That night we camped just over the provincial line and into Nova Scotia. It was only in the morning that I understood the sign. I hadn't noticed the noise at first. Perhaps I thought it was distant traffic. But as I headed to the shore, it grew increasingly--rumbling, clattering, a growl that pulled me forward. My dog, too, pulled on his leash, compelled and curious--he, perhaps, thinking it was another kind of animal. I have certainly known the sound of surf upon the shore and this was cousin to that. But without the rhythm of wave, it continued a steady build until at last, I glimpsed the water's edge. Glistening in the slant of morning sun, the sloping, rocky shore was alive with movement. We had arrived as low tide was turning! Rocks tumbled, jumped, ground over over one another in a strange hurl toward land. The swift surge of water mounted giant boulders and carried large stones like straw. I yelled above the roar--or tried to, but I could not outshout the moon.