There are no clouds in the sky. A seagull is hovering in the air, suspended by the wind, wings outstretched but unmoving; the bird looks as if hung by a string from the cosmos above. Far beyond, a small airplane flies by, pulling a series of words too small to read. The airplane cannot be heard over the gently crashing waves that hush its motor into silence, and it slowly drifts southward out of sight, leaving behind no trace, no messages for its observers, the opposite of its intended purpose.
Eventually, the pilot will turn his plane around and double back on his flight path. The trailing banner will unread backwards and the beachgoers will only be able to tell that its characters are all flipped across the vertical axis, still with no means to decipher the distant message, save for the few with binoculars, or truer yet, the fewer with binoculars who wonder, or even truer still, the aforementioned who will act on their curiosity to learn something predictably meaningless or uninteresting to them, knowingly so, even if it means putting down an ice cream cone or a racquet or a baby, into a potentially sandy position.