She Shares Seashells

Labor Day marks, we are told, the end of summer.  That is not exactly true, of course.  The fall equinox is not for another three weeks and shorts and t-shirts will be appropriate in south Georgia for at least a couple more months.  Humans, though, have developed a need for commemoration and labeling.  Labor Day is a way to do that, a legislatively-endorsed opportunity for one last trip to the lake, the river, the beach.  

On this Labor Day weekend, I am on a boat in the Gulf of Mexico, anchored in the shallow waters for which Steinhatchee, one of the last outposts of old Florida, is known.  The Jenny B bobs in the waves created by other boats and I feel myself being lifted and lowered in the rhythm of a rocking chair or a cradle.  Across the way a toddler squeals as she is launched into the late summer air before splashing awkwardly into the water.  There is country music coming from the speakers on the next boat over, but the lyrics fade before they get to us.

Lying on my back, I stare at a sky that looks like a spatterware bowl turned upside down to dome the water that surrounds me.  The splotches of blue and white – huge dollops and tiny specks – float in their own current, bumping and dodging each other in quiet politeness.  My breaths come deep and slow, my chest rising and falling like the waves.

It still surprises me, the way the ocean soothes and quiets and shrinks all the things that can consume one’s thoughts.  It still surprises me how much I can love the taste of salt on my lips and the sound of sea birds squawking.  It still surprises me that this girl, who learned to swim in the Ogeechee River and fished in ponds whose water was the color of strong-brewed tea, can find such peace in the uncontainable ocean.

“Here,” my nephew calls out and reaches over the side of the boat to hand me a shell, a perfect scallop, its ribs radiating out like sunbeams.  I put it in a bag with the others and I am reminded of the days, decades ago, when he handed me other things – “treasures” we called the acorns and feathers and pebbles found when he and his sister and I wandered over the farm on late summer days like this one.

It is among the most human of behaviors, I think, the discovery of beauty producing a desire to share that beauty.  It is why painters paint, why writers write.  It is why grandmothers make pound cake and fathers teach their children to fish.  It is why my nephew and his family have invited me here.

The afternoon begins its slow fade to evening.  Surrounded by water and with no visible landmarks, the Jenny B makes its way back toward the channel and the marina, guided only by Garman and the skill of its captain.  

It is a different perspective, the returning.  I notice things I did not notice when my attention was focused on the horizon – a dock twisted into a helix by last year’s Hurricane Helene, a row of candy-colored houses on a bluff, the way the channel markers glow in the sunlight.  

Later, after the boat is secured in its slip and much seafood has been consumed and sunburn has shown itself on cheeks and shoulders, we will stand on the dock and stare at the moon, silently illuminating the end of summer and promising that it is not really the end and never the last.  Gently reminding us that there is always beauty and it can always be shared. 

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