The tide on the beach is a slow, quiet speech. You are here with me to listen. No one can speak like the sea. Not even Grandfather whose voice came down from the mountain, filled the valley so that his son, our poor father, could not utter even an echo. The ocean has a different cadence, measured by tides. Is there something of God here? No, not that! I have never understood the language of Heaven, and yet the stars speak plainly enough for a child. Who can understand this whisper of water on sand? You are here, listening; for words, music, sounds from the sea of our youth? If I hold a shell up to your ear will you tell me what you hear?