We were folded into our layers of cotton tee shirts and long underwear and hooded sweat suits, bare skin showing only below the ankle and beyond the wrist. Warm against the chill of a cold August midnight, our toes sank beneath the sand to find wells of cold ocean water. We wanted the feeling to envelop our knees and hips and elbows and temples, we wanted to run naked between the dunes and the water, over the sand left revealed and cold and sunken in a low tide. The breaking foam of the water mingled with the occasional car on the highway, summer pop songs and old mufflers. And we wanted to be a part of it, the black and white and dark blueness of it all. We snaked arms out of sleeves, we pushed elastic waistbands down to the sand. And then a flicker of light and teenage laughter, tucked away into the dunes, close, too close. A band of kids snuck up on us with their bonfire and their beer and their dark shadowy forms. We looked at each other, five layers of clothing on the ground while eleven still hugged our small frames. Drat, Naila said, screwing up her face. I picked up discarded clothing, flushed, and suggested a quick escape from the band of bonfire marijuana miller light kids. So off we ran, into the blue.