Our penultimate day. The rhythm has been found, and now it’s about to change again. C’est la vie. Wildflowers of all shades form a Monet blur. We’re never far from the sea, and can feel it’s weight in the air when we drop in elevation. Tires and coast, like any good relationship, have ups and downs. Safeway parking lots are waypoints. At lunch, a family offers us a clam feast and a place to stay. If only we had more time. Is there anything more valuable? Is there anything less guaranteed? A stretch of timelessness is priceless. In between the Safeway and the blind curve, we slipped out of time and into a reverie. Bonded by setting summer sun. Our ice cream saloon had a second floor full of seashells and crabs dredged up over the last 150 years, including placards noting when, where and how. Fiddler crab, 1879, trawled up from 40 fathoms in Puget Sound. Turns out, this quaint display was the world’s second largest seashell collection. Philippines conches, Korean murex, South African abalone, Baja Californian geoduck. And the taxidermied seahorse pulling a scallop chariot? Divine. Spirals of all sizes. Shells to galaxies, broccoli to Nazca Lines. Circling around a fixed point, ascending. We return to where we began, but with new perspective. Tomorrow, the Green Tortoise. There and back again. One final shell to shuck before we spiral on.