MEXICO: The quiet dignity of middle-aged seashells

(I'd happily send you one in the mail)

My eye wasn’t drawn to the middle-aged shells at first. As per my usual, I was spending a few hours of my beach day on my own, scanning for seashells. The beach was littered with them, but very few other people were camped along that stretch, so I had very little competition. Bahia de San Luis Gonzaga—or simply Gonzaga Bay—was our own little paradise.

Greedy, unaccustomed to such abundance, I reached down again and again to pick up the large, brightly colored shells, oohing and aahing to myself over each one. I rinsed them in the clear, clean sea water and stuffed them into my pockets. Thank goodness for roll-cuff travel pants with good pockets.

My treasures quickly overwhelmed my ability to carry them. I had to be more selective. On any other beach combing experience in my past, I would have been perfectly content—thrilled, even—with shells that I now was willing to discard as subpar. They were good, but I only had room for great.

No. Scratch that. Pockets full, I raised my standards again. I only had room for exceptional shells. Anything common or ordinary, anything smaller than the largest of its peers, anything chipped or worn, anything less than stunning simply wouldn’t do.

We were part of a five-vehicle caravan who had all rolled into a beach camp the night before, well after the last traces of light had left the sky. We were happy to be out of the rigs after a long day on bad roads—narrow and fast and riddled with jarring potholes. But with no town or streetlights nearby, the sky was black. The bay itself would remain a mystery until morning with only the sounds and smells of the sea to tease our imaginations. Daylight brought a world of wonder outside the Snuggery’s windows.

It was my first time on the eastern coast of Baja California, three hours south of sleepy San Felipe. As I scanned for the best seashells, my sandy feet rejoiced at the freedom from wool socks and sturdy shoes—a big change from the Montana winter we recently left behind for good. Mexico’s Sea of Cortez is pleasantly mild at this time of year—not bathwater, but not at all startling to the touch when the gentle waves lapped against my ankles. Walter, our big yellow adventure truck, stood handsome and proud on the edge of the beach. He and his new friends, the other rigs representing our little tribe of new and new-ish friends, looked like a scene from a Baja tourism campaign.

For me, beachcombing is akin to reading a novel or watching a movie, but with all five senses. It hits that refreshing sweet spot of doing something that isn’t important or the slightest bit stressful but is still engaging enough to require one’s full concentration. The hours pass effortlessly.

However, the longer I strolled, stooped, soaked, and selected, the more I began to be drawn to the older, ordinary shells, particularly the conches I was leaving behind in my quest for perfection.

The very oldest ones were badly broken, already well on their way to disintegrating into the tiny bits and pieces that make up the shimmering grains of soft sand.

But the middle-aged conch shells have a quiet dignity I couldn’t unsee.

Their vibrant colors have faded. The sharp, well-defined edges of their youth have softened over the years of wear. The once rough places are worn and soft. No longer delicate and thin, they are thick and heavy, their sturdiness an essential key to their survival. These shells have weathered storms and endured hardships and been tumbled by waves. The tides have dragged them along through rough sand for great distances, but somehow, they learned to tumble along awkwardly rather than break. They have survived things that others did not. And through it all, they have served nobly—reliably housing countless vulnerable creatures in need of safety and shelter. They have seen a lot of life. These middle-aged conches are the Timex watches of the sea—they take a licking but keep on ticking.

Yes, their external beauty—at least as it is measured against the young, pristine shells—has dimmed. But their very persistence in existing is admirable. Their ability to withstand life’s storms is to be honored.

Somewhat reluctantly, I emptied my pockets full of treasure, discarding all the beautiful shells I had collected. I set them all down gently in the sand, admiring them once more before leaving them behind—a honey hole for someone else to find on their own beachcombing trek. I can’t keep collections of things anyway, no matter how pretty they are. My husband Andy and I are full-time nomads. We live in a truck, sharing a 120-ish square foot dwelling place that bounces along on rough roads. What in the world would I do with a bunch of delicate seashells?

I walked the beach again—this time scanning for middle-aged conch shells, faded, soft, and thick. The more I handled them, the more I was entranced. I discovered their graceful lines were lovely. Wisdom and strength flowed from their sturdy curves. I filled my pockets, then found someone’s discarded plastic yogurt tub and filled that, too.

Once I’d decided on my final cut, a couple dozen well-worn beauties, I washed them well in the sea, then set them out on Walter’s front bumper to dry overnight. The next morning, I rinsed them with fresh water and checked each one carefully to make sure no creatures still hid inside.

Then I let them dry again in the morning sun and packed them all into a grocery bag. They take up a bit of space in the Snuggery, but they won’t be there for long.

They are for you.

Perhaps, like me, you can relate to a middle-aged seashell—a little faded, a little softer around the edges, a bit worn from the struggles of life; but still graceful and dignified and wise to anyone with eyes to see. Perhaps you, too, wish people could learn to appreciate more than just the young and vibrant. Perhaps we all could make room in our pockets—and in our lives—for the ordinary survivors who have endured so much over the years.

If you are one of my paid subscribers and I have your mailing address, I plan to send you one of these shells I collected along the shores of Gonzaga Bay. I’m not sure yet if it will be cost-effective to ship them while I am still down here in Mexico, or if it would be better to wait until I get back to the States, likely sometime in early February. So, if you are not a paid subscriber yet, but are thinking of upgrading, there is still a little time to do so before I send the shells out to my list. I will mail them eventually, one way the another. Hopefully, I will have enough for all of you.

If you are not a paid subscriber, please at least enjoy a few more photos of the shells I collected—my middle-aged beauties—as shown in contrast to their younger and flashier counterparts.

Remember they both have value. Remember they both are beautiful.

Remember.

Until next week,

Sherry