...my wife probably described the sound best as being, "tiny windchimes," as each departing wave rushes back toward the depths of the Gulf. Tiny windchimes...millions of them.
...peak time is at mid-afternoon to just as the sun starts debating on it's nightly dismissal...as the tide begins easing toward the dunes of Nokomis, and bringing with it a hundred million tiny shells from the ocean's floor.
...while meandering along the shoreline, at it's most shallow point, where the salt water can stretch it's tentacles to no more than an inch or two before being pulled back to sea, you'll find yourself surrounded in tiny conk shells, less than a quarter inch in diameter. Some are able to roll about and find their way back to sea with the departing current. Others, the ones housing baby hermit crabs and other ocean life, burrow into the sand around your feet, leaving a collection of water bubbles popping in their wake. And still others simply find themselves stranded along the coastline, awaiting the higher tide's mighty embrace to reach out and pull them back home.
...the sound is generated from trickles of water flowing over these shells. When lowered to a sitting position in the sand, an ear tilted slightly forward, the sound of shallow water drumming through and around these tiny conk shells is one that won't soon be forgotten. It's the sound of a trickling brook along a wooded creek, magnified a million times over. An echo of miniature applause, from a grandstand seating countless spectators.
...windchimes, tiny ones, millions of them, thrumming in the breeze. The sounds of paradise.