The tide sprung low and short on Sunday. Chek Jawa fanned out in an expanse of seagrass and loose weed that gleamed gold and green in the morning rays. The mudflats drew the chill whistles of plovers and whimbrels that plundered the soft layers for spring fuel. In trickling rivulets, the sea deserted the shore and forced its children to find half-time refuges in the baking sand. The stars ran amuck and sped through the pools, while holothurians dug in to keep their bodies abloat. The stream cascaded in gentle terraces, biding warm bodies to turn their backs to the sea and imagine the caress of a meadow brook as it bubbles through a bed of fluid salt.