The day we found the sharks' teeth was foggy and cool. moisture hung in the air so thick you could almost see it sparkling in the dim sunlight. there were days, early in the summer like this one, where it seemed there was more water in the air than in the bay. we had beached the boat and stepped out on the recently cleared spit of land. the ground had a light dusting of white sand over an under layer of dried black mud. it looked like a recently frosted chocolate cake, though the frosting was spread a bit thin for my taste. the ground was solid, but we knew from experience that it was full of fiddler crab holes, and would be underwater at the first super-high tide. mysteriously, to us anyway, someone wanted to build a house there. we often came to these spots to look for artifacts. our beach, our summer home, had been a fishing camp for as long as anyone living could remember. the oldest stories told of travelers coming down to the edge of the sea, lining up to fill their wagon beds with salted fish to take back home. old decaying cabins still lined the beach. rotting nets, hung out to dry in the last century, decorated their weathered walls. their broken faces spun stories in our minds. the fishermen who, tanned and wrinkled from sun and salt, hauled their nets full of splashing mullet in to cheers from the waiting crowds. the bounty of the sea lightened everyone's hearts, and the smell of roasting fish filled the damp air. women fanned themselves from wagon seats. children splashed in the shallow edges of the bay. it was a scene we had acted out as youngsters, building an imaginary bridge to a life we would never fully know.
what line from the text introduces an element of the plot?