All the life of the shore—the past and the present—by the very fact of its existence there, gives evidence that it has dealt successfully with the realities of its world—the towering physical realities of the sea itself, and the subtle life relationships that bind each living thing to its own community. The patterns of life as created and shaped by these realities intermingle and overlap so that the major design is exceedingly complex.
Whether the bottom of the shallow waters and the intertidal area consists of rocky cliffs and boulders, of broad plains of sand, or of coral reefs and shallows determines the visible pattern of life. A rocky coast, even though it is swept by surf, allows life to exist openly through adaptations for clinging to the firm surfaces provided by the rocks and by other structural provisions for dissipating the force of the waves. The visible evidence of living things is everywhere about—a colorful tapestry of seaweeds, barnacles, mussels, and snails covering the rocks—while more delicate forms find refuge in cracks and crevices or by creeping under boulders. Sand, on the other hand, forms a yielding, shifting substratum of unstable nature, its particles incessantly stirred by the waves, so that few living things can establish or hold a place on its surface or even in its upper layers. All have gone below, and in burrows, tubes, and underground chambers the hidden life of the sands is lived. A coast dominated by coral reefs is necessarily a warm coast, its existence made possible by warm ocean currents establishing the climate in which the coral animals can thrive. The reefs, living or dead, provide a hard surface to which living things may cling. Such a coast is somewhat like one bordered by rocky cliffs, but with differences introduced by smothering layers of chalky sediments. The richly varied tropical fauna of coral coasts has therefore developed special adaptations that set it apart from the life of mineral rock or sand. Because the American Atlantic coast includes examples of all three types of shore, the various patterns of life related to the nature of the coast itself are displayed there with beautiful clarity.
Still other patterns are superimposed on the basic geologic ones. The surf dwellers are different from those who live in quiet waters, even if members of the same species. In a region of strong tides, life exists in successive bands or zones, from the high-water mark to the line of the lowest ebb tides; these zones are obscured where there is little tidal action or on sand beaches where life is driven underground. The currents, modifying temperature and distributing the larval stages of sea creatures, create still another world.
Again the physical facts of the American Atlantic coast are such that the observer of its life has spread before him, almost with the clarity of a well-conceived scientific experiment, a demonstration of the modifying effect of tides, surf, and currents. It happens that the northern rocks, where life is lived openly, lie in the region of some of the strongest tides of the world, those within the area of the Bay of Fundy. Here the zones of life created by the tides have the simple graphic force of a diagram. The tidal zones being obscured on sandy shores, one is free there to observe the effect of the surf. Neither strong tides nor heavy surf visits the southern tip of Florida. Here is a typical coral coast, built by the coral animals and the mangroves that multiply and spread in the calm, warm waters—a world whose inhabitants have drifted there on ocean currents from the West Indies, duplicating the strange tropical fauna of that region.
And over all these patterns there are others created by the sea water itself—bringing or withholding food, carrying substances of powerful chemical nature that, for good or ill, affect the lives of all they touch. Nowhere on the shore is the relation of a creature to its surroundings a matter of a single cause and effect; each living thing is bound to its world by many threads, weaving the intricate design of the fabric of life.
The problem of breaking waves need not be faced by inhabitants of the open ocean, for they can sink into deep water to avoid rough seas. An animal or plant of the shore has no such means of escape. The surf releases all its tremendous energy as it breaks against the shore, sometimes delivering blows of almost incredible violence. Exposed coasts of Great Britain and other eastern Atlantic islands receive some of the most violent surf in the world, created by winds that sweep across the whole expanse of ocean. It sometimes strikes with a force of two tons to the square foot. The American Atlantic coast, being a sheltered shore, receives no such surf, yet even here the waves of winter storms or of summer hurricanes have enormous size and destructive power. The island of Monhegan on the coast of Maine lies unprotected in the path of such storms and receives their waves on its steep seaward-facing cliffs. In a violent storm the spray from breaking waves is thrown over the crest of White Head, about 100 feet above the sea. In some storms the green water of actual waves sweeps over a lower cliff known as Gull Rock. It is about 60 feet high.
