text: [Themes: Fantasy, contemplative, animals, underwater, dragon, maritime]
  
  > Go downwards
  You fill your lungs to capacity and dive into the water.
  
  Underwater, (drifting)
  The gradually sloping ocean floor is only about ten feet below the surface here. The sandy bottom is layered with a suspension of mud and fine silt. Here and there, thin leaved plants claw through the mud like grasping fingers. Dominating the entire area is an enormous slab of barnacle encrusted rock.
  
  The crab, which had resumed its perch on top of the rock, scuttles back into the fissure on your approach.
  
  A few small bubbles escape your lips, glittering in the light as they rise towards the surface.
  
  > examine the fissure
  It's a deep, dark crevice cut in the rock.You can just make out the tip of the conch shell hidden in it.
  
  Pressure starts to build in your lungs.
  
  > go west
  You kick back towards shore, skimming along for a few yards before coming to rest in shallower water.
  
  Shallow Water, South of Pier
  You're up to your knees in the gently surging tide. It flows up onto the beach to the west and grows deeper to the east. To the north, you can pass among the pylons supporting the pier.
  
  Something unseen nips lightly at your toes.
  
  > Go west
  You splash merrily out of the shallow water, on to the hard packed sand.
  
  Damp Sand, South of Pier
  To the east, the shallow surf ebbs and flows up onto the cold, wet sand. The sand turns into powdery gold back to the west. To the north, you can pass among the pylons supporting the long pier that extends from the pavilion. The small castle you found here earlier has disappeared. The mites must have integrated its materials into the larger castle.
  
  > Go west
  Cool wet sand gives way to warm dry sand as you climb up the beach.
  
  Dry Sand, South of Pier
  The cool early evening has left the beach nearly deserted but for a few joggers and unsupervised children. To the east, the dry, powdery sand goes hard as it rolls down toward the swelling tide. The boardwalk lies back to the west. To the north, tall dunes flank the base of the pavilion, blocking your way.
  Someone has scrawled a message and a simple diagram in the powdery sand.
  A heap of trash has been scattered into the sand by the squabbling flock of gulls. The shallow hole you dug here earlier is still visible.
  
  Hundreds of gulls are engaged in a fierce battle over the pile of refuse, squabbling and squawking at each other and filling the air with hungry shrieks.
  
  The entire flock suddenly erupts in a bout of frenzied screeching for no apparent reason. After a moment or two, they revert to their original decibel level.
  
  > go to the northwest
  You skip across the wooden boardwalk, passing over the scrub covered dunes.
  
  The brick beach path ends at the foot of a cement stairway that leads east to the Tybrisa Pavilion. To the northeast and southeast, twin boardwalks wrap around the pavilion towards the beach. By one of the boardwalks is a simple public shower, while a white diving bell stands near the entrance of a small building to the northwest. Your hotel towers back to the west, obscuring the sunset.
  A sign advertising boiled peanuts points east, into the pavilion. There's an ugly gap in the path.
  You see a strapless pair of goggles, a cork, a broken stave, an antique bottle, a clam shell, a length of rope, and a white rubber strap here.
  
  > Go east
  You skip lightly up the concrete stairs to the pavilion.
  
  You're standing in the center of a colossal gazebo that provides shade for sunburned tourists like yourself. The octagonal floor is made of unbroken grey concrete, bordered on each face by a waist high railing. Tall beams support a sloping wooden canopy that rises over three times your height. A red brick enclosure squats in the southwest corner and a small snack bar nestles up against the enclosure to the south. To the east lies the foot of a seemingly endless pier.
  There are numerous wooden benches here. Right now, they're
  stacked, one on top of another, into a towering wooden column twice your height.
  
  > Go east
  The light of the setting sun warms your back as you exit the shade of the pavilion and begin the long stroll down the pier.
  
  The pier is even longer than it looked. It stretches back west to the great pavilion and continues still further east towards the sea. A small shelter rests at the far end. From below, you can hear the fizzle and hiss of the shallow surf.
  
  > go to the east
  It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the shade beneath the small shelter.
  
  The pier ends here in a small rectangular shelter with a low wooden roof. You imagine that, seen from overhead, it would look like a pendulum hung from the face of the pavilion. The railing surrounds you on all sides but to the west, where you can follow the pier back towards the pavilion. A water fountain is tucked in one corner.
  You see a shrimp here.
  
  An old man is fishing off the pier with a great, heavy rod. Resting on the railing beside him is an open tackle box, while at his feet sit a bucket full of freshly caught fish and an empty burlap sack.
  
  The old man draws a cigarette from his breast pocket, rolls it meditatively between thumb and forefingers, and then puts it away.
  
  > look at the fish
  A couple of flounder and some grouper, but mostly a bunch of red herring.
  
  The old man stares out to sea, and solemnly salutes a far away tanker.
  
  > examine man
  He looks like he just stepped out of a Hemingway novel. He stares out to sea, lantern jaw thrust defiantly forward, stony countenance unbroken by any hint of emotion, while the evening breeze tousles his iron gray hair. He wears a rumpled blue shirt, brown canvas slacks, and heavy boots. The cuffs of his shirt are rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms of corded steel. Powerful hands, scarred times beyond measure, anchor a rod no more rigid than themselves.
  
  The old man pulls back on his rod with all his might, struggling to reel in whatever he's hooked. Incredibly, an enormous marlin breaks the surface! But victory is short lived. The line snaps and the old man staggers nearly off his feet.
  
  > take the shrimp
  Taken.
  
  The slight breeze carries the sound of the old man grumbling to himself.
  
  > give the shrimp to the man
  The old man's head turns towards you as if driven by archaic machinery. You can almost hear the gears groaning. He stares at you expressionlessly for a long, embarrassing moment that drags on interminably. Finally, his eyes dismiss you with a nearly imperceptible flicker before beginning the long return voyage out to sea.
  
  The slight breeze carries the sound of the old man grumbling to himself.
  
  > ask the man about the job
  You don't know of any such thing.
  
  The old man consults his bait box, and reties his line with a new lure.
  
  > take the tackle
  The old man spots you reaching for his tackle box and fires off a smouldering glower that burns straight through the center of your forehead.
  
  The old man draws a cigarette from his breast pocket, rolls it meditatively between thumb and forefingers, and then puts it away.
  
  > ask the man about the lobster trap
  The old man frowns, but says nothing.
  
  The old man doggedly reels in a few lengths of line.