From the Vault: Conchs

By Eilene Lyon

Though it has been a very long time since I lived anywhere near a seashore, I do have a small but sentimental shell collection. Among them are these three conch (pronounced “conk”) shells. The largest came from a tiny, uninhabited island that is part of the Belize Cayes, somewhere off the Caribbean coast of Guatemala. The occupant had long since been dispensed with.

My family chartered a boat with another family. The crew dropped us off with instructions to pick us up in about five days. This was the 1970s and we knew nothing about sunscreen, so we slathered ourselves with baby oil. Bad idea. By the time we left, my mom, myself and several others had second degree sunburns. My legs were so bad that I almost couldn’t stand.

My friend Karen and I wanted to keep some small, pretty shells that had been claimed by hermit crabs. They were loath to part with their protective shelter. Someone suggested we boil them. We put them in a pot of water and set it on the campfire. Don’t let anyone tell you they’re too stupid to notice the heat! Karen and I spent several minutes whacking them back into the pot when they tried to climb out.

The two small, helmet-shaped conchs are also ill-gotten, having still been alive when I claimed them. Not that I’m proud of this. I would never do that now. My motto is to “Observe, Don’t Disturb” wildlife. I picked them up while on a Windjammer Barefoot Cruise in the Caribbean in 1986.

This tour company no longer exists, but I spent two unforgettable weeks aboard the Flying Cloud (except perhaps the parts after too many rum drinks). Most of the passengers were young-ish, so I did not feel out of place, though traveling alone. One of the weekly events was the hermit crab race, on which we were encouraged to place bets. I promise, I did not slow-boil the losers.

At one stop on the cruise, I was out snorkeling at some distance from anyone else and encountered two major spectacles. First, I swam over that imperceptible dividing line between the Caribbean and the Atlantic. I soon found myself swimming in a school of massive, silver sea bass.

The other incredible scene, in shallow water with white sand and patchy sea grass: hundreds of conchs, pointing the same direction, looking for all the world like a migrating flock of birds, but in slow motion and underwater.

My final conch story comes from a visit The Putterer and I made to Turks & Caicos. We visited a conch farm, where they’re raised for human consumption (ceviche, conch fritters). We spent a little time on Grand Turk, which is a diver’s paradise. There I saw some of the largest helmet conchs I’ve ever seen, at least ten inches across at the widest part. I left them alone.