We live near the mouth of the Rio de la Plata, and the water at the beach goes from being salt-free enough that the dogs will drink it, to being so salty that I can float (and I generally cannot float). Occasionally, best I can tell, the “wrong” water sweeps in, killing fish that aren’t adapted to it, which then wash up on shore. This looks a bit odiferous, and it was; I didn’t go for a walk this morning.
However, twice since we’ve been here I’ve seen the entire beach carpeted with dead fish, all their eyes pecked out by the birds.
I used to think of myself as a mountain person, and perhaps still do. I can’t wait to explore Bolivia (this week’s armchair travel :).
But my usually-daily 2-mile walk reveals a beach that constantly changes — not as much as the mouth of the Solís Chico in parque del Plata, my favorite. A couple of things it served up this morning:
* dead things on the beach