After The Storm

We arrived on Sanibel Island on a Saturday evening and the first thing I did was walk to the beach and see if it was the paradisaical shelling glory I had read about and imagined. Littered and glittering in the sand was an abundance of shell pieces and a full scallop here and there. My homework before coming to the island, had taught that the real shell seeker had to get up early with a flashlight to find the best shells. I wasn't ready to do that yet.

We awoke Sunday morning to wind and overcast skies. It rained furiously through the day and the ocean was angry; one could almost imagine Poseidon stirring it with his trident. We hunkered down in the condo and watched the rain pelt our windows. The gale force winds and the blue evacuation signs that dotted the roads led me to wonder if it wasn't the beginning of an early hurricane.

Monday was a delightful surprise. The sea was calm and we were greeted with sporadic springtime showers between the sunshine. It was later afternoon when we headed to the water to search for seashells. The tide was low and there was an abundance of shells. We soon discovered that ankle deep in the light surf, we could reach down and scoop up a handful of seashells. In that scoop was at least one lightning whelk or a fighting conch. It was cold and we didn't stay long, but I left the beach with a million plans for the beautiful shells I would be taking home.

The next afternoon, full of hope and expectation, I again waded into the water, ankle deep. My mechanical probe toes, searching for piles of shells, felt nothing but the cold compacted sand and the occasional seashell fragment; the plethora of yesterday was gone.

That night I set my alarm for 6:30 a.m. . Having tasted what could be found, I would become one of the early morning beachcombers with flashlight in hand. I came home a little embarrassed with myself and only a few shells in the pocket of my not-so-discreet pajama bottoms.

It was the next day that we learned from a frequent visitor to Sanibel about the shelling glory of the day after the storm. In his thick southern accent, he explained that Monday was a shelling day like "no other." The storm had whipped up the sea, dislodging, picking up the discarded homes of the ocean dwellers.

The storm unleashed the beauty for which I had come to Sanibel. It was only after the storm that the most beautiful shells could be found. I thought of my own trials and pressures and the question I always ask myself amidst adversity: What kind of person will I become from this experience?

I walked away from Sanibel with more than a handful of shells.