I grab the bottle from the canoe and come back. “After we have a drink, guys, we have to go, Claire—”
I stop, my voice overtaken by the crashing of a particularly large wave. Because the waves crash right at the water’s edge, and onto the steep grade of wave worn bricks, the wave sounds like thunder, exactly like thunder. As the curl nears us, a distant crackle builds into a collective rumble. Awesome.
There’s another sound, one that becomes more apparent as the crashing wave fades. It’s a beeping, like when a truck is backing up, and another sound I can’t quite place. Is that hydraulics?
Then I look down the beach at the half cone piles of windshields and marble, the ones that appear freshly dumped, and then I look up.