Michael Adams picks up some of the finest teeth in Cape Town. He sleeps in a disused railway tunnel near Milnerton Lagoon and walks to the beach each morning at dawn. First he rinses his face in the ocean, facing Table Mountain and the giant metal cranes of the container terminal; then he steps back to study the currents and pray. “Just two or three teeth,” he asks, holding his shoes behind his back. “Just one good find.” He opens his eyes and sets off.