Swimming Lessons

by Mary Alice Monroe

  She felt groggy, like she could sleep for another few hours, but she dutifully rubbed her eyes and kicked off the sheets. She rose slowly and padded in bare feet across the wood floor to the small, white tiled bathroom, eager for the rush of cool water and minty soap to wash away remnants of the steamy night. She emerged a short time later, refreshed and eager to see the turtle. She dressed quickly in her Aquarium uniform of khaki shorts and the gray polo shirt with the SC Aquarium emblem, pulled her damp hair up in a clip and tied her tennis shoes.

  Morning light poured into the small living room from a row of three windows that offered a breathtaking view of grassy dune, palms, blue sky and thousands of acres of sparkling ocean. In front of these were an old down sofa and two enormous armchairs slip-covered in the cabbage rose pattern that Olivia Rutledge had loved. Between the chairs sat a round ottoman in the same fabric. It had been a favorite spot of Miss Lovie’s, and every time she looked at it, Toy thought of her sitting with her legs up, a book in one hand, sipping tea.

  The tongue-in-groove walls and golden heart pine floors were typical of many of the old island houses. On the walls were oil paintings of the lowcountry, all by local artists, historical and contemporary: Verner, Williams, Pratt-Thomas, Greene, Smith and others. It was a cozy, cheery room, and a world away from the shabby trailers Toy had grown up in.

  From the main room, a narrow hall adorned with Rutledge family photographs that dated back to the turn of the century led to two small bedrooms. Toy went to the seaward room to gently nudge her daughter awake. Little Lovie groused and grumbled but eventually was lured from her bed. Next, Toy headed downstairs under the porch.

  She found Cara stretched out on the lounge chair, one leg falling off it, gently snoring. She smirked, never having seen the usually sophisticated Cara Rutledge Beauchamps in that pose. The morning was already warm, hinting at the hot, humid day it would become. Toy bent close to the turtle and hesitated, wondering with sudden fear if the turtle had made it through the night. She removed the damp towels from its shell.

  The turtle’s eyes rolled up to look at her.

  “Ah, Big Girl!” she exclaimed, relieved beyond measure. “It sure is nice to wish you a good morning. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I was worried. But you’re a survivor, aren’t you? Just like me.”

  Her large eyes watched Toy with a sickly expression.

  “You aren’t feeling so good, are you? Don’t you worry. We’ll get you to the hospital in no time.”

  Toy heard a loud yawn behind her. She turned to see Cara squinting through half-opened eyes and scratching her wildly disheveled hair.

  “I feel like I slept on a railroad track,” Cara said in a hoarse voice.

  “You look like it, too. A shower will improve your outlook.”

  “A shower, a massage…I need the whole spa treatment. How’s Big Girl?”

  “She’s alive—barely. We can try to feed her once we get her in a proper tank.”

  “She probably just wants coffee.” Cara absently scratched a mosquito bite on her arm. “Speaking of which, is Flo here yet? I’d kill for a cup right now.”

  “Not yet. Come on, sleepyhead. We’d better get a move on. It’s going to be a busy day.”

  She went back upstairs to find Little Lovie back in bed. “You too?” she exclaimed as she tickled her stomach and toes, rousing her slowly. Reminding her of the sea turtle under their house did the trick and she laughed as Lovie scrambled into her clothes. Next she began preparations for breakfast. She was putting bread into the toaster when Flo burst through the door like a hurricane.

  “Morning, Turtle Team!”

  “I thought you’d never get here with that coffee,” Cara exclaimed, coming into the room. Her dark, damp hair was pulled back on her head and her brown eyes were more alive after her shower.

  “Nice shirt,” Toy said to her, looking at her own shirt that Cara was wearing.

  “I can wear day old, wrinkled shorts if I have to, but I just couldn’t put that stinky, turtle bombed T-shirt back on. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Help yourself,” Toy replied.

  Cara stopped at the table where Little Lovie was eating cereal to lean over and nuzzle her neck. “Mmmm, gimme some sugar.”

  While Little Lovie squealed, Toy turned to reach for cups from the cupboard. Olivia Rutledge had stored the remnants of generations of mismatched collections of china in the beach house. One of Toy’s morning pleasures was to choose a pattern to suit her mood. Today she chose the green and pink floral Wedgwood.

  Flo poured the coffee while Cara poured the milk but no one took the time to sit at the table. They stood leaning against the counter and sipped as they arranged the day. Flo agreed to stay with Little Lovie while Toy and Cara escorted Big Girl to the Aquarium. This led to their favorite topic of conversation—the turtle nests.

  “It’s the end of May,” Flo said with a sorry shake of her head. “We should have at least one nest by now.”

  Cara’s face reflected her worry. “Last year’s numbers were so bad, I was hoping we’d have a swell of girls coming to lay eggs this summer to make up for it. I hope our worst fears aren’t realized and they just aren’t out there.”

  “The hurricanes last year sure didn’t help.”

