Shell Game

A collectors’ obsession has become the newest beachside extreme sport. Here’s the scoop on shelling.

Ankle-deep in low tide, scanning the brilliant blue shallows, he saw it.

He could hardly believe his luck – even living in the Philippines, amidst some of the most beautiful beaches on earth, he had never come across such a perfect specimen. A Glory of the Sea (Conus gloriamaris), once considered one of the rarest shells in the world. To find it, here, in this highly competitive shelling destination – Sanibel Island, Florida – he’s achieved the thrill of his three-year odyssey through the world’s shelling hotspots. 

Enthusiasts like this collector, whose story I heard on Sanibel Island, are part of a new wave who are turning beachcombing into an extreme sport. Avid shellers travel the globe’s most encrusted beaches in search of rare examples, much as birdwatchers tick off sightings in their birding books. The Philippines, Hawaii, Japan, Australia, Cape Cod, South Africa, Oregon and the Caribbean are among the most popular spots.

On Sanibel, the thrill it promises is more local: “Find a Junonia” – a rare, brown-checked offshore shell coveted by collectors – “and you’ll get your photo in the local paper,” promises Gladys, the desk clerk at the West Wind Inn. Later, perusing the tidal chart Gladys gave me, I discover that this evening’s low tide is at 6:19 p.m., the best time for shelling. My friend Miriam is after the elusive Lettered Olive (Olive sayana) while the Banded Tulip (Fasciolaria lilium) had caught my eye in the lobby displays.

We head to the beach, where dozens of people are doing the Sanibel Stoop: the requisite position employed when hunching over these sandy beaches, looking for seashells. With the sun still beating down at 6:30 p.m., modern-day trea­sure hunters line the shallow depths, in search of semi-buried riches.

And I mean riches – literally. Shells have been currency, talisman and treasure over the ages: The golden cowrie from the Fiji and Solomon Islands is a symbol of power and rank for chieftains, and cowries have also been used in art, jewellery and as religious objects. The Maldives’ ancient money cowrie went on to become the most widely circulated currency in history.

Fresh from shelling in the Gulf, we admire some fine specimens at the Bailey-Matthews Shell Museum – probably the only museum in the world where it’s acceptable to show up a little drippy – and later stop at She Sells Sea Shells (the best name ever for a shell shop). While admiring Junonias under glass, my friend muses, “Why don’t people just buy them so they can get their picture in the paper?” The cashier quips, “Honey, I want to be fa­mous too. Don’t you think I would have thought of that?” Fact is, you can also just buy a Junonia on eBay. To a newbie conchologist such as myself, this makes little sense. What motivates people to forage for shells?

“Many feel a desire to get in touch with nature,” says Ronda Green, proprietor of Araucaria Ecotours in Australia, explaining that do-no-harm pursuits in the outdoors can be their own reward. “I think the environment movement that started a few decades ago has raised public awareness of the fragility of ecosystems.” And, as Dr. Jerry Harasewych, curator of Marine Mollusca at the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of Natural History, assures me, “Shell collecting, as practised by the vast majority of people, is an ecologically harmless hobby.” Besides, shells have protection: Sanibel’s shelling ordinance, for example, makes it illegal to take shells with live creatures in them from the beach.

The next day, Miriam and I head to the 120-year-old Sanibel Lighthouse. “Is the shelling any better on this side of the island?” I call to a man wearing a Harley-Davidson tank top and a Spider-Man baseball cap, carrying a yellow sand bucket. “I don’t know about better,” he replies. “No Junonias.” Which is why private shelling excursions on Captiva Island with local shell authority Captain Mike Fuery are so popular.

Fuery has been a shelling guide for 27 years, and it took 17 to find his first Junonia. “I know a woman who’d been coming here for 40 years,” he tells us as we motor out. “She came here with her father since she was two.” She finally found one last year, had the Junonia encased in acrylic and used it as her late father’s memorial.

As we anchor near North Captiva, Fuery warns that the island has so many shells that it’s hard to walk on. I think he’s exaggerating – until I see the desolate spot, a virtual dumping ground for sand and seashells.

Today, we’re the only people here. All is calm and quiet. And then Miriam’s Lettered Olive magically appears from beneath the sediment. Despite my earlier skepticism, I feel a rush of excitement. Shelling may be a lone endeavour, but it’s also like a team sport: us against the ocean. If you ever hear someone joyfully shout “Junonia!” on a Sanibel beach, you’ll know what I mean.

As we cruise back to Captiva Island, I’m already imagining my next shelling holiday. Hawaii? Thailand? Australia? It’s a great big world out there, with lots of semi-buried treasure waiting to be uncovered.

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