One
summer, years and year ago when we were kids, we went for a summer holiday to a
relative’s cottage by the ocean. It was a wonderful, beautiful place, far from
the commercial beaches and crowded, tourist-oriented places. Here, Mother
Nature was left relatively alone to do her thing her way. And we were free to
explore the shore in its natural best. We spent hours hunting out the crabs,
studying the big, purple stars that were plastered to the rocks and watching
those myriad blobs of jelly that bobbed on by from time to time. We learned
about barnacles and clams and kelp. Sometimes we even crouched down on the end
of the boat dock to see if we could see what resided in deeper waters.
Photo By: Manfred Heyde
We
especially loved it when the tide was low and we could, essentially, walk on
the bottom of the ocean. It was an amazing new world of water-worn rock
formations and ocean life.
When
we were a bit older, we were even allowed to grab a life jacket and paddle the
canoe around. We never went too far, but we could paddle around the lagoon and
see things you could never see from the shore, like beds of dark, velvety sand
dollars lining the ocean bottom.
One
fine day, our relative offered to take us even farther out on the water on the
motor boat.
Away
from the cottage and out of the mouth of the bay we went. Out - - out over the
smooth summery surface of the open water. We saw a big tall sailing ship with
towering masts, and a wee seal bobbing his adorable head just on the surface of
the ocean - - until he saw us. Then – Ploop!—he disappeared beneath the waves.
We
saw other cottages lining the shore, though none, we thought, as beautiful or
perfect as our relatives’ place. The Islands were thick with cedar and arbutus.
And as we skimmed and bumped along the glassy surface, fine mists of salt water
washed our faces in the cool breeze.
Finally,
our relative cut the engine, and we found ourselves in the shallows of a small,
deserted cove. We were alone, except for the gulls swooping and shouting
overhead. We hopped out and sloshed ashore.
Sitting
lop-sided on the beach, gray with age and weather, was an abandoned wooden
fishing boat. It clearly hadn’t seen the sea in a very long time, and part of
the deck was rotting away.
But
that wasn’t what really caught my eye.
In
a crooked row along the shore, right where the lapping waves reached their
highest point, lay dozens of big, white seashells. Oysters, I was told. There
must have been a bed under the water somewhere nearby, and when the oysters
cast off their old, unused shells, the tides brought them ashore. We picked
them up, cool and still shiny with sea water. The outsides were rough and
bumpy, but the insides were smooth and – almost – pearly. When we held them at
the right angle, they shone in rays of multi-color, like little rainbows. They
were so beautiful!
And
aren’t shells always the most beautiful things? They come in so many
fascinating shapes and unbelievable colors, from the monstrous conches and giant
clams that many people would have a hard time lifting, right down to tiny
little coils and conch-like bitties no bigger than your pinky fingernail. Some
are so delicate you can barely touch them even lightly without endangering
them, and others are so tough you’d need a hammer and a strong pair of arms to
even dent them.
I’m
told there are beaches in some parts of the world, where seashells heap up
high, leaving scarcely a spare spot between them. These are not the crunchy,
water-battered shell fragments that are scattered across most any seaside shore
that’s been allowed to retain any of its wildness. These are whole, big, fully
formed, beautiful seashells. Wouldn’t it be lovely to find a bright orange and
black speckled Alphabet Cone or multi-colored Calico Scallop just sitting there
in plain view? These beaches wouldn’t be very easy to walk or sunbathe on, but
that’s okay. Not everything Mother Nature builds is for our indulgence. I’d
love to visit one of those beaches one day.
Well,
years have passed and vacation time isn’t nearly as easy to come by as it once
was. I very rarely get a chance to go to the sea, anymore. Meanwhile, until my
next window of opportunity comes to take in a deep breath of the briny air, I
think it’s wonderful that, anytime the world seems too heavy, I can close my
eyes and return to that far away beach with all its beautiful shells, once
again.
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