Salty Cemetery

They said there were sailors here. From the past - who walked the shore. Lost. Wandering. Looking for a way home.

He grew up hearing the stories while sitting on his grandfather's knee, looking up at him in awe. Ships had sailed. Come and gone. Some travelled safely, while others were not so lucky. Instead of finding their way home, they had found the jagged rocks of the reef that grew not far off the shore. Many said the sailors couldn't have had any idea what was about to happen. Back then the ships were fragile, made of wood. The jutting rocks would cause them to splinter under the weight of the waves pushing against them. Maybe some were asleep, never waking - just floating to the bottom of the sea. Others may have had the time to fill their head with thoughts of their loved ones.

Grandpa had always said their belongings were never found. Tossed amongst the waves, scattered along the sea floor - treasure for those lucky enough to find it.

Once he was old enough, he would wander the beach in the evening, looking among the wrecks that had been pushed ashore - water logged and bleached from the years of laying in the blazing sun. Some of the wooden pieces had almost rotten completely away, while the metal hulls were brown and red with thick layers of rust. He'd scour the sand during sunset - hoping the red orange glare of the sun would reflect of something - a watch, a gem, anything from the ships.

He was never so lucky.

Yet today - he ran home, his eyes lit with amazement.

He had been alone, of course, he was certain of it. But he swore he had heard a voice over his shoulder when he was inspecting a pice of a ship. Of course no one believed him. His mother, his father, not even his grandfather.

But he knew they were real. Right next to his foot prints, so fresh that the water was still seeping from them back into the sand, was another pair, the size of a man's - stretching back a far as his.

One of the sailors had joined him in the search to find his belongings.