Perhaps it was the unseasonably warm weather, or the giant "blondie" tooth my dad's diver friend had recently given me, but something prompted J. to declare that THIS would be the Friday we finally went hunting for sharks' teeth. I had heard about the spot for years: a creek behind the fields where my husband played club soccer where hundreds of sharks' teeth had been deposited long ago when the ocean came up that far (some 20 miles inland).
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.