I made sure to get to the beach at low tide after the storm. It was a wild one—high winds, floods, erosion of the shoreline. At one point, I stood in the middle of the street and the rising waters reached my ankles.
But the next day was clean and clear. The beach was covered with fragments of white, black, red, and blue. I wanted full shells to take home as evidence of weathering the storm, but all I found were pieces.

I walked for blocks in Ocean City with my head down, hoping to find a few intact shells for my efforts. When I hit 15th Street, something different caught my eye: a black rock about the size of a golf ball. Next to it was an opaque green stone—smaller and smoother, more like a marble.

I picked them both up, and found another close by­—a bold brilliant blue­—then another, and another. Soon I had too many to carry in my hands. I put the rocks in my shoulder bag, and kept grabbing for more.

Every time I stopped and said “enough,” I would find another­—a smooth, dark red rock or a clear piece that you could see sand through. I picked up rocks until my shoulder ached under the weight of the bag­—and still I picked up more. I should have stopped, I know, but I worried that this was the one time these shore gems would be on the beach and if I took a break or went back to my car for more bags, they’d be washed away.

The rocks are now in a vase on my dining room table. They’re a jumbled assortment­—they don’t match in size or color. The only tie is that I found them on the beach that day when I was looking for something completely different. And that’s the best part of all.