  “It’s early yet,” Toy said with optimism. “After all, Big Girl was out there.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Flo said, raising her mug. “May there be many healthy ones out there, just biding their time.”

  “Here’s to their homecoming,” Toy added, clinking mugs.

  “Speaking of homecomings, I’ve got some news.” Cara leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “I heard from Emmi. She’s sold her house in Atlanta and plans to move here permanently! She’ll be here for Memorial Day.”

  “It’s about time she got herself down here,” Flo declared. “She usually blows in with the turtles. The season doesn’t really start until we have one turtle nest and Emmi Peterson back.”

  Toy sipped her coffee and thought of the big-hearted, big-boned woman with a smile as bright as her fiery red hair. Emmaline Baker Peterson was the last member of the core Turtle Team started ages ago by Miss Lovie. Volunteers came and went, but the core team shared a bond that came from long hours spent together at the beach, mutual reliance and countless stories shared.

  “I missed her last summer when she didn’t come down,” Toy said. “The whole season was weird. There were hardly any turtles and Emmi wasn’t here. There must be a connection there.”

  “Last year was pretty tough for her,” Cara said.

  “Is the divorce final?” asked Flo.

  Cara nodded. “She just signed the papers. Emmi sounded pretty beat up by the whole thing. To be honest, so am I. I still can’t believe she and Tom are divorced. They were the poster couple for happy marriages. They’d loved each other since they were kids. Hell, I fell in love with Tom the same day Emmi did! How does love like that just end? If it can happen to them…”

  “Tom was fooling around,” Flo said in that matter-of-fact manner that brushed away any connection between Tom and Emmi and whatever Cara was brooding about. “When a man does that, he’s throwing the marriage away. I’d like to give that boy the tongue lashing of his life. He was raised better than that.”

  “Be nice to Emmi when she gets here,” Cara said. “No lecturing.”

  “Lecturing?” Flo sounded insulted.

  “You know what I mean. Just take it easy on her. Despite everything Tom may have done, she didn’t want the divorce. And their sons are taking it hard. It’s going to take a while for her to get past this.”

  “All the more reason she should be here. With us,” said Flo with certainty. “She needs her friends now more than ever.”

  Toy pushed away from the counter. “I know a turtle that needs us, too. Here comes Brett pulling up in the driveway. Come on. Let’s move Big Girl to the Aquarium.”

  The South Carolina Aquarium is a proud, stunning structure of gleaming st
eel, stone and glass that captures the golden rays of the sun and the aqua blue reflection of the sea to sparkle against the watery horizon. It is the crown jewel of the Charleston harbor.

  Toy felt a thrill each time she approached it. She still couldn’t believe that she could walk through the gates every day and not have to pay for the privilege. The proudest day of her life was the day she got her job as a staff aquarist.

  Toy was the manager of the Lower Ocean Floor Gallery exhibit. She oversaw the health and maintenance of over one hundred indigenous fish and reptiles. She directed their feeding schedules and the exhibit maintenance, managed the volunteers, gave tours to school children, and whatever else was called for. There was a team mentality at the Aquarium and she never knew when she walked through the doors what awaited her.

  And never was that more true than today.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the white crate in the back bed of Brett’s pick-up truck. Big Girl lay quietly beneath a padding of towels. Toy chewed her lip, hoping the towels were still damp. Sitting shoulder to shoulder beside Cara and Brett in the front seat of the pick-up, she directed Brett to the rear loading dock of the Aquarium. She sighed with relief when she spotted two male volunteers in Aquarium logo shirts waiting at the black iron gate.

  “Hey Favel! I sure am glad to see you,” Toy called out as she hopped from the cab of the truck. Her gym shoes landed with a soft thud on the cement. “We had a heck of a time hoisting Big Girl into the crate for the trip in.”

  “Big Girl?” Favel’s white hair was like snow on top of a tall mountain and made all the more striking by his deep tan. He was typical of the dedicated volunteers who spent as much time working at the Aquarium as the hired staff. Favel had been a diver since the Aquarium opened. Retired, he had to be forty years older than Irwin, a baby-faced college student majoring in marine biology.

  “That’s what we call the loggerhead. When you try and lift her, you’ll know why.” Toy turned and made quick introductions to Cara and Brett.

  “Ethan isn’t too happy that you’re bringing this turtle into his domain, you know,” Favel told her in a low voice.

  “He isn’t?” she asked, feeling a sudden stab of nervousness.

  “You know how fanatic he is about cross contamination,” he replied. “And, the fact that no one consulted him.”

  She swallowed hard, feeling her insecurity about bringing the turtle into the Aquarium as a lump in her throat. “Well, Jason approved it.”

  “Right,” Favel said, acknowledging Jason as the last word. “So, let’s give this turtle a room at the inn.”

