With a couple of mouth-watering Caprese sandwiches from Ted's Butcherblock in tow, we headed up country and parked by the fields. J. recalled the trials and triumphs of yore as we sat on the bleachers and tore into our picnic. The trees were at their peak color, the sun was warm and the breeze was cool as we rolled up our jeans, picked a spot by the creekbank and waded in to our ankles. Hunting for sharks' teeth in this environment, as I soon found out, involves squatting in the chilly water and scooping up handfuls of mud and rocks, then sifting through them carefully with an eye out for the telltale glint and angled edges. Once found (oh happy day!), we put each tooth in our Ziploc baggie with the corner cut off and then returned to squatting, digging and sifting.
All in all, J. found 14 and I found 16. Quite the haul considering he wasn't too sure those teeth would still be there after fourteen years. We drove home soggy but satisfied, then washed up and headed out for a fine French dinner before meeting our friends for drinks. Sigh.


1 comment:
hello there!
love that handful of choppers.
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