parents and sisters have gone on, leaving me to enjoy my snit. I am in no danger of being swept away. I can hear my sisters calling to each other, but as far as I'm concerned they could all be on the moon.

My eyes fix on the sand collar. I hate it.

Earlier we'd come upon it among the tide pools and Mom gave us an on the spot marine biology lesson. A sand collar, she explained, is formed from the excretions of a moon snail laying its eggs. The eggs are embedded in a layer of sand and slimey mucus that hardens into a collar shaped egg case. After this disgusting procedure, the moon snail oozes away across the sand flats, never to see its offspring again.

She was so excited to find this thing, this boring sand collar. Everyone stood around peering at it like they'd discovered a treasure chest full of gold doubloons. Now that would have been interesting. I thought they would never stop poking at it and exclaiming over it. It was a little tan thing, about as big as my hand. It looked like a tiny lampshade.
The tide has turned. I can tell because the stick Dad stuck in at the water's edge is half covered up. He's always measuring the tide that way. I notice the waves are a little livelier now. The sun's getting low in the sky and the giants have filled the bay with long shadows.

I pick up that sand collar and heave it into the waves. In seconds the ocean reclaims it.
Now I'm in big trouble. I've sent my Mom's precious discovery back to the briny deep where it belongs. Surely I'll be punished for this. The sand collar is long gone, but perhaps I can find another one on the tidal flats. Only now the flats are under water, the giants immersed to their ears. This is my punishment to be swept away to sea with the sand collar, captured by vengeful moon snails who will cover me in mucus and encase me with their eggs. I'll either go down to Davy Jones locker or wash up on the beach where some spiteful little girl will step on me and squash me flat.

"Susie! Susie! Look what we found!" My sisters are back, bearing more sea treasures hermit crabs, mermaid's purses and razor clam shells. Mom and Dad bring up the rear, hauling a heavy bucket.

"Where's the sand collar?" says Liz.

I shrug.

Mom looks briefly stricken. I know she can see right inside my brain and knows exactly what I've done.

"Tide's coming up fast," says Dad, checking his nearly submerged stick. "Come on girls." Pam and Liz scamper up the path, followed by Dad with the bucket. That leaves Mom and me, looking out on the disappearing giants in the bay.

"Cold?" she says.

I nod. I am not about to confess to anything. She zips me up, encasing me snugly into my green hooded sweatshirt, and we climb out of the bay into the sunny land above.

Learn more about this author, Susan Clements.
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