Abstract
The beach beckons us with its seashells. More than just ornate collectables, they testify to the Creator's lavish provision for even the lowliest creatures. Growing up in Southern California affords endless opportunities for adventure. A short drive away from the city are towering mountains, where you can spend a weekend playing in the snow. Just a few miles in another direction, sandy hiking trails crawl through some of the hottest deserts on the planet. If you don't like roughing it, you never have to leave the confines of Los Angeles to enjoy an endless smorgasbord of shows, concerts, and food trucks. Me? I always loved the beach. On a hot summer day, there's nothing like a cool, crisp ocean breeze to wash away all your troubles. As you walk along the shoreline, your toes sink into the warm, wet sand. Gentle waves lap against the shore, while the scent of salt water makes you glad just to be alive. Looking out over the ocean, your mind naturally drifts to thoughts about the greater power beyond. But I'm a little different. I love shells most of all, and not for the reason most people do. When I'm standing at the beach and glimpse a shell, my mind races to an alien world just beneath the ocean surface. As a biologist, I know that few places on earth are as difficult as the intertidal zone.