My dad was nineteen and in the navy at the end of WWII. The war was all but over, and he was assigned to a tiny island in the Solomon archipelago. It must have been a fascinating place, for someone curious like my dad.
In the attic of my boyhood home in Michigan, there was a box of mementos from his island days. It was tucked back in a far corner of our attic; forgotten and dusty.
On a hot summer day, my brother and I discovered it. So we took it down to the garage and sat on the cool concrete floor to sift through it.
There were two hand carved warclubs with diamond shaped inlay of mother of pearl. Some photographs of a young, skinny version of my dad, puffing a cigarette, while sitting on the railing of a landing craft. And then, there were the seashells.
There were dozens of them. The red, tan, pink, and dark brown colors were fascinating.
One was as big as an eight-year-olds hand. Others were the size and shape of the plumbs on the tree in our backyard. Only one was pearly white with a fringe of gold. They were shiny, smooth, and unique. Laid out before us, they looked like yummy exotic candies.
But our favorite shell was the huge one. So big, it took both hands to hold. And when you held it to your ear, you could hear an ocean surf landing at some faraway shore. At least that's what dad said it was.
Tonight, sixty years later, I’m sitting on the beach at St. Augustine Florida. It’s low tide.
Here and there the water’s edge is littered with seashells. Small waves come to shore creating a constant swish of sound.
Far off, someone is strolling the damp shoreline. And every so often they crouch down and pick something up.