  Brett helped the two men load the heavy crate onto a rolling cart. Toy followed them as they rolled it toward the lower dock entrance of the building. Toy didn’t have much occasion to come to the cavernous port entry. Down here, enormous, monolithic cement pilings rose to form the underpinning of the Aquarium. Charleston Harbor flowed in and out of giant square bins, rising and falling with the tide and filling the air with the pungent scents of mud and salt. The raucous cry of gulls and the horn of the tour boat, Spirit of the Carolinas, sounded in the distance. The wild sea hovered at the precipice of the great Aquarium.

  Inside the Aquarium the basement literally thrummed with power. Giant pipes and wires snaked along the ceiling. Red painted pumps, shiny black valves and rows of gray steel fuse boxes lined the walls. She followed the cart to the huge industrial service elevator and pushed the button for the third floor where Jason told her a holding tank would be waiting. She clenched and unclenched her fists as the elevator crawled slowly upward, worried about Ethan’s reaction. She hoped that the others did not sense her nervousness. At last the elevator steel doors yawned open and they stepped out into another world.

  The Great Ocean Tank, which the staff simply called the GOT, extended over two levels of the Aquarium and held 380,000 gallons of water and hundreds of animals and plants. From the public’s side, the great tank provided breathtaking views of the sandy sea floor, the rocky reef, and the deep ocean to the public. Here at the top of the tank, however, behind the curtains, it was markedly different from the gleaming, light-filled rooms the public saw. Back here was the heart of the exhibit.

  The top of the GOT was rimmed with ceiling-to-floor black curtains on one side, like a wall of starless night separating the exotic world that lived in the ocean tank from the utilitarian world of giant pumps and filters behind it. Pipes and valves connected to cavernous filtration tanks pumped salt water in and out of the tank like major arteries and veins to the heart.

  Behind the GOT were several smaller tanks. These held quarantined fish, hospitalized fish, and back-up stock to replenish the main exhibit. She knew most people didn’t have a clue how much effort went into caring for a major Aquarium. It truly was manipulating a world for the animals.

  And this world was the realm of Ethan Legare.

  “Where is Ethan?” she asked, looking around as they rolled the crate onto the floor.

  “He’s usually in the tank first thing,” Favel told her. “He dives to make sure all the animals in the tank are okay. And to check for floaters on the surface. He’s got a big shark that likes to snack at night.”

  “And Jason?”

  “Haven’t seen him yet.”

  She exhaled, anxious that no one had been here to meet her. She turned to the group. “Could y’all just wait here for a minute? I’m going to go find someone who can tell us where to put Big Girl.”

  As she walked toward the top of the Great Ocean Tank, she couldn’t help but notice how meticulous Ethan was in his care of the area. Every hose, pipe and brush was in place and the water in each of the smaller tanks was gleaming. He must have been here for hours already, she thought.

  She came to the steel railing that surrounded the huge mouth of the tank and looked down. No matter how many times she experienced it, looking down into forty-four feet of crystal clear water teeming with giant fish was surreal. She spotted a tall, lean man standing on the metal dive platform inside the Great Ocean Tank. He was dripping water from his black dive suit and bent over a large dead grouper. He seemed focused on his task and she hesitated to disturb him. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the group waiting around the turtle. Deciding, she called out, “Ethan!”

  He immediately lifted his head to look over his shoulder. Water cascaded from the tips of his brown hair down his face. He lifted his hand in a brief wave.

  “I’ll be right up,” he called back then turned back to the half eaten fish at his feet.

  She waved in acknowledgment and ducked away with a sigh of relief. He didn’t seem too put out at having his third floor kingdom invaded by a sick animal.

  She didn’t know Ethan Legare all that well. He was a senior staff member and one of her superiors, thus he breathed the rarified air of management. Ethan remained an enigma to most of the lower level staff she worked with, as well. No one knew much about him, other than that he came from an old Charleston fishing family and had a sterling reputation as a marine biologist. She’d heard colleagues talking with a twinge of envy about the exotic places he’d traveled to while doing research.

  It wasn’t long before Ethan joined them at the cart, still in his black wet suit. He’d slicked his dark hair back with his palms but narrow trails of water still dripped down his face and lingered on the tips of his lashes.

  “Ethan, this is Cara and Brett Beauchamps,” she said, stepping up to make introductions. “They’re members of the Island Turtle Team and helped bring the turtle in. You remember my talking about them, don’t you?”

  “I do,” he replied, extending his hand. Though dressed in a wet suit, Toy noticed he had the manners of a man in a three piece suit. “Thanks for all your help.”

  The elevator doors opened again and this time, Jason stepped out. He grinned and waved in jovial welcome, shaking hands with the group and slapping Ethan’s back.

  Jason, too, was a source of feminine gossip at the Aquarium. Like Ethan, he was in his thir
ties, tall, great looking, and unmarried. Jason wore his dark hair neatly trimmed and his manner was more open and less reserved than Ethan’s, despite the seniority of his position. Ethan and Jason were equally passionate about the Aquarium and their work