Hugh Howey - The Shell Collector

It was a dangerous sensation. I was reminded over dinner that what I’ve mocked from afar, what I’ve learned to loathe, is only a caricature of Ness. The actual man is just that—a man. However flawed. And it’s hard not to feel something being alone with him. It has nothing to do with what he represents, only that we’re nearly the same age, apparently single, and spending hours alone together along this spectacular beach.

I watch the flashlight approach. All around me are shells scattered in the sand; they flash wet and shine in the beam of my flashlight. I would rather they be pared down to one. A sensible number. The absence of choice. Take these thousand lies and give me one thing that’s real. Something I can cling to, believe in, and trust.

Ness is coming down the walkway for me. He has sought me out while I have gone looking for answers of my own. And I’m in a weakened state, thinking of Michael, of all the opportunities missed, of the sad existence of that lighthouse to the south, spinning its warning, unable to break from its foundations and join the little lights out at sea. Stuck. Dire.

If Ness comes to me and stands too close, I might throw my arms around him. I might cling to him and sob, like a near-drowned sailor who has found a rock. Not because I want him, but because I feel horribly alone here, with the sea crashing at my back, my mind swimming with wine and with recollections, my heart pounding and empty, my emotions strung out like a piano wire.

If he leans into me, I may not resist. I hate myself for this. I loathe myself in that moment, and I know I’ll hate myself even more tomorrow, but I feel in that split second the need to be needed, and I see myself down where the sand is packed and cool, an arm beneath my neck, lips pressed against mine, the lingering scent of coconut and sunscreen and the Merlot we had with dinner, and the mad, selfish, insane desire to be kissed by someone, even him, and told that everything will be all right—

“Ms. Walsh?”

The beam lances me in the face. I recoil and throw my arm up to defend myself.

“Sorry, ma’am.” And the light drops to my feet. “Saw the alarm go off. Thought we were being raided again.”

I catch the glint of a gun before it’s holstered. I see the uniform, the bright buckle, the shield on the chest. It’s the young guard from the second gate. He must work the late shift.

“You should be careful out here,” he tells me. “We get people coming in by boat now and then to take shells. Infrared cameras usually spot them, but all the same it’s not safe to be out here alone.”

I hadn’t thought of this. I’m walking around in the middle of a jewelry store, my flashlight not a beacon of warning but an invitation. “Sorry,” I say.

“I can join you if you like. You lookin’ for anything in particular?”

I don’t know if it’s because of my state or something in the way he says this, something in the way he takes another step toward me, closer than would be comfortable, but this offer sounds like a proposition. He’s either being helpful or coming on to me, and as it tends to work with men, I have no idea which.

“I’m fine,” I say. I no longer feel like shelling. I no longer feel like company. If this man were to touch me, I would scream. His gun makes me feel less safe, not more so. “I was just restless. I think I should go to bed. We’re getting an early start tomorrow.”

I glance up at the main house, where nothing moves.

“You sure?” the guard asks.

“Yeah,” I say. I take a step back toward the boardwalk that leads up to the guest house. “I appreciate it, though.”

“Because Mr. Wilde lets me shell here any time I want. I don’t mind joining you.”

“No, that’s all right. I appreciate it.”

I turn to go. A small beam of light follows me, and another one, larger, arcs across the sky. I am in a dangerous place. I am in a wild place. I wish I could say that reefs were all around me, but the threats I feel all lie within.

The following morning, I am awoken by a glowing horizon, by a blooming dawn. No alarm bleeping at six, no traffic noise, no blaring horns or car alarms, no urban cave with curtains closed tight, no headache or grogginess—just the trickling awareness that it is a new day, a slow slide to consciousness, rolling around in fine sheets while the sound of a crashing sea permeates the walls.

It isn’t even six yet, and I’m wide awake and rested. A breeze swirls down from upstairs, where I must’ve left a window open. In the small kitchen, there’s one of those capsule coffee makers. I choose a dark roast and find a mug in the third cabinet I try. Peeking inside the fridge, I find basic staples: milk, eggs, butter, sliced deli meat, cheese. None of it is opened. I’m dying to meet Ness’s housekeeper. Things are seemingly done by magic around here.

While the coffee is brewing, I decide to take a quick shower. The walls of the shower stall are made of transparent bricks the colors of sea glass. I watch the sunrise through them as I soap up and rinse off. It occurs to me that someone on the boardwalk could see my silhouette inside the shower, which makes me feel suddenly exposed. I decide not to care.

I chalk the lack of concern up to my general good mood. And I chalk up the good mood to the great day of shelling the day before. It’s human, I think, to be buoyed by a sudden increase in resources. This is how I try to be clinical about my rising spirits, rather than trust or embrace them. It helps me forget the moment of abject weakness the night before and what might’ve happened if Ness had been the one to find me on the beach.

I towel off and put on a clean bathing suit, a sundress over top. The coffee waits beneath the brewer. I take a sip and find it passable for instant brew. The worrier in me is troubled by how absolutely perfect the first half hour of my day has gone. I expect trouble ahead to balance it all out.

Watching the sunrise from the deck, I cup my mug in both hands and enjoy its warmth. Several gulls cry and chase along the beach, and I try to remember the last time I saw more than one or two sea birds together in the wild. I spot at least four here, a sign of some feeble life in this corner of the sea. I remember being a kid and seeing dozens of birds at a time: high-flying Vs of seagulls and low-gliding pelicans whose wingtips seemed to graze the water. I remember tossing french fries from the aft deck of a ferry once, and not a single fry reaching the ship’s wake; they were gobbled up mid-air by a hovering flock of birds. Years later, on the same ferry, you could toss bread over the rail and nothing would come to claim it. The bread would disappear in the water. Michael told me to stop wasting it.

One of the crying gulls over Ness’s beach tucks in its wings and plummets into the sea, sending up a small geyser. I’m too far away to see whether or not there’s a fish in its beak as it reemerges, but the two birds that immediately give chase let me know breakfast is on. I feel like a child again, witnessing a glimpse of the secret goings-on of Mother Nature. And just as quickly, I’m saddened that such a banal scene has become a rarity to treasure.

There’s a tremble in the wood rail. I turn toward the house to see Ness descending my way. Probably been watching for any sign that I was up. He has two large duffel bags, one on each shoulder, the straps crisscrossed over his chest. They look heavy, just judging by the way they’re pinned to his hips and not swaying. But Ness moves down the steps like they weigh nothing at all.

“Good morning,” he says.

I lift my mug in salute. Ness drops the bags, lifting the straps over his head, and they thud and clank to the deck. “You brought your fins and mask?”