The alarm screeches at 5:45 a.m., an ungodly hour made even more ridiculous given this is the first day of 2012, when everyone else in their right mind is sleeping off last night’s excesses.
But here we are. It is Jan. 1, splat in the middle of a vacation on Sanibel Island, Fla., and my 11-year-old daughter is ferociously determined to rise before daylight to comb the shores for shells. In pitch-black darkness. With headlamps.
And I, in deference to a girl who is typically most reluctant to move in the mornings, will accompany her.
This is no small feat of heroism on her mother’s part. It is not just the early hour; I’m a little wary of beautiful, deserted beaches. A robbery at machete-point in years past has put me off carefree beach wandering.
Still, we set out in pitch darkness from our little cottage on the sand. My headlamp promptly fades, and dies, which only adds fuel to my wild imaginings – what if we tread on some drunken soul sleeping off last night’s party? But my daughter marches Zen-like along, stopping to crouch every few moments to poke with a finger, turn over a conch or ask a question.
In prior days, at our sunrise sojourns, the beach has been combed by dozens of uber-competitive shellers, sporting gear of mesh bags, shovels, lamps and boots. Today, the beach is ours alone, with only the sound of surf.
She swings her headlamp to the right, up the shore, and we see a lovely sight. In dark shells, in massive printing, someone has left a message. “HAVE A GREAT 2012.” It’s a terrifically sweet start to the year.
Farther along, a congregation of Florida fighting conches are washed ashore. We stage a rescue operation, picking each one up, examining them for life and flinging them back into the sea. (Can conches get motion sickness? If so, we may have inflicted a few of them with centrifugal force-induced nausea.)
Last night, we watched the sun sink into the ocean, the last sunset of the year. Now, as with the first glimmerings of light, we will get to see the sun rise – treasures for Toronto city-dwellers like us.
My girl realizes that the most thrilling finds are still in the water, so we wade, shin-deep, to look at crabs in shells, mammoth conches and sand dollars, miracles of perfection in the undulating water. Some shells, without creatures, are placed in a bag, but most are carefully put back.
The sun peeks up behind us, spreading pink light. A dog walker appears in the horizon, then a jogger. The first day of the year begins.
We are seven days on this island, staying in a colourful cottage built in the sand in the 1950s. Palm trees line the drive, with the effect even more awesome at night, when they are lit up with white Christmas lights. This is an electronic-free week for the family, meaning no cellphones or video games, something the kids have submitted to with a surprising lack of resistance verging on relief.
