Salty Dawg: Sand dollars

Salty Dawg: Sand dollars

The Gulf gives on its own schedule. Some weeks I swim out at sunset and the floor is bare, sand rippled and empty as a swept kitchen. I’ll surface with a shell, maybe, tucked in a pocket like a consolation prize. Other weeks I go down and there they are – pale circles scattered across the bottom like the sea emptied out a drawer. Sand dollars. That’s when I hoot and holler in the Gulf. I find one, and instead of coming up satisfied, I dive agai…