My father used to take me on boat rides like this. Late in the day, after pinky-swearing that we would not be skunked, after snorkeling every shell-hole we knew and casting lead sinkers and plastic lures until our arms were tired, we would race off with the setting sun on our starboard side to shell from the rich.
Just south of our home inlet, past the private beaches, there was a resort with hundreds of blue lounge chairs and umbrellas, a place where you were chased off if you didn’t have on the right colored wristband, where the towels and foot showers and the very sand itself were only for the well-to-do. My father and I would anchor beyond the swim buoys after the sun had set and snorkel ashore to steal a shell or two that had been carefully set out by the night staff for the early risers to discover.
We didn’t keep these shells. Nor did we take them for any reason other than to not-be-skunked. We simply took those shells because they didn’t belong there. Because they were paid for, as much a part of the resort package as the slices of fruit on the buffet table, carefully parceled out at all times of the day so every guest got their allotment, but so that every guest secretly felt that maybe, due to their industriousness or skill, they got just a little more than their share.
Some were perhaps even clever enough to fool themselves into thinking the shells they discovered had washed up of their own accord.
Father and I would secret these shells away, disappearing into the foam, and kick and laugh and swim back to our anchored boat. The shells would be deposited on the public beach across the narrow strip of road from our boat ramp, for someone else to chance upon.
An illegal boat ride on the edge of day and into deep water. I wonder if my father would be proud of what I’m doing this morning, all these many years later. It’s a different sort of law I’m breaking, but the moral code feels the same. Only this time, the shells that could get me into trouble are already in the boat.
Ness kills the motor and lets the boat glide along, the last of the wake fizzing and becoming part of the rising and sinking Atlantic. I open one of the great plastic tubs that line the bow of the boat. The shells inside writhe and crinkle. The shells are alive.
I feel Ness’s hand against the small of my back. We rock together, knees bent, studying his work. I turn to Ness and wrap a hand around the back of his neck, pull him close for a moment, breathe in the sunscreen and sweat and salt sea. He kisses me on the top of my head. “You sure?” he asks.
“I’m sure,” I say.
We each grab a side of the first bin, which has dozens of species in it, and hoist it to the top of the gunnel. A pause, a moment to reflect, and then we tip it over. The shells tumble out by the thousands. They plop and hiss and throw up bubbles on their way down, like little exhalations of freedom and joy. Ryan guessed that four out of every ten will end up food for something else. The rest will survive. And breed. And die. And one day be discovered on a beach.
Someone will pick up the pretty dead things, and see the worth there, but Ness and I will know the truth.
We grab another bin. And I’ve never felt more alive.
Acknowledgments
Hey. The story isn’t over yet. Keep reading.
But first, I want to thank my mom, Gay, and my late grandmother, Cutie, both of whom got me hooked on shelling. It was at Figure Eight Island in North Carolina that I decided olives were my favorite shells and where I spent my summers hunting for sand dollars. To this day, I remain on the lookout. And while I hunt, I think of my family, and all the ways that shelling is like relationships.
I’d also like to thank the amazing group of authors who took pity on my Y chromosome and offered me their friendship and their wisdom: Barbara, Bella, Candice, CJ, Jasinda (both of you), Liliana, Stephanie, and Tina. You all inspire me and have taught me so much. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Finally, the readers. Thank you for your time, your emails, your tweets, your reviews, your friendship, and your feedback. And thank you for being as brave in reading outside your comfort zone as I’m trying to be in writing there. See you at the next wild place we find ourselves. Because you know this isn’t over yet. There’s always another page to turn in order to discover a little more …
The Beach: One Year Later