They were looking for dead fish along the beach.

The young Indian pulled the boat way up the beach.

She pulled hard on the oars and the boat went way up the beach.

They pulled the boat up the beach and Nick lifted out a pail of live perch.

If no one came for them they would be left to waterlog and rot on the beach.

Marjorie stepped out of the boat and Nick pulled the boat high up the beach.

They walked up from the beach through a meadow that was soaking wet with dew, following the young Indian who carried a lantern.

The sea broke in a long line in the rain and slipped back down the beach to come up and break again in a long line in the rain.

In the morning there was a big wind blowing and the waves were running high up on the beach and he was awake a long time before he remembered that his heart was broken.

I looked back as we came out and there was only the sea, and below in the bay, a line of beach with fishing-boats and above, on the side of the hill, a town and then capes far down the coast.

The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens⁠—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run.

They had drifted up onto the beach and if nothing were done about them sooner or later the crew of the Magic would come along the shore in a rowboat, spot the logs, drive an iron spike with a ring on it into the end of each one and then tow them out into the lake to make a new boom.