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I bounce along a bit of dirt road towards Finch’s Beach, splashing through mud puddles and hoping I don’t get stuck. I make my way along a track, past the yellow crocodile warning sign, and find a beach unlike any I’ve been on before. It’s not very big, contained by two headlands, one with forest reaching down to a rocky ridge, the other a tumble of big boulders. A huge rock in a pool looks like a sculpture. Other artists have been at work. The whole beach is a maze of sand balls, around crab holes, in a graceful variety of patterns. I’ve seen such patterns before, but not in such profusion, and I know well that such things are the enemies of photographic restraint.