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distance spaced at intervals too regular to be natural. Some sort of man-made structures.
    â€œHow do we get down?”
    â€œWe climb.” Ward pulled off his pack and began to unload rope and harnesses. “There’s no path to the beach. It’s safer that way.”
    Cam wondered what was safer about climbing down a cliff to get to their destination, and then realized that Ward must mean the destination was safer from others trying to get to it.
    Ward secured the rope to a sturdy tree, strapped himself in, and motioned for Cam to follow his lead. Cam stepped into the harness, fiddled with its straps and buckles, and then looked up at Ward.
    â€œIs this good?”
    â€œGood enough. Let the rope out gradually as you descend.” With that, Ward stepped backward over the edge of the cliff.
    Cam was a good athlete, and he could already bench-press fifty pounds more than the year before. But halfway down his teeth were gritted, his fingers were cramping, and his biceps burned. He clung to mouse-sized handholds, not trusting the rope, and the toes of his unsized boots were jammed into cavities in the cliff surface or crowded onto tiny rock protrusions.
    â€œWard…,” he called, groping blindly with his foot. “I’m slipping.”
    â€œDon’t,” came the reply. “I’m not down yet. I haven’t got you.”
    â€œI am going to fall,” Cam said evenly. “And then I am going to die.”
    â€œClimb back up to the last good resting point,” Ward advised. “Hold out there for one minute until I’m in position. You can do it.”
    Cam strained upward, his muscles screaming. He was able to reach a better handhold. Then Ward was down.
    â€œGot you!” he called.
    â€œDo I let go?”
    â€œYep. Trust me.”
    Cam had no choice. Even with the better hold, his arms were failing. He let go. There was a slight jerk as the slack in the rope tightened, then he hung suspended over the rocks on the beach below, clinging to the rope with his feet braced against the cliff.
    â€œDo you lower me now?”
    In answer, the rope began to play out, and Cam rappelled down, his feet hitting the wall every couple of yards. He pushed off and swung out, then swung back, smacking against the rock and flailing to keep his legs in front of him.
    â€œStop bouncing!” Ward yelled up to him. “Just walk.”
    Cam settled onto the wall and began to step backward as he descended. Soon he was hiking down at a steady pace. With the proper technique it was surprisingly easy, yet when he hit the beach, he still breathed a sigh of relief.
    Quiet waves crept up and swirled around Cam’s feet in the sand before slinking back into the ocean.
    â€œThere you go,” Ward said, “you learned something. Remember to use your feet for support next time. Don’t hang by your arms—your legs are a lot stronger. Any questions?”
    â€œJust one. Now that I’m at sea level, I can’t fall to my death anymore, right?”
    *   *   *
    As they walked the beach, Cam marveled at his new surroundings. Behind them, the towering cliffs dove straight into a bed of sand and dozens of scattered boulders shed over the centuries. The blue ocean swept in over the sand and slammed directly into the cliff wall, cutting off any retreat in that direction, which appeared to be south. The waves had carved the rock so that the slope was oversteepened and looked ready to collapse. Ahead of them to the north, the widening tan belt of sand between a high bluff and the sea created a safety zone—a beach that would have looked fabulous on a travel brochure. In this protected flatland Cam saw small thatched-roof buildings on stilts. Five of them.
    â€œHuts?”
    â€œQuaint, eh?” Ward said. “We call them the ‘condos.’ They stay dry and usually survive the weather. If a storm gets too bad or the moon drags the tide too