A woman of mid 60s, legs wrinkled with six decades of summer tans, waddles over to her grandson knee deep on the Connecticut shoreline.

“Grandma it’s a jelly! There’s another jelly!” He screeches.

The woman bends down achingly, her black scoop neck bathing suit struggling to keep her cleavage from escaping.

She puts a hand to her hip and pushes her slipping sunglasses back up her nose. She instructs her young grandson to collect the jellyfish with his toy net.

He reaches down and scoops the large, squishy mass into the net and looks for his grandma back on shore. She’s standing with a metal shovel, plotting where her next grave on the beach will go.

With forceful huffs she makes a pit perfectly fit for her caught jelly. The grandson isn’t strong enough to flip the net over and plop the helpless creature in.

“Let me do it!” She says, as she uses the shovel to lift and drop it into the hole.

Happy with her display of dominance she scoops sand back into the pit and pats it down flat with the back of the shovel, so as to make sure the dangerous animal doesn’t escape.

Her grandson looks up at her proudly, smiles, and walks back to his blanket to play on his iTouch. He hasn’t gone in the water all morning.