No, really, that’s all I want, I’d insist to the traveler when they asked for my souvenir preferences. It’s not much, I know. Just a bottle of water or sand, preferably both, and tightly capped, please.

    My collection was growing, so I had to box up all my books. Henceforth my bookshelf would be the primary means of display for my Ocean Spray bottles, which were filled with water from every ocean except the Arctic and the Indian. I was still waiting for one of my friends to visit those shores.

    My bedroom had carpeting the color of sand and, when I was 12, I put up a border of ocean waves. I spent an entire summer searching the oversized books of nautical wallpaper samples. I was very choosy. I did not want sandpipers or lighthouses or cute tufts of long grass crowding out my water. No sailors or lifeguard chairs or crabs or swimmers. The winning border pictured strictly water, each wave curved like a finger, waiting to tap the shoulder of the next. To me it was like the infinity symbol; the waves chose never to spill their potential energy.

    When I was in high school, I had a friend who traveled to France with her parents and managed to swipe me some water from Normandy Beach. She said it was no problem, but I preferred to imagine her stealing away from the tour group to complete the task. I could feel the wet sand compacting as she stooped to let the waves enter the bottle.

    This was my first European water; there was no question it deserved prominence. I gave it a prime position on the top shelf, pushing Myrtle Beach, SC and Daytona Beach, FL aside. But after a month in my captivity the water began to nurture these green wisps along the bottom.