We searched the shore for beach glass all morning, bottles worn gold and citrine by the warm Brazilian bay, watching for bonnethead sharks and seahorses, the little a candy maker’s palette of colors, speckled and striped, spiny and technicolor, graffitied. Sun glaring off the reefs, lighting the little gems, and we filled our pockets like pirates. We found a perfect clamshell, slipping the matching halves into our intertwined fingers, thinking of dinner, linguine with wine, creamy, no clams.