INTRODUCTION
THE OCEAN OFFERED UP a magnificent surprise the other
day: a pod of whales spent a few hours just beyond the
breakers, spouting and breaching as I watched from the shore
in awe.
Home to life-forms large and tiny, the ocean is not only
a world of dynamic fascination, but also the source of a fossil
record that tells a layered story of life on Earth. This watery
realm beckons to us, and its mysteries lap at our feet with
the waves. Yet we cannot hike out into it. The beach—a
fractional strip between land and sea, where the forms are
ever changing—is where we stop. It is our gateway to another
world. We approach this portal eagerly; as we come to the
beach, over high dunes, along a path, or down a rickety
ladder, we note whether the tide is high or low, whether the
surf is stormy or calm. We anticipate either sand or stones
underfoot. We take in the details and changes from previous
visits with excitement and wonder.
The beach affords us a place to breathe more slowly;
there is an immense calm that rests solidly in my heart when
I am there. Stresses fade to the background. As I wander along
and pick up a stone, its weight and texture—its stone-ness—
is a communicator of this calm; it is a talisman for this place
of serenity. And thus I start hunting for treasure. Many call it
“beachcombing”—I call it “the slow meander.” Not everyone
feels compelled to do this; not everyone leaves the beach
with heavier pockets. But for those of us who do, these bits
and pieces are cherished; they allow us to be always near
the ocean.
As we build up a collection of beach objects—be it stones
or shells, bones or seaglass—we become more involved with
our finds, and our curiosity bubbles over. How did that hole
get in this stone? Why is seaweed that fabulous shade of
green or red? What are these artifacts, washed up on the
shore, telling us? If we take lessons from human history, Earth
sciences, and marine life itself, and incorporate them into our
own mythologies, might we concoct an even richer storyline?
As beachcombers we learn not only about our collection,
but also from our collection. We discover the strength of
calcium carbonate and the exuberance of kelp; the generosity
of granite and the efficiency of coral; the resourcefulness of
the beach pea and the reticence of the plover bird; the flamboyance
of the oyster and the reserve of the sand dollar. And,
from all of these unique elements, we learn patience, and we
gain respect for what it takes to survive. The beach becomes
our place of personal discovery.
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Can our treasure hunting extend beyond the organic to
the man-made? If we collect the nonnatural from the beach, can we sort and assemble and codify these new, seemingly peculiar finds? Certainly! There are artists and collectors and scientists at work successfully making careers out of what man-made detritus they find on the beach. Just as the taste for lobster has evolved from disgust, in the early years of our country, to gourmet, we can begin to evolve our taste for what we pick up from the beach. Trash can be treasure.
Perhaps this is a way to return the benevolence of the beach. While seeing rare shells in a bowl is wonderful, I am always relieved to hear that they are from a trip twenty-five years ago. Most people would no longer responsibly take exotic shells from exotic beaches. But a collection of plastic bits or rubber gloves? This is what now sets my heart aflutter...
While we must continue to examine and learn from the life of the teeming tide pools, to question how the beach is formed and where the stones come from, to gain knowledge and respect for the marine organisms that we encounter at the edge of the seabed, we must also listen to their wisdom and allow the beach to regenerate, to wake afresh each day. Taking the trash and making it treasure is one meaningful way to assist.
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As devoted beach wanderers we must be open to all
things. We must be open to the astounding chemistry and
physics of the shell-building organisms. We must be open
to the poetry of the seaweed, so durable in the turbulent
ocean yet so fragile in the air. We must be open to feeling
the geologic clock—which counts in eons, not hours—that
generates the stones we love and describes the evolution of species. We must be open to taking a backseat and learning from nature’s evidence.
But to do this we must be wide-ranging in our interests
and, like Anna Atkins, become a bit of a polymath. Chemistry, geology, biology, history, design, engineering, and art—we must understand it all. This is a daunting task, for “how to be a generalist” is not a title one will find in the self-help section of the bookstore, nor is there a graduate-level class at university. We are prescribed to be specialists; “become an expert,” they say. But I will strive to cover this vast territory; I am a generalist at heart and the beach is my classroom.
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