Saturday afternoon Frank and I ride from the beach. I graziella the blue, he with the mountain bike that creaking my grandfather has collected from the ditch, and has adjusted in some way. We arrive at the beach and soaking up the sun in his face. We also sit on the rocks, to smoke a cigarette and take a tour of Trump. I lose because I get distracted watching the waves. I am convinced that he saw the rising tide.
We are approaching the shore again, and I would show him the little holes in the shape of 8 left in the sand by the long cape, the shrimp in Italian, I think. Way bent to peer, but I can not find even one. Only later, at home, I will speak of it to my grandfather, and I will explain that the long head of the beach are all dead. No one knows why.
Instead of holes in the shape of 8, I find so many piles of wet sand rolled out the presence of sea worms. Ugly animals. With Francis decided to look for crabs, and I declare: I am a very capable hunter, but did not find a single one, not even those. Have cold?
We're going back on their bikes as they approach running two dogs that pass us to jump into the water and then squeeze and roll. I'm big and I'm scared, so I keep my eyes firmly on crabs disappeared, and I hope I do not consider the dogs alive.
