muscular body and the way a clump of grayish-black hairs contrasted with his deep, dark tan. This salt-and-pepper hair pattern seemed to be in coordination, naturally, with his white-and-black striped trunks.
Melissa started to trot, gingerly, toward the water’s edge, but she stopped abruptly after the bottoms of her feet encountered hundreds of tiny, painful shells.
As if on cue, Joe reached out to hold her hand.
“Whatever you do, don’t walk on the blue things that look like broken balloons,” he advised. “They’re a form of jellyfish that can give you a nasty sting.”
“There are shells everywhere,” Melissa exclaimed, pointing toward the ground. “And they’re so small.”
She reached down to pick up a handful of crushed coral, filled with shells, and marveled further at what she observed.
“Look, Joe, I must have at least a dozen of them in my hand. They’re all different colors, and some are smaller than contact lenses. But I can tell that all of them are definitely conch shells. Miniature conch shells. I’ve collected a few of the bigger ones at beaches up north, usually right after a storm has hit, but I’ve never seen any this small. The ones I have at home are about the size of baseballs.”
“Later on we’ll make it a point to collect some of the nicer ones—to add to your collection,” Joe smiled, as he led the way into the water. “We’ll get big shells, small shells, and shells that you’ll need a microscope to enjoy. The really big ones found here in the Keys—those that measure maybe twelve inches across—are used for horns. A skilled native of the ‘Conch Republic’—as Key Westers like to call themselves—can blow into a dried conch shell and make a sound like a tugboat horn. And it doesn’t require strong lung power, just the ability to hold your lips a certain way when blowing through the shell.
“By the way, have you ever eaten any conch?”
“Yes, I have. The last time I visited the Keys I had some. And I remember that conch chowder tastes great, much better than clam chowder.”
While they stood at wading level, gleefully splashing each other for several minutes, Joe told Melissa the story of the horse conchs and the queen conchs.
“Not too many northerners know the difference between the two types of conchs. The shells look the same, but the queens are vegetarians, eating algae and the greens that grow on the ocean floor. The horse conchs, however, are carnivorous. And the one thing the horse conchs feed on, believe it or not, are the queen conchs. They sneak behind the queen conchs like this,” Joe whispered, as he deftly swooped up Melissa, with ease, into his strong arms, “and then they wait for them to come out of their shells before they gobble ’em up.”
With that, he ran backwards for a few steps farther into the surf, gently releasing Melissa’s body. Then he fell into a backstroke in the deeper water.
When Melissa came up for air, her hair now straight and her face completely soaked, she was laughing hysterically.
“My oldest sister was the last one who did that to me,” she screamed, the warm sun reflecting its light off her cheeks, “and that was when I was six years old.”
In all, Melissa and Joe spent about twenty more minutes in the water—swimming, wading, and playfully splashing about. Then they returned, wet and exhausted, to the blanket they had spread on the beach, near Joe’s car. While they sat, looking out at the surf and drying off quickly in the now much warmer sun, Joe pointed in the distance to a small spot of coastline off to the left, about a mile down the beach.
“When the sun’s right, you can see my trailer from here.”
“What trailer?”
“Aha, that’s a typical city dweller. My trailer is where I live.”
“You mean you live in a mobile home?”
“It may be possible to make it a mobile home again, but I’ve never moved it. There are so many palm trees and hibiscus bushes growing alongside and
Melissa started to trot, gingerly, toward the water’s edge, but she stopped abruptly after the bottoms of her feet encountered hundreds of tiny, painful shells.
As if on cue, Joe reached out to hold her hand.
“Whatever you do, don’t walk on the blue things that look like broken balloons,” he advised. “They’re a form of jellyfish that can give you a nasty sting.”
“There are shells everywhere,” Melissa exclaimed, pointing toward the ground. “And they’re so small.”
She reached down to pick up a handful of crushed coral, filled with shells, and marveled further at what she observed.
“Look, Joe, I must have at least a dozen of them in my hand. They’re all different colors, and some are smaller than contact lenses. But I can tell that all of them are definitely conch shells. Miniature conch shells. I’ve collected a few of the bigger ones at beaches up north, usually right after a storm has hit, but I’ve never seen any this small. The ones I have at home are about the size of baseballs.”
“Later on we’ll make it a point to collect some of the nicer ones—to add to your collection,” Joe smiled, as he led the way into the water. “We’ll get big shells, small shells, and shells that you’ll need a microscope to enjoy. The really big ones found here in the Keys—those that measure maybe twelve inches across—are used for horns. A skilled native of the ‘Conch Republic’—as Key Westers like to call themselves—can blow into a dried conch shell and make a sound like a tugboat horn. And it doesn’t require strong lung power, just the ability to hold your lips a certain way when blowing through the shell.
“By the way, have you ever eaten any conch?”
“Yes, I have. The last time I visited the Keys I had some. And I remember that conch chowder tastes great, much better than clam chowder.”
While they stood at wading level, gleefully splashing each other for several minutes, Joe told Melissa the story of the horse conchs and the queen conchs.
“Not too many northerners know the difference between the two types of conchs. The shells look the same, but the queens are vegetarians, eating algae and the greens that grow on the ocean floor. The horse conchs, however, are carnivorous. And the one thing the horse conchs feed on, believe it or not, are the queen conchs. They sneak behind the queen conchs like this,” Joe whispered, as he deftly swooped up Melissa, with ease, into his strong arms, “and then they wait for them to come out of their shells before they gobble ’em up.”
With that, he ran backwards for a few steps farther into the surf, gently releasing Melissa’s body. Then he fell into a backstroke in the deeper water.
When Melissa came up for air, her hair now straight and her face completely soaked, she was laughing hysterically.
“My oldest sister was the last one who did that to me,” she screamed, the warm sun reflecting its light off her cheeks, “and that was when I was six years old.”
In all, Melissa and Joe spent about twenty more minutes in the water—swimming, wading, and playfully splashing about. Then they returned, wet and exhausted, to the blanket they had spread on the beach, near Joe’s car. While they sat, looking out at the surf and drying off quickly in the now much warmer sun, Joe pointed in the distance to a small spot of coastline off to the left, about a mile down the beach.
“When the sun’s right, you can see my trailer from here.”
“What trailer?”
“Aha, that’s a typical city dweller. My trailer is where I live.”
“You mean you live in a mobile home?”
“It may be possible to make it a mobile home again, but I’ve never moved it. There are so many palm trees and hibiscus bushes growing alongside and
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