Walking on a gray beach somewhere on the West Coast. I never thought of Ben Brown as a beachcomber but there he is strolling along, unkempt in a corduroy jacket. The sand is littered with broken clam shells. Looking closer I see that some of them are intact but when I go for them they burrow away deeper into the sand. On my knees, digging with my hands I start to worry about injuring my fingers.

I get one and pry it open with my Case knife only to realize that it's actually an oyster and that the meat has been covered in sand. Looking around I can tell that everyone expects me to eat it. I put it in my mouth and try to convey to them that it tastes good. They are doubtful.