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Hard-Core Shelling Safari
Destinations · July 14, 2003

The storm sweeps across Sanibel Harbor at dawn, drawing a dark curtain over the island. Gray water churns angrily, spitting foamy waves on the beach. Gale-force wind gusts rage.

What a perfect day to go shelling.

Yes, shelling.

Mollusk collecting - the epitome of low-impact pastime on Florida's West coast - is getting a makeover. Shell-gathering tourists were once content to stroll along the white-sand beaches of Sanibel and Captiva during mid-morning and late-afternoon, scooping up whelk, scallop and sand dollar at a leisurely pace.

But today's shell-hunters crave the best specimens - and adventure. That means waking up before daybreak, as we did, braving inclement weather and even taking to the high seas in search of rare shells. The most ardent shell aficionados don't bother waiting for morning: they don mining hats, raincoats and boots, and hit the shore under the cover of darkness.

Is it dangerous? Although locals don't like to talk about it, the hazards can be considerable. It isn't uncommon for adventure-shellers to get pummeled by a rogue wave, pulled out to sea by a rip current, sliced open by razor-sharp shell fragments or temporarily marooned on a remote part of the island.

It makes skydiving seem downright safe.

What drives people to risk so much for a mollusk? Because there's so much out there - perhaps the greatest variety of seashells on the planet. "There are more than 400 species of shells along this part of the coast," says Kevin Koughan, a boat captain and shelling expert. "On any given day, you can find between 30 and 40 varieties."

We would be happy to find half as many. But like the new breed of shellers we want them pristine - not crushed or trampled over by some vacationing beachcomber. And we are willing to work for them.

So at 5:30 a.m. we pull ourselves out of bed and motor across the causeway separating the mainland from Sanibel. Our destination: The South Seas marina, where we are scheduled to hitch a ride on the Play Time, a 48-foot shelling catamaran bound for Cayo Costa National Park.

But by the time we pull up at the dock, the weather has turned from bad to worse. Rain pours down in white streaks against a blackened sky. "I hate to disappoint you," says John Salus, the boat captain. "But we're not going anywhere."

Salus and his first mate, Les Boyle, sit under the boat canopy and explain the perils of excessive shelling adventure. The seasickness (even in four-foot seas, it can make the short cruise extremely uncomfortable). The waves. The undertow. "And let's not forget the stingrays. During the summer, they're always a problem for shellers who venture into the water," Salus adds. Severe weather can also delay the return from Cayo Costa, which has the distinction of being Florida's least-visited state park.

"Not to worry," Boyle assures us. "After a storm like this, the best shelling is right along the beach here in Captiva."

The island's shrimp-like shape and east-west positioning is a natural shell collector, snatching mollusks from the Gulf currents. Trouble is, you never know where the good shells are going to land. It helps to consult an experienced shell-watcher.

Currents, wind direction and tides offer clues to where the mollusks will be deposited, and after years of seeing where the premium shells wash ashore, folks like Boyle and Salus have developed a sharp instinct for where the mollusks make landfall. This morning they are all headed to Blind Pass, a strip of shore that connects Sanibel and Captiva, says Boyle.

So are we.

The beach isn't abandoned, as we naively thought it might be. Storms bring out shells - and shellers - and several other adventurers are looking for Blind Pass that morning. The hardest of hard-core shellers come fully equipped with sieve, spade and mesh sack. By this time in the morning they've already come and gone, along with the volunteers who track turtles and cordon off their nests.

But today is different. Today's storm has delayed the early birds.

We share the beach with several surfers, a family of three and a pair of serious shellers with their plastic bags flapping in the wind. You can spot mollusk mavens from afar by the flashlight dangling from their belt or the spelunking helmet they're wearing. To get to the shells before the crowds, these shell-hunters don't mind forfeiting a few hours of sleep.

At first glance, Blind Pass is devoid of shells. But on a sand bluff that overlooks the receding tide, the ocean reveals a rich layer of mollusks half-hidden under the sand. The rain has almost stopped, and it will take another few days before the waves uncover the massive shell deposit the storm has carried to the beach. We help nature along by digging in the dark, sugary sand.

Within minutes the ground explodes with shells: sunray venus, crown conch, apple murex, calico scallops, slippersnails, dark cerith and nutmeg. A treasure of shells, more than we could possibly take home with us.

Indeed, the expert collectors don't bother with the common, albeit colorful, species. They're on the lookout for rare deep-water shells such as the lion's paw and the elusive junonia - a mollusk so unusual that it used to get its finder's name into the local newspaper and a free dinner at one of Sanibel's restaurants (the practice of rewarding junionia-finders stopped several years ago when shell merchants allegedly began "seeding" beaches with museum-quality junonias in order to stimulate interest in shelling).

The ocean gives but it also takes. A morning of adventure-shelling leaves nicks in our fingers and palms, where the shells cut into us. We're soaked from the rain and waves.

But it's a small price to pay for a shelling adventure.

.Christopher Elliott and Kari Haugeto are travel writers based in Key Largo, Fla.