Shell Games - Orange Beach July 2009

Beachcombing used to be easy. Every wave splashed playfully at the shore and slowly ebbed away to reveal a bounty of shells. The sand was pure and the pickings seemed easy.

Today, it was an exercise in frustration. The waves crash uncontrollably. The shells and shell fragments are pulled from the shore as quickly as they are deposited. In fact they weren't even deposited on the shore at my feet. They simply roll forward and backward in one motion. The force of the water stirs up a murky tan-colored sand, and the tumbling of the sand obscures the shells. Every now and then, a flash of gold or ebony entices me to bend toward the bottom, only to realize there was no time between that flash and its disappearance.

Because the roll of the waves is relentless, there's no time to bend over and grab a shell. I dig my feet into the shoreline, determined to be ready and balanced for the next opportunity. But as soon as I see a flash and bend to the sand, it tumbles away and I wobble. Starring into the surf only makes things worse, dizziness sure to counteract any advantage I'd gain from focusing on the tumble.

Orange Beach, July 15, 2009, 6:30 am and I'm beachcombing alone.

More than once I was grateful there was no one around to watch me bob and weave toward some perceived prize, only to come up empty handed except for grains of sand that clung to my salty fingers. More than once I stumbled and fell, a great crashing creature. I laughed off the first fall from grace, playing for the unseen audience in the condo balconies. After a few such bows, I gave up any pretense that I cared what the audience thought, if there was one.

And more and more, I thought about these metaphors I find in bodies of water – the river of life raft trip in Wyoming and the questions inside the Gulf. This very same Gulf that continues prove its eternal power. Now, that's the show.

I began to see the shell fragments as the words I struggle with when I write. They elude me just as easily. If pen or keyboard isn't in hand, I'll forget the inspiration as quickly as I'll miss grabbing one of these damn shells. They're in there, these shells, they're in this water, as surely as these words are in my head. I try to ignore them sometimes, and then one will surface – one coherent and beautiful thought will make sense. And then it's gone, pulled down by the Great Weight.

You know, you could go to a souvenir store and buy these shells, I tell myself. They'll be intact and clean and need no revisions. As perfect as the hard bound books I can buy at the booksellers – by those who know the waters much better than I do. What's this thing that makes me walk along my shoreline, staring into the soul of an ageless Gulf? Papa Hemingway, where are you?

I lumber along, doing a dance that's developed between me and this ocean. I see something interesting coming to shore, and calculate where I should stand should it be attainable. A few inches to my left, because the moon is pulling the water in that direction. Or maybe it's the way the sand bar is making the waves break, and by the time I think that through, the shell is pulled away.

Okay, dig your feet in, stand a foot or so from where you saw it, bend over and FOCUS. The next wave stirs up too much sand to see through, but I stay bent over and FOCUSED. And as the next wave recedes, I see it again and it's yellow and unbroken and I reach down and it tumbles right through my fingers so fast I fall on my ass, again. Entertainment for the unseen, amusing no one but myself. Like that idea for a story that slipped away yesterday; that line of dialog that eludes me.

The young, the bright, the sharp-witted beachcombers with normal reflexes, the authors of those books in my room – they taunt me and I decide to give up. After all, what would I do with these shells if I could catch them? Would they languish in a jar somewhere, or will I really put them into a mosaic piece? And what would be the value of such a mosaic – I'm not at artist, either. Let's dredge up every dark, unappreciated thought we've ever buried in the sand now. I'm not a writer, an artist, a good beachcomber or worth watching from near or far! See, now doesn't that feel better? More comfortable.

Pick up the beach bag, chair, and my pitiful pocketful of shards and head back to the condo. At least there, I can make a cup of coffee. And I need a cup of coffee more than another shell or another thought. Laden with chair and bag, I spot some shells in the soft sand the Gulf deposited four feet from the lapping water last night, and bend over carefully. Hmmm, pretty pieces. Hell, I'm only going to bust them up to make shapes anyway, and here are the pieces I need ready for the grabbing. This one looks like a wing, or a heart, wow!

Feeling pretty good now about the morning's haul of broken shells and sandy thoughts, I head toward the condo building, still scanning the shore for fragments. It's beginning to heat up, and people are beginning to emerge from the air conditioned sleepiness of these buildings.

I pass a family of three, and remember how yesterday I was part of such a group. Just yesterday, and now I'm not. The Great Weight is upon me as suddenly as it left and the beach bag and chair are heavy. And the sharp edges of the shells in my pocket jangle as I walk. God, is there no end to the metaphors that haunt me! Bad, bad metaphors. Go away.

I notice the Mom in the group has cupped her hand protectively around her morning's find, and as she passes I'm startled to see several full-sized shells. Looks like a dozen of them, and they are yellow and ebony stripped ones, and translucent white ones, nestled safely in her hand. I make up a story about the family's morning walk, and I move on. I miss my family. I live in my memories.

More broken shells are bread crumbs on my path to the condo boardwalk. Some I pick up, some I leave, and my pocket is heavier still.

But the condo is cool, and the shower was refreshing, and the coffee is hot and strong. Morning shells are washed and dried, and there's as many whole ones as there are broken, after all. The one that's winged shaped will make the perfect pattern to break another wing shape from a shard - or maybe patched-up heart.