A beachcomber never knows what the hell kind of nasty flotsam will wash up on the shore. Petrol pollution from oil spills, Red-bag medical waste and syringes, Coney Island whitefish, all of these are well-documented and daunting to discover among the shells and seaweed, but none is so alarming as the littoral find that changes the life of the sand-strolling femme of Driftwood (1996). She stumbles upon James Spader spit up beyond the wave line. Her best instinct might tell her to launch him back out upon the tide, but she drags her human debris home. When Spader awakens with no memory of the past, his rescuer convinces him that he has landed upon her deserted island and is safe only in her hands. The heroine's innocent stroll among the pools and pebbles seems to have brought to light some devious, dark niche from the depths of the woman's soul.