I slide out of my bed and pull on my yellow shorts and striped yellow and white tank top. My bare feet pad quietly out of the bedroom. He sits on the porch. Watching the waves roll in. Never a coffee drinker, his hands instead caress his camera. Dad. Taking in the sunrise with his lens. A familiar sight. I watch him watching the colors and clouds. Snapping pictures at each new stroke of the paint brush. He is unaware of my watching. I can still see his face concentrating, mind thinking of the best way to get the shot.

I slide the glass door open and the salt in the air touches my lips. The sound of the waves washes over me. I close the door as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake the others. He turns to me, “Hi, Boo. Wanna go for a walk?” I came because I knew he would ask.

“Sure,” I say.

“Bring your bucket.”

My feet find my pink flip flops beside the door and we are out. Down the elevator, out to the beach in minutes. We walk and he tells me how to find the best shells. The most colorful ones. The ones that are closest to whole.

“When the tide is inching in, the waves bring the shells with them to lay them on the shore. But just before they get to the sand, they roll themselves in the water at the edge, right as the sand drops from beach to ocean. There, you will find the best shells.”

We wade in the water along the break line to look for conchs with the animals still inside. My goal is always to find an empty, but whole shell. I don’t like the animals inside. I am fearful. However, the empty shells were abandoned by the animals for a reason. A hole. A chipped piece. It is rare to find a conch without such flaws.

Dad, always one to find the best of everything, is a master sheller. I watch him “throw back” any shell that is not whole. Even those with animals inside, are subject to go back to the ocean. When he finds an interesting color, or texture he calls me to come see. I do the same. My bucket gets heavier as we walk the long beach.

The sun climbs higher into the sky and with it the temperature. We turn to head back, facing directly into the sun. My hair gets lighter and skin darker because of mornings like these. Now we walk directly on the beach, where the ocean has laid out her treasures, instead of in the water. Heads down, we walk slowly from pile to pile. When our eyes find a keeper, we crouch run our hands through the fragments until the feel of a whole smooth shell lands in our hands. We rinse it in the tide pools and analyze if it is worthy to drop into my bucket.

Dad has names for different types of shells, my favorites are the cat’s paw, the corkscrew, the olive, and the butterflies. It feels to me as if we have been gone for hours. Maybe we have. I cannot be sure, because time stands still when I am with Dad shell hunting. As it does when we are wildflower looking, or bird watching, or trail hiking. So much influence in just being together.

I run ahead to dump my bucket on the porch and show the others my finds. They are up now. Mom cooking breakfast. All of us getting ready for the day. Suits on. Sunscreen spread. Hair up in bathing caps. (pool rules) Activity abounds. The little girl in me remembers. She loves these times and brings them to my mind often these days.

This past week, I went on a trip to Savannah with some girlfriends. The weather was perfect and we had a glorious time. Before I left, I had to go put my feet in the ocean. I can’t be that close and not. I drove to Tybee Island and I walked the beach. I found a pile of shells, and one mostly whole corkscrew. A wink from Dad. I brought it home with me. I hold it in my hand and remember. It is a comfort, as are the jars of shells I still have from those walks along the beach when I was a young girl where I found my love for texture. It’s seems my inner child is making sure that I am connected to her in my grief. She reminds me of how blessed I have been to have had such great parents. So much influence in the smallest of things. Even the shells…