For many summers, the seaweed was the cursed interruption to the tactile beauty of the sand and waves. Ash became its proxy in a summer blighted by heat and destruction and ominous silences. Returning, this latest summer heralded a cautious healing and newly uninterrupted views were blocked only by a wall of sound. The sand now became the repository of thousands of spent cicadas whose flights ended abruptly in the waters off Bendalong.

There was an undeniable compulsion to collect evidence and make a mark for memory, for restoration.
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