When illness limited my mobility, beachcombing connected me to both my island home and distant shores
I travelled a lot for my job as a research scientist, specialising in nature conservation, before I had children. While visiting a field location in the Bale Mountains belonging to an Ethiopian colleague, I discovered that I was expecting my first child. Having to deal with the stigma associated with being a mother in academia, I resigned from my job in pursuit of a better work-life balance when my husband was offered a position in Shetland.
We took the midnight ferry from Aberdeen to the north, and although though the journey was difficult and I was sea ill, I fell in love right away. There are more than 100 islands in the Shetland archipelago, 16 of which are inhabited. Here, the weather fluctuates quickly, and light constantly plays tricks on an island-studded sea. Living in an area where seeing a pod of orcas is a constant possibility made me very happy.
Two losses marred our first year in Shetland, but the second pregnancy went well, and my daughter was born. But I lost my identity because I could not afford to go back to work due to the prohibitive expense of nursery. In order to keep myself occupied, I made a plan to cover the 1,679 rough miles of coastline around Shetland, section by section, whenever my husband could take care of our kids. I lost myself in maps, imagining strolls along wild cliffs and isolated beaches. This was an adventure I was excited to start.
But destiny had other ideas. My body responded weirdly in the months that followed the birth. Rheumatoid arthritis had developed in during my pregnancy, destroying the joints connecting my spine to my pelvic. My husband was at work, and it was difficult for me to take care of my small children because of the ensuing agony and exhaustion. I started to feel more and more alone, and despair set in.
In retrospect, it might seem strange, but counting dead seabirds brought me comfort. The tides carried the bodies of stranded seabirds to land along with a good deal of marine debris. As my daughter was a baby, I offered to watch over two beaches. It would be convenient for me to park close to each beach and stroll leisurely along the coastline. I had to count the birds, identify the species and check their plumage for oil in order to gather information for a survey that started in the late 1970s after the oil and gas port was established in Shetland.
Imagining a resilient sea bean floating on the ocean’s surface was comforting
My inaugural survey took place on a bitterly cold February day. During my training, my mentor paused to remove a piece of plastic from the shoreline, a lobster trap tag from Newfoundland or Labrador. He handed it to me, and as I returned home with a pocket full of beach treasures, I felt as though a door had opened. Soon, I dedicated all my spare time to beachcombing, scouring the shore for the strange and curious objects left behind by the tide.
My mental health improved as a result of beachcombing, which encouraged me to go outside in all kinds of weather. I spent the long winter nights reading up on the objects I had found, some more natural than others. I began posting my “treasures” to an internet group of beachcombers, from Shetland residents to others who lived on other coasts. With the help of other fans, I quickly assembled my own wish list of desirable items, which included precious ambergris from a sperm whale’s stomach, unusual egg cases (mermaid’s purses), messages in bottles, and wood from North America that had been chewed by beavers.
A lucky sea bean that was the drift seed of a tropical vine was the first item on my wish list. One was on display at a nearby museum, which I had seen. It looked to be a smooth, round disc that had been delicately polished after being cut out of brown wood. Their neat circle was broken by a tiny notch, which is why they are frequently called “sea hearts.” I could hardly feel it in the palm of my hand since it was so light. I pressed with my fingernail, but I was unable to make any impression on its firm surface.
I discovered that drift seeds have evolved to be buoyant and distributed by water after buying a field book on the subject. They float on the surface of the ocean protected by their hard, impenetrable outer covering. While some drift seeds end up in warm coastal areas where they can germinate, others end up in chilly northern regions such as Shetland, where they are unable to naturally flourish.
Because sea beans are so rare, I had always imagined they were lucky finds. I’ve encountered local beachcombers who have found multiple ones, as well as those who have never been lucky enough to find one. But as I later learned, sea beans date back to the Pagan Norse and are employed as protective charms. They were thought to protect men from drowning and women from harm during childbirth. My fixation with locating my own sea bean began when I discovered that Katherine Jonesdochter, a Shetland lady, was hanged in 1616 for witchcraft and that evidence from her sea bean was used against her.
I’ve learned the value of holding onto hope from beachcombing, which has brought me comfort in trying times
At night, while in pain, I would imagine an island in the Caribbean with a large seed pod looming over a forest stream. I would visualize the pod opening, and a sea bean dropping into the water, carried downstream to the river and eventually out to sea. The thought of a resilient sea bean drifting on the ocean’s surface brought me comfort.
Beachcombing isn’t just about escaping reality. It involves closely examining jetsam and flotsam, which often means confronting many of the world’s problems. Just as delving into Katherine Jonesdochter’s story increased my awareness of misogyny, evidence of colonial racism can also be found along the strandlines of Shetland. Despite having collected over 100 lobster trap tags from North America, only five were issued to Indigenous fishers. It’s as if the ocean is highlighting white complacency, showing our reluctance to connect the capitalist dots between various forms of social oppression and environmental harm.
I enjoy collecting lobster trap tags, but I’m aware that they are still considered litter. Each winter, storms deposit vast amounts of plastic onto the shores of these islands. Plastic also washes ashore hidden in the stomachs of deceased fulmars, beautiful seabirds that nest on Shetland’s cliffs. While I appreciate storms for bringing various items ashore, I worry about a future in which they become more frequent and severe.
Living on the islands means frequent trips to the Scottish mainland for medical care and, at times, for childbirth, hinting at a potential return to seeking solace in protective charms. It took years of searching before discovering a sea bean of my own, glistening among the wet pebbles under a low winter sun. Such euphoric moments are rare, but beachcombing often absorbs me enough to distract from pain. While searching for sea glass one winter day, I was so engrossed that I failed to notice a pod of orcas swimming just meters offshore until the explosive exhalation of a whale snapped me out of my reverie.
Beachcombing has been a source of comfort during challenging times, teaching me the importance of maintaining hope. It has also provided me with an unexpected closeness to these remarkable islands and the ways of the ocean, allowing me to explore the world without leaving home.
