As I ran along the Pigeon Point beach this morning, past the surffishermen, their poles braced against their waists, staring into the fog laid out over the sea, I came to a flock of gulls chattering and milling on the sand. A stream cut through the beach, winding shallowly to the ocean. In one broad curve was the carcass of a seal, the clear water sloughing around it, with what seemed to be the legs of a crab poking from its torn belly. I turned to go, and a gull skuttered down to pick at the seal's innards. The only sound I could hear was the relentless crash of the rolling waves.