The effect of waves is felt on the bottom a considerable distance offshore. Lobster traps set in water nearly 200 feet deep often are shifted about or have stones carried into them. But the critical problem, of course, is the one that exists on or very close to the shore, where waves are breaking. Very few coasts have completely defeated the attempts of living things to gain a foothold. Beaches are apt to be barren if they are composed of loose coarse sand that shifts in the surf and then dries quickly when the tide falls. Others, of firm sand, though they may look barren, actually sustain a rich fauna in their deeper layers. A beach composed of many cobblestones that grind against each other in the surf is an impossible home for most creatures. But the shore formed of rocky cliffs and ledges, unless the surf be of extraordinary force, is host to a large and abundant fauna and flora.
Barnacles are perhaps the best example of successful inhabitants of the surf zone. Limpets do almost as well, and so do the small rock periwinkles. The coarse brown seaweeds called wracks or rockweeds possess species that thrive in moderately heavy surf, while others require a degree of protection. After a little experience one can learn to judge the exposure of any shore merely by identifying its fauna and flora. If, for example, there is a broad area covered by the knotted wrack—a long and slender weed that lies like a tangled mass of cordage when the tide is out—if this predominates, we know the shore is a moderately protected one, seldom visited by heavy surf. If, however, there is little or none of the knotted wrack but instead a zone covered by a rockweed of much shorter stature, branching repeatedly, its fronds flattened and tapering at the ends, then we sense more keenly the presence of the open sea and the crushing power of its surf. For the forked wrack and other members of a community of low-growing seaweeds with strong and elastic tissues are sure indicators of an exposed coast and can thrive in seas the knotted wrack cannot endure. And if, on still another shore, there is little vegetation of any sort, but instead only a rock zone whitened by a living snow of barnacles-thousands upon thousands of them raising their sharp-pointed cones to the smother of the surf—we may be sure this coast is quite unprotected from the force of the sea.
The barnacle has two advantages that allow it to succeed where almost all other life fails to survive. Its low conical shape deflects the force of the waves and sends the water rolling off harmlessly. The whole base of the cone, moreover, is fixed to the rock with natural cement of extraordinary strength; to remove it one has to use a sharp-bladed knife. And so those twin dangers of the surf zone—the threat of being washed away and of being crushed—have little reality for the barnacle. Yet its existence in such a place takes on a touch of the miraculous when we remember this fact: it was not the adult creature, whose shape and firmly cemented base are precise adaptations to the surf, that gained a foothold here; it was the larva. In the turbulence of heavy seas, the delicate larva had to choose its spot on the wave-washed rocks, to settle there, and somehow not be washed away during those critical hours while its tissues were being reorganized in their transformation to the adult form, while the cement was extruded and hardened, and the shell plates grew up about the soft body. To accomplish all this in heavy surf seems to me a far more difficult thing than is req
uired of the spore of a rockweed; yet the fact remains that the barnacles can colonize exposed rocks where the weeds are unable to gain a footing.
The streamlined form has been adopted and even improved upon by other creatures, some of whom have omitted the permanent attachment to the rocks. The limpet is one of these—a simple and primitive snail that wears above its tissues a shell like the hat of a Chinese coolie. From this smoothly sloping cone the surf rolls away harmlessly; indeed, the blows of falling water only press down more firmly the suction cup of fleshy tissue beneath the shell, strengthening its grip on the rock.
Still other creatures, while retaining a smoothly rounded contour, put out anchor lines to hold their places on the rocks. Such a device is used by the mussels, whose numbers in even a limited area may be almost astronomical. The shells of each animal are bound to the rock by a series of tough threads, each of shining silken appearance. The threads are a kind of natural silk, spun by a gland in the foot. These anchor lines extend out in all directions; if some are broken, the others hold while the damaged lines are being replaced. But most of the threads are directed forward and in the pounding of storm surf the mussel tends to swing around and head into the seas, taking them on the narrow "prow" and so minimizing their force.
