One summer we found a dead baby shark washed up on the beach, cut it open with a dinner knife from the house, and performed an outdoor autopsy.1 As we marveled at its miniature anatomy, reveled in the smallness of each little organ, seagulls circled overhead. The ocean was quiet, barely making waves. It kept vigil for its tiny causality. The spring prior, an alligator wandered onto the beach during my uncle’s second wedding. It was far enough away to merit an absence of fear, but nobody took photos or said a word— we just stared as it settled itself in the surf, hoping to be cleansed.
