Leisure

The bounty of a lifetime spent beachcombing has been this writer’s window to the world

by Kendall Bryant
[ Updated: Jul 14, 2008 - 4:44:14 PM ]

OCTOBER 2006 Hiva Oa, the Marquesas Islands, French Polynesia. Jammed among the hard black rocks that are the beaches of this lush, mountainous island�where the artist Paul Gauguin died at age 55�I find a broken piece of conch shell. Just a fragment. Worn down by hundreds and thousands of poundings against the volcanic rocks, it looks more jawbone than coquillage, one pink edge polished smooth by the South Pacific. I slip this affordable souvenir into my pocket. I�ll decide later in the morning, most likely before my walk ends, whether it�s a keeper, whether it should travel back to my house in the Hudson Valley and take a place in a bowl or on a shelf or table, surrounded by piles of other such plunder, or if it will be released back among the rocks, to perhaps be picked up another day by some other hand.

DECEMBER 1990 Montauk, New York. On a warm, gray pre-Christmas afternoon, I walk the beach with my friend Peter Beard. It seems as if the only man-made thing between the United Kingdom and us is the lighthouse at Montauk Point. We have spent the morning working on a soon-to-be-published book and are taking a long time-out to indulge in a shared addiction. No, not Bloody Marys. Scouring the beach. Bending to pick up detritus. Studying it. Occasionally sharing with each other. Most often dropping it back near where it was found. Only rarely sliding it�rock, shell, driftwood, animal or fish bone, worn glass�into a pocket or just carrying it in hand, absentmindedly rubbing salt and sand off its surface, perhaps discarding it when we find something smoother, shinier, more preciously odd. PB�s hunt today is for a specialty item, a beach rock resembling a T-bone steak to add to his �dinner� collection.

My own addiction can be traced back to the shores of northern Lake Michigan, where, since childhood, I have scoured the round-rocked beaches with my mother for fossilized Petoskey rocks. One great thing about being an impassioned beach collector is that you can do it anywhere. No tools are required. There are no rules as to what can or should be kept. No values assigned. All is up to the collector. My 40-year accumulation is not just a reminder of where I�ve been, but also a small natural and cultural history of the world�s coastlines. At least that�s how I rationalize it.

�It�s too bad,� says PB as we climb slowly back up the sand dune toward his house, �that the only two things in life that I really like doing�keeping diaries and picking up stuff on the beach�are totally worthless when it comes to making a living.�

FEBRUARY 2006 Spain Bay, Tasmania. White breakers crash onto the wide, two-mile-long crescent sand beach. Looking south from here, there�s nothing but open ocean and sky until you hit Antarctica.

Walking the tide line, I pass a wide spectrum of the natural order: a dead sea lion, an injured yet still very dangerous tiger snake, a dead penguin, and a blue-footed booby, along with a trio of speckled frigate bird eggs on the verge of hatching. The morning�s goal is an aboriginal midden at the eastern end of the beach, basically a giant garbage dump left behind by the earliest inhabitants. The tall pile of sand, shells, and bones is the best-preserved record of life here, going back 8,000 years. Nomadic tribes would stop here for months at a time, indulging in the steady supply of food. Kicking up the sand, my toes uncover hundreds of empty seashells, a wide variety of whitened bones (bird legs, fish vertebrae, kangaroo femurs, whale ribs), and the sooty remnants of ancient charcoal fires.

My eye spies a black rock not native to this area. Sharpened into a cutting tool for scaling fish or skinning wallaby, it was carried here, most likely traded for. I pick it up, imagining the hands that turned it into a tool and the various others who used it before it was abandoned here centuries ago.