The Bottom Shelf Review

The night’s low tide and phone flashlights revealed dark sand and glittering seashells. Searching for a seashell worth keeping can take a while, though my mom is less picky about her shells than I am. Oftentimes, she will roam the beach and come back with multiple pounds of seashells, doing the same the next day. Her pockets will be filled to the brim like a balloon about to pop; one time she even resorted to holding up the bottom of her shirt and placing shells in it like a kangaroo pouch. This endeavor I decided to join her, and we chose to look at midnight when the tide receded, and the moon and stars dimly lit the salty water.

The formation of seashells tends to be overlooked as their form and color fill the mental space reserved for shells. Yes, their shape and tone can be captivating—which is why people love collecting them—but the magnificent process of how the shells are made and washed upon the shore is no less interesting. Mollusks, such as clams and sea snails, take in nutrients from the ocean and begin secreting calcium carbonate (among other minerals), which forms their protective shells. As long as the organism keeps growing, so does its shell. A greater diversity in a mollusk population’s diet will enable them to have a wider variety of shell colors, and their environment can also guide their color to deter or camouflage from predators.

By the time the shells are seen lying dormant on the sand, the mollusks have gone through their life cycle. They died and were taken by the ocean current for their shells to be deposited on the naked sand where humans seek their favorites. Someone may be lucky enough to find a whelk or conch shell, and they hold it up to their ear to hear the ocean wherever they may go. They may find a classic scallop shell with colors that tickle their fancy. And so, the shell is pocketed for its looks, and the mollusk that created the specimen is all but forgotten.

None of that crossed my mind while looking for shells with my mom. I, like most people, was only interested in finding my favorite: full shells, void of damage and vibrant in color. My mom and I walked along the cool sand, and the colder water intermittently rushed past our feet to gift us more shells. Our flashlights let the sand, shells, water, and seafoam glisten in the humid air. After we searched for some time with vague success (scouring the beach at night makes finding pretty shells a bit difficult), we sat on foldable beach chairs to watch the stars. The stars twinkled from lightyears away, and a couple planets from a short few tens to hundreds of million miles away did the same. The moon stared without judgement from 238,000 miles away, basically next door. Every once in a while a shooting star would fly by, burning brightly as the friction in the air caused it to violently tear apart. Its trail of light looked to cut a hole in the atmosphere and left both me and my mom in wonderment.

My mom left the beach and went back to the vacation house, and I chose to stay on the beach. Being out there with her, looking for seashells and shooting stars, was fun, but I also enjoyed the solitude of the night. I looked out into the past that was plastered over the pitch-black canvas. Every galaxy has millions to billions of stars. Each star has its own planets, and some of those planets could have the right conditions to potentially harbor life. If life exists elsewhere, where is it? Why can we not detect it? Can that life detect us? Maybe they can and they choose to avoid us. Maybe they are not out there, and we are the only source of life in this universe. That is the crux of the Fermi Paradox: If intelligent life exists, how come we do not see it? Maybe someday humans will have powerful enough technology to detect intelligent life somewhere, and maybe someday humans will have powerful enough technology to colonize more than just our own planet.

All of this does not give a remedy to lack of remembrance the universe has. Even if aliens exist. Even if humans gain control over the entire Milky Way Galaxy. One day, we won’t. One day, the last human will be born and eventually die. All will be forgotten if given enough time. When humans die out, there is no way to know if the aliens will be aware that we ever were. The earth will recycle all of what us humans made back into the ecosystem; our skyscrapers will erode, our plastic will decompose, even if it takes thousands of years. Less than a second on the cosmic clock of the universe, and all we ever knew or will know is erased.

Not every seashell the mollusks create make it to shore. The ocean is rough and breaks down materials over time. Many shells get broken into smaller and smaller pieces, becoming part of the sand that gets into my hair and in between my toes. The little specks of sand that cling to seashells could have been seashells themselves, part of a clam or snail. That grain of sand has no memory of what it used to be, but humans have the knowledge of that former shell. Walking along the beach and looking for seashells is, in a way, looking into the past. Humans take the shells and, with mind and eye, create their own narrative of what the creature was like. The charming chassis of dead mollusks called seashells have a story to tell, and humans are the vessel when we pick them up and put them in our pockets.

The universe is indifferent. It does not remember. But we do. Humans can remember that grains of sand, that seashells, once belonged to a living organism whose descendants are still alive. The small details of the shell’s life, however, cannot be recovered. Like the critter’s family and friends, or their favorite spot to hide from predators. When there are no more humans, who is to say that aliens can piece our story together by the remnants left behind? They might return to dust before the aliens ever see them. It would be nice to know for sure if life or intelligent life exists somewhere out there, but ultimately would not change our way of life. The aliens could look at us how we look at seashells, with mere amusement of their conspicuous qualities. They may look at us with intrigue and learn as much about us as they can. They may do none of those if they do not exist. Humans, assuredly, do exist. Humans can choose to remember anything they find and record it, learn from it. That is something the aliens are not needed for. The universe has no stakes in the life that exists within it, but we can create our own.

Continuing to zone out with my eyes fixated on the stars, I briefly return to my normal state of consciousness every time a shooting star goes by and takes my breath away. There could be aliens out there. They may see us, but they may not and may never. Seashells are out there, just behind me where the ocean reaches its limit. I can choose to remember them for what they used to be, or I can forget the importance of their past that allowed me to collect them in the first place. Humans choose to remember with a miraculous nuance. Even though we will not always be around, we should make memories while we can. The universe cannot care, but we can, so we should.

I rise from the chair, fold it, and walk the wooden pathway leading to the house. I change into pajamas amongst the house filled with sleeping family and lay on the couch I had been using as a bed for the course of vacation. I lay my head on the pillow and close my eyes. Just as I was digging through the sand to find shells with my mom, I was now digging through my mind to relive the memory of it. This night filled with seashells, the ocean, planets, a bright moon, and shooting stars will be remembered. My mom and I will jointly think back to it very fondly. This kind of wonder and remembering is the essence of being human, and building moments like that to be remembered is what can make the near impossibility of intelligent life that we are feel worth it in the end.