I'm pulling whelks (which in the dream look precisely like giant prawns) and bakery-fresh bags of croissants from the sand at the water's edge as my father has taught me I could. there's a seaside town, all wooden walkways and jetties full of small watercraft– I walk the boardwalk for hours, all the way down the length of it and back again, stopping along the way for little tangential adventures– one of which involves going through racks of old clothing with a longlost college friend, making stacks of things to donate but still loathe to lose the memories they hold. along the way we run across a charming irishman who won't reveal his name but induces us to steal a boat with him, some fascinating and graceful contraption in which we flow out across the water silently and swiftly. a dog comes with the boat, a sweet old girl with silky fur, whom I carry in my arms for much of the later walking. we steer the boat out a ways to avoid traffic and detection and ride along a distant sandbar with standing skeletons of an old forest and cows and an occasional white horse ghostly among the trunks and branches. I flirt with the irishman until I realize everything I say is further convincing him of my rudeness– and then lapse into silent unhappiness, feeling dreadfully misunderstood. just before the dream ends I'm asked by an artist what I do and tell her that I sculpt the negative space around trees.