On the other hand, the beach and its cliffs that stand as buffers against the sea never allow much in terms of residential time, except to societies that can adapt themselves to living between the wet sand grains, minute plants, and animals; and beach hoppers that burrow in on the upper parts of the beach, or other crustaceans that sink into the sand and out again as the waves go up and back, reacting simultaneously. It is a terribly exacting place to live in. Life is short. Disturbance is always to be expected, and the more so in the course of a storm, which may change the whole physical character of the beach itself. While I was walking on the beach I rented a small summer cottage in the South Wellfleet area during the late autumn and early winter months, so as to be able to spend nights as well as days by the sea, and I paid it sporadic visits when I could. I remember one night when the sea showed me just how candidly elemental and violent it could be. A northeast storm had been making up all day. Off the Provincetown area, where the waters are protected by Peaked Hill Bar--extending from Race Point to High Head, some thousands of feet offshore and parallel to it--the sea though gray and choppy, was relatively calm, while the wind blew hard. I could see several fishing boats on the horizon. They were surrounded by clouds of gulls. The sky was not totally overcast to begin with but full of handsome blue-gray clouds that sailed across the air like great round slates. Farther south the gray Atlantic foamed and rocked ahead, and the green surf came in dashing with spume and spray, pouring an angry froth on the shore. Finally the sky closed in completely. By nightfall, water driven by air filled earth and sky. A little ship’s bell on the porch outside kept tinkling, and the wind rained blows on the house. The walls thudded as if they were being struck by rocks. Rain pelted the windows and the cold knifed in between the door and the sill. The sea was putting on a profound and concentrated roar. I went out and fought the wind as far as the top of the bank above the beach. Beyond and below that it was almost impossible to stand. A mountainous milky surf was seething, overturning, and piling in. Fury was riding high. The wind belted houses, shrubs, and scanty trees. The beach grasses were tossed, bent down, and released. Rain slashed and whipped wildly everywhere and it seemed that all the natural power and danger in the world had been let loose. When day broke majestic breakers were booming and pounding down the beach as the north wind drove long lines of spray across their heads.