I forage for driftwood and, after the winter storms, find plenty of old planks and logs washed down with the tides. Getting a fire going proves harder than I had imagined, but after a few false starts with a cheap lighter and some torn pages from my notebook I succeed . I watch the sun going down on Midsummer eve while my little saltwood fire burns down to ash and my jacket potatoes slowly soften in the coals. The tide rises and recedes, the wind picks up. I am sticky from salt spray and sweat and my eyes sting with smoke but I am proud of my fire, feeling like a survivalist chick.