Some people return to Sanibel Island for the sunshine. Some, for the seashells. I come back for the memories. I hear my mother's voice more clearly on Sanibel than anywhere else, even though she passed away five years ago. And now, I'm making memories with my own children.

I was 12 when we first visited Sanibel. It was 1965 and the causeway connecting the island to the mainland at Ft. Myers was just two years old. From the very beginning, Sanibel, and little sister island Captiva, gave us the feeling of having been transported to a tropical paradise.

The island's main retail establishment was a general store named Bailey's. Along with groceries, Bailey's sold souvenirs and beachwear. Mom and I never passed up a shopping opportunity, even if it meant trying things on in a curtained-off corner next to the produce department, as it did in those early days at Bailey's.

Bailey's is still our first stop when we arrive on Sanibel, although my children don't relate much to my childhood memory of it. Today it's a thoroughly modern food emporium, complete with a gourmet section and an espresso stand.

On our first visit, we found that what really set Sanibel apart from anyplace else was the island's main activity. On our very first day at the beach, a tall woman strode enthusiastically up to my mother and me to show us a rare shell she had just found. Our blank stares told her that we were, as yet, uninitiated to the world of shelling. Over the next few days, she taught us much about Sanibel's 275 different kinds of shells. And we learned to do the 'Sanibel Stoop' -- the peculiar, bent-over walking position that all beachcombers adopt.

The top prize among shells is the spotted Junonia. It's so rare in fact, that those lucky enough to find Junonias are pictured in the weekly newspaper. Despite her best efforts, my mother never found one. So my father took things into his own hands. He purchased a ten-dollar specimen from a shell shop, put it in his pocket, and on their next beach stroll, tossed it in front of her when she wasn't looking. Unfortunately, their timing was off. The next wave rolled it away before she ever saw it.

Often, when you look at a mountainside in the West, you see what look like long 'fingers' running perpendicular to the ground. In between are the enormous tracks left from eons of erosion. Usually, mountain roads run wind uphill through these valleys. But the road we followed actually ran along the top of one of these 'fingers'. The views were definitely first class: all those acres of unspoiled land, broken only by the silver ribbon of highway coiled behind us. The switchbacks were tight and one lane in some spots. And in two hours' time, we passed only a handful of vehicles. This fact is understandable: New Mexico's Catron County (where most of the wilderness is located) is about the size of New Jersey, but has fewer than 3,000 people.

Mom would have loved Sanibel's Bailey-Matthews Shell Museum, which opened in 1995. What took us years to learn about shells can be had in just one trip to this one-of-a-kind museum.

Over forty percent of Sanibel and Captiva is preserved as wildlife sanctuary, including the 5,000 acres of 'Ding' Darling National Wildlife Refuge. My father developed the habit of taking the family on a drive through the refuge after breakfast every morning, the best time to see the myriad of birds, alligators, turtles, and manatees. I, on the other hand, had come to Sanibel for just one reason: to get a tan that would make all my friends back in Michigan jealous. I wanted to be on the beach as early as possible. But he who held the keys controlled the car, and we drove through the refuge every morning.

If I'd had the chance to view the refuge up close and personal, like we did recently with Mark 'Bird' Westall, I would have been more appreciative of the islands' flora and fauna. Westall, part naturalist, part philosopher, guided us in canoes through the mangrove forests, sharing his unparalleled knowledge about this unique outpost of nature.

Weathered, not only from the elements, but also from years of concern over the environment, Westall shared his thoughts about saving the osprey from extinction and keeping the island wildlife safe from over-exposure to humans.

'The popularity of eco tours is starting to concern me,' Bird says. 'And when photographers shoot off starter guns just so they can get a good shot of birds on the wing, that makes me crazy.'

Although the boys were thoroughly occupied in steering their canoe during the tour, I suspect some of Westall's words made it through to their consciousness.

My mother was an avid supporter of another island wildlife organization: C.R.O.W. (Care and Rehabilitation of Wildlife, Inc.), which tends to sick, injured and orphaned wildlife, as well as teaching about conservation. She purchased whatever C.R.O.W. was selling for their annual fundraiser, including books, posters and statues of wildlife.

