The boy’s thoughts were taken with a small piece of driftwood lying on the pebbles. A line of seaweed marked where the tide had reached earlier that morning. He stepped across it and picked up the piece of wood. It looked like an antler, but bone white, smoothed and polished by the sea and sand and salt. Out across the waves…
…there were maps in school and he liked maps. How big the world was. And he saw things on TV. But how did things occur, with him, there, holding a small piece of driftwood, the other side of waves?
MW Bewick 
I like your style of writing – the reader immediately becomes interested in what you have to say and would like to know more.