A story.
So my Grampa, one of the best humans I’ve known, paradoxically worked at positions most folks consider utterly horrible. He worked for a furrier before deciding the NYPD was definitely not going away during the Depression, worked for the IRS after getting invalided off the police force, worked as a realtor in Florida before it really got big. My Gramma, previously a much less hated teacher, became a fellow realtor.
I had the shells in a big bag, walked up and down the beach throwing shells out onto the beach, some into the shallows (Florida doesn’t get rough surf like we do here), until they were all gone. I hope the next morning some tourists were ridiculously happy at this cool stuff they’d discovered. I’m pretty sure that’s what either of them would’ve done if they’d been there.