The soundtrack of lapping waves must be the same here. Does the rhythm of water caressing a shoreline ever change? Do the waves of my ancestors’ Mother Africa stroke the sand in a language distinct from here on the Gulf Coast? The sun today warms my skin, and its near-blinding brightness reflects from the powder-white beach, despite the gauzy clouds inching across the sky. The sea breezes are light and give the brown pelicans no trouble as they glide above the surf in search of a spot to dip in for their next meal. Two nearby pieces of driftwood are lined up end to end, perhaps left there in perfect symmetry by the ocean, or maybe the remnants of some children’s game. Oil rigs stand as sentries in the hazy distance offshore. It is a perfect May day on Dauphin Island, Alabama.