It’s beachy weather, a hot blue sky with white froths of cloud. The sun is a hammer of heat, tempered by a chill wind blowing out to sea. It comes in fits and gusts, flinging stinging sand down from the dunes. Shorebirds scurry in the lulls and brace against the blowing grit, eyes squinted. To evade exfoliation, they explode upwards into the air, flying in rapid wing-beats above the haze. I have my back to the wind, sheltering the camera from a sandblasting. Out of focus, the airborne grit is a textural mist, swirling around the birds. The dotterels vanish completely, their sandy camouflage blending into the bleached shelly greys. Only the tōrea are visible, the oystercatchers in their blacks and oranges, fuzzy at the edges, scampering across the sand, hunkering behind dunelets and driftwood. Weeks later, I still have sand in my pockets.