The distance up the mountainside was about 23 miles, and took us over an hour to complete. The last mile was pretty rugged, but our R1100 rose to the challenge. And the reward that awaited us at the top was well worth it. Talk about feeling like you're on top of the world! There was nothing in the vistas surrounding us that looked even remotely like human inhabitation.

Mom always said breakfast was the most important meal of the day. We began having breakfast at the Sanibel Cafe when they first opened in 1982. The color scheme has always remained comfortably the same: rich, ocean blue and clean, crisp white. The tabletops are a study in paleontology; under the glass of each is a collection of shell specimens dating from various geological periods. The cafe makes unique black raisin toast and outstanding eggs benedict. We still go for breakfast, but we discovered over the years that their lunches and dinners are excellent, too.

At Sanibel's eastern-most tip is another early morning favorite, the Lighthouse Cafe. The name comes from the fact that it's located near the island's 115-year-old lighthouse. The interior continues the theme, with photos of famous beacons from all over the country scattered across the walls. The string of dining rooms always gives us the feeling of eating in someone's home. Mom loved the fact that the Lighthouse served good old American cooking to an international clientele. It seems good eggs translate into any language!

When my family first visited Sanibel, there weren't many restaurant choices for dinner, but one we frequented often was Scotty's Pub. Their motto: 'Free beer tomorrow!' Of course tomorrow never came, but as a kid I thought that was an intriguing concept. Scotty's was always crowded, always smoke-filled and served the best shrimp boiled in beer I ever tasted.

The name changed over the years, as did the motif. Today, it's the Jacaranda (after a tree by the same name growing through its middle) and serves outstanding dishes including Snapper and Grouper, both local fish. Memories of Scotty's are never far from me, though. I found a box of their matches among my mother's things, and keep them prominently displayed on my desk.

Captiva's Mucky Duck is in a class all its own. My mother insisted they made the best frog legs and crab cakes. She was a connoisseur of both. This restaurant provides two types of entertainment. One is courtesy of Mother Nature. Prior to going in for dinner, Mucky Duck's patrons sit out on the beach, mingling with local beach combers, to cheer as the last slice of Old Sol slips into the Gulf of Mexico.

The second form of entertainment occurs inside with Victor Mayeron, the proprietor. Looking much like the gourmand he is, he first rattles off the evening's specials to the entire restaurant. Then, he makes rounds among the tables, startling diners with a fake mustard bottle, and a trick cup and saucer. Still, we happily return year after year!

I often daydream about walking along Sanibel's snow white beach with my mother, tasting the salt spray on my lips and bending to catch a special shell as it rolls in on a wave. When I stand up again, I realize it's no longer my mother beside me, but one of my sons, now almost fully grown. Their love for the island makes me feel as though we're all still connected to her. Just like the sand that sifts into our shoes, Sanibel's mystery and beauty has sifted into our hearts. I think it'll be there forever.

In Search of the Perfect Shell

Since shelling has become a family past time, we happily pass along tips to novices.

First, a geography lesson. Dr. José Leal, director of the Bailey-Matthews Shell Museum, says, 'Because the island is a barrier island and sits in an east/west position, it's a natural repository for shells that are brought to shore by the prevailing winds.'

The best time to shell is at low tide, which changes each day. Ocean bottom normally covered by water is bare. Tide charts are available in the newspaper and tourist guides.

A good storm is truly a blessing to a sheller. The waves churn up the ocean floor, sending forth many treasures. If you're on Sanibel during a really low tide and a storm, you've hit pay dirt!

When we began shelling on Sanibel in the 60's, shells were plentiful. With the increase in tourism, a decrease in shells arose, so Florida passed a law making live shelling unlawful within Sanibel city limits. But my mother became eco-conscious long before it was popular. After those first few years, we only collected shells without animals and when Mom found live ones on the beach, she'd throw them back out as far as she could. We've since learned that the force of being thrown is often fatal in itself. We now walk them out as far as we can, and let Mother Nature take care of the rest. 

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