by Kristine Quinn
Manhattan Beach was unusually cool, thanks to the remnants of an arctic storm with winds that had blown into town overnight. The sky was painted with cumulous clouds heavy with moisture, gray black, floating overhead, casting shadows in the still moist sand. The high tide had receded at sunrise.
Here I was, an old woman, 70 years young, with the curiosity and zeal for life that I possessed even as a little girl, when I would discover a perfect sea shell brought in from by previous night’s waves.
I had arrived at the beach, a little after 8 a.m. thinking silently to myself while sporting a Cheshire cat grin, teeth twinkling in the morning sun, “I am going to get all the best seashells before those darn tourists spoil everything.” Yes, I was selfish in my mission. After years of hunting down the most exquisite shells, and lovingly rinsing off the sand, drying them, polishing them, and adding them to my giant display case at home, I guess you could call me obsessed with finding what I considered perfect shells; no cracks or chips and perfect in shape. I was certainly not going to change my focus today, or so I thought.
A little boy had been playing in the sand a few feet away from me. I actually had not even noticed him until a young, blond man in a wetsuit, carrying a surfboard, hollered to me, “Ma’am, the little boy behind you is trying to get your attention.”
Sure enough, there was this sweet waif-like child, no older than 4, with large, almond shaped, chestnut colored eyes, dark skinned with a scraggly mop of ebony colored hair, waving excitedly to me.
I waved a “thank you” to the surfer and then turned my attention to this child, oblivious to the chill in the air or dark clouds. It was evident he had designs on building the grandest sandcastle his tiny plastic shovel and sand pail could create. Even this early in the day, he had built one almost two feet high, with special entrances marked by empty Styrofoam cups. It was a grand castle as far as my eye was concerned. His parents, a handsome couple in their early 30s were immersed in the morning paper, but had stopped for a brief moment to give me visual approval.
“Hello young man, my name is Mrs. Quinn, and what is yours?” He proudly pumped his chest as if a roster readying to crow and declared in a high pitched almost chipmunk voice, “My name is Swap.”
“My goodness what an unusual name.”
At this point, his mother, a lovely woman, slim in build with the same dark-hued hair and skin as Swap, chuckled with an almost lilting tone and said “It is short for Swapnesh, which in Hindu means King of Dreams.” I was in awe of the beauty of his name, and envious of the meaning. As quickly as the mother paused to explain Swap’s name, she went back to her newspaper.
A seagull swooped over us and in that indomitable fashion that only Manhattan Beach seagulls seem to possess, unloaded a bird dropping right on the head of Swap’s father, who had been wearing an age-worn straw Panama hat that the seagull may have mistaken for a nest. Swap ignited with laughter as did everyone around us. Although his father was a little flustered, he calmly stood up, walked to the shore and waited for the next wave to come in and quietly and patiently soaked the hat in the foaming salt water until all the residue from the seagull was gone. He shook the hat and then proudly placed it back on his balding head and went back to reading the paper.
After everyone enjoyed a few minutes of laughter, I went back to the business of asking little Swap “what was so important you needed to speak to me?”
His dark eyes filled with emotion, and with his arms placed on both hips, he asked, “Mrs. Quinn, I have been watching you look through the sand for seashells, and it has made me very sad to see you pick up shells and then throw them back in the sand. You have done this over and over and it hurts me deeply.” Tears started to flow down his small rounded checks, and his nostrils dripped small drops of mucous, which touched his lips. I grabbed a tissue I had in my pocket and wiped his face tenderly and asked, “Swap, why does it make you so sad?” His mother, looked up at me and remarked, “Swap does not mean to offend you Mrs. Quinn.”
I think she was concerned I would think the family rude, but being a grandmother and knowing how fragile children can be, I wanted to get to the root of the matter. I surely didn’t want this family who were visiting my hometown to think I would do something to hurt a child’s feelings.
Swap finally calmed down and said, “Please Mrs. Quinn, can I show you.” He grasped my left hand in his small right hand and guided me to a patch of sand next to his sandcastle. He stopped down and in one very graceful swoop of his left hand, picked up a broken California muscle shell that I had discarded just a few minutes before. “Mrs. Quinn, why did you throw this back into the sand. My mommy thinks it was because it was not perfect? She said that maybe you are like many people who only like things that are perfect and if a seashell is not perfect, you don’t want to keep it. Is that what you feel Mrs. Quinn?”
My goodness, was I in a quandary. Never in my 70 years had I ever realized how biased I must seem by never picking a seashell to bring home unless it was perfect. And now, a precious little boy visiting on vacation was calling me on it. I had to think fast, thoughts churning, trying to diplomatically assemble a response that would satisfy his curiosity while also being concerned about what his parent’s might think of this old lady from Manhattan Beach. I think at that very moment, my gray hair felt a little grayer and my arthritic fingers seemed to be a little stiffer, but most of all, my stubborn Irish pride, didn’t quite feel very proud.
After I got my composure back, I responded, “Well Swap, I never quite realized how picking only perfect seashells might affect other people, especially a wonderful little boy like you! But I can tell you think I should not throw shells back into the sand just because they are not perfect, do you?” He gave a great sigh and then looked at me with all the seriousness that a little boy can muster and said, “Mrs. Quinn, my best friend, Joseph, back home in Boston where we live, was born without legs. I met him in my preschool.” The tears began to flow uncontrollably down his face and onto his Mickey Mouse T-shirt. I had no idea what to do. Swap’s mother and father jumped up from their beach chairs and explained that none of the other children would get close to Joseph. Joseph and Swap had become instant friends and Joseph brought Swap his seashell collection to share the next day.
Attached to Joseph’s wheelchair was a clear plastic bag containing an assortment of broken seashells. There was not a single perfect one in the entire collection. Joseph asked Swap, “Do you want to know why I have all broken shells?” And Swap, indeed was curious, so Joseph explained. “When I was very little my mother and father would take me to the beach, and we would look for seashells. They would help me dig them out of the sand and then pick them up and show me how special they were because no one else would probably ever want to bring them home.. My mommy and daddy said even though my body is not perfect, that I am perfect in their eyes.”
Swap looked up to me, and said, “Yes, Mrs. Quinn, this is true, I was so very sad, you do not like people who have broken bodies.”
I held his little hand tightly and said, “Oh no, Swap, that is the farthest thing from my mind, but I would like to help you pick some shells for Joseph to bring back to Boston if you would like?”
He beamed again, like a Cheshire cat, as I had done earlier in the morning. We spent the next two hours picking up shells for Joseph, rinsing them and lovingly putting them in his little plastic pail to bring back to Joseph.
My collection at home now consists of seashells of many shapes and sizes, the perfect and the broken. In my heart, the memory of my day on the beach with little Swap was the greatest gift of all. B
Kristine M. Quinn Easy Reader Writing Contest
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