Even the sea urchins can anchor themselves firmly in moderately strong surf. Their slender tube feet, each equipped with a suction disc at its tip, are thrust out in all directions. I have marveled at the green urchins on a Maine shore, clinging to the exposed rock at low water of spring tides, where the beautiful coralline algae spread a rose-colored crust beneath the shining green of their bodies. At that place the bottom slopes away steeply and when the waves at low tide break on the crest of the slope, they drain back to the sea with a strong rush of water. Yet as each wave recedes, the urchins remain on their accustomed stations, undisturbed.
For the long-stalked kelps that sway in dusky forests just below the level of the spring tides, survival in the surf zone is largely a matter of chemistry. Their tissues contain large amounts of alginic acid and its salts, which create a tensile strength and elasticity able to withstand the pulling and pounding of the waves.
Still others—animal and plant—have been able to invade the surf zone by reducing life to a thin creeping mat of cells. In such form many sponges, ascidians, bryozoans, and algae can endure the force of waves. Once removed from the shaping and conditioning effect of surf, however, the same species may take on entirely different forms. The pale green crumb-of-bread sponge lies flat and almost paper-thin on rocks facing toward the sea; back in one of the deep rock pools its tissues build up into thickened masses, sprinkled with the cone-and-crater structure that is one of the marks of the species. Or the golden-star tunicate may expose a simple sheet of jelly to the waves, though in quiet water it hangs down in pendulous lobes flecked with the starry forms of the creatures that comprise it.
As on the sands almost everything has learned to endure the surf by burrowing down to escape it, so on the rocks some have found safety by boring. Where ancient marl is exposed on the Carolina coast, it is riddled by date mussels. Masses of peat contain the delicately sculptured shells of mollusks called angel wings, seemingly fragile as china, but nevertheless able to bore into clay or rock; concrete piers are drilled by small boring clams; wooden timbers by other clams and isopods. All of these creatures have exchanged their freedom for a sanctuary from the waves, being imprisoned forever within the chambers they have carved.
The vast current systems, which flow through the oceans like rivers, lie for the most part offshore and one might suppose their influence in intertidal matters to be slight. Yet the currents have far-reaching effects, for they transport immense volumes of water over long distances—water that holds its original temperature through thousands of miles of its journey. In this way tropical warmth is carried northward and arctic cold brought far down toward the equator. The currents, probably more than any other single element, are the creators of the marine climate.
The importance of climate lies in the fact that life, even as broadly defined to include all living things of every sort, exists within a relatively narrow range of temperature, roughly between 32° F. and 210° F. The planet Earth is particularly favorable for life because it has a fairly stable temperature. Especially in the sea, temperature changes are moderate and gradual and many animals are so delicately adjusted to the accustomed water climate that an abrupt or drastic change is fatal. Animals living on the shore and exposed to air temperatures at low tide are necessarily a little more hardy, but even these have their preferred range of heat and cold beyond which they seldom stray.
Most tropical animals are more sensitive to change—especially toward higher temperatures—than northern ones, and this is probably because the water in which they live normally varies by only a few degrees throughout the year. Some tropical sea urchins, keyhole limpets, and brittle stars die when the shallow waters heat to about 99° F. The arctic jellyfish Cyanea, on the other hand, is so hardy that it continues to pulsate when half its bell is imprisoned in ice, and may revive even after being solidly frozen for hours. The horseshoe crab is an example of an animal that is very tolerant of temperature change. It has a wide range as a species, and its northern forms can survive being frozen into ice in New England, while its southern representatives thrive in tropical waters of" Florida and southward to Yucatán.
Shore animals for the most part endure the seasonal changes of temperate coasts, but some find it necessary to escape the extreme cold of winter. Ghost crabs and beach fleas are believed to dig very deep holes in the sand and go into hibernation. Mole crabs that feed in the surf much of the year retire to the bottom offshore in winter. Many of the hydroids, so like flowering plants in appearance, shrink down to the very core of their animal beings in winter, withdrawing all living tissues into the basal stalk. Other shore animals, like annuals in the plant kingdom, die at the end of summer. All of the white jellyfish, so common in coastal waters during the summer, are dead when the last autumn gale has blown itself out, but the next generation exists as little plant-like beings attached to the rocks below the tide.
For the great majority of shore inhabitants that continue to live in the accustomed places throughout the year, the most dangerous aspect of winter is not cold but ice. In years when much shore ice is formed, the rocks may be scraped clean of barnacles, mussels, and seaweeds simply by the mechanical action of ice grinding in the surf. After this happens, several growing seasons separated by moderate winters may be needed to restore the full community of living creatures.
Because most sea animals have definite preferences as to aquatic climate, it is possible to divide the coastal waters of eastern North America into zones of life. While variation in the temperature of the water within these zones is in part a matter of the advance from southern to northern latitudes, it is also strongly influenced by the pattern of the ocean currents—the sweep of warm tropical water carried northward in the Gulf Stream, and the chill Labrador Current creeping down from the north on the landward border of the Stream, with complex intermixing of warm and cold water between the boundaries of the currents.
From the point where it pours through the Florida straits up as far as Cape Hatteras, the Stream follows the outer edge of the continental shelf, which varies greatly in width. At Jupiter Inlet on the east coast of Florida this shelf is so narrow that one can stand on shore and look out across emerald-green shallows to the place where the water suddenly takes on the intense blue of the Stream. At about this point there seems to exist a temperature barrier, separating the tropical fauna of southern Florida and the Keys from the warm-temperate fauna of the area lying between Cape Canaveral and Cape Hatteras. Again at Hatteras the shelf becomes narrow, the Stream swings closer inshore, and the northward-moving water filters through a confused pattern of shoals and submerged sandy hills and valleys. Here again is a boundary between life zones, though it is a shifting and far from absolute one. During the winter, tempera
tures at Hatteras probably forbid the northward passage of migratory warm-water forms, but in summer the temperature barriers break down, the invisible gates open, and these same species may range far toward Cape Cod.
From Hatteras north the shelf broadens, the Stream moves far offshore, and there is a strong infiltration and mixing of colder water from the north, so that the progressive chilling is speeded. The difference in temperature between Hatteras and Cape Cod is as great as one would find on the opposite side of the Atlantic between the Canary Islands and southern Norway—a distance five times as long. For migratory sea fauna this is an intermediate zone, which cold-water forms enter in winter, and warm-water species in summer. Even the resident fauna has a mixed, indeterminate character, for this area seems to receive some of the more temperature-tolerant forms from both north and south, but to have few species that belong to it exclusively.
Cape Cod has long been recognized in zoology as marking the boundary of the range for thousands of creatures. Thrust far into the sea, it interferes with the passage of the warmer waters from the south and holds the cold waters of the north within the long curve of its shore. It is also a point of transition to a different kind of coast. The long sand strands of the south are replaced by rocks, which come more and more to dominate the coastal scene. They form the sea bottom as well as its shores; the same rugged contours that appear in the land forms of this region lie drowned and hidden from view offshore. Here zones of deep water, with accompanying low temperatures, lie generally closer to the shore than they do farther south, with interesting local effects on the populations of shore animals. Despite the deep inshore waters, the numerous islands and the jaggedly indented coast create a large intertidal area and so provide for a rich shore fauna. This is the cold-temperate region, inhabited by many species unable to tolerate the warm water south of the Cape. Partly because of the low temperatures and partly because of the rocky nature of the shore, heavy growths of seaweeds cover the ebb-tide rocks with a blanket of various hues, herds of periwinkles graze, and the shore is here whitened by millions of barnacles or there darkened by millions of mussels.
The Edge of the Sea Page 3