Mists sprays through the air, trailing the salty sea-water smell in its passing. Near the water the barnacle-covered rocks are slick with moisture as wave after wave crashes into their sides, repeatedly dousing them with its current. A single rock juts out of the water 6 feet from the shore. The seagulls cry out as they circle, occasionally landing on the single spire to spy on the unsuspecting bullheads who dart in and out of the underwater crevasses between the rocks. With each wave, the sea climbs its way a little farther up the pebble-stricken beach. Driftwood as large as redwoods dot the landscape, as would corpses on a battleground. One huge trunk lies just out of the waters reach, rising 10 feet off the shore, its sun-bleached sides and splayed roots worn smooth by the countless children who have played upon it. No-one climbs on it today, the cold winter wind and grey skies create a significant obstacle to the playful offspring. Of course, the seagulls don’t have this prerogative; they maintain their perch rain or shine, always on the lookout for their next meal. Always waiting, looking, hungry, ready for that one fish to get swept out of its safety among the rocks into an escapeless tide pool. The bullheads continue their mulling, gulping infinitesimal pieces of debris, unaware of the beady eyes boring into their spiny backside, unaware of the danger not 5 feet away, just waiting for them to make but a single mistake. That’s all it takes on the beach, a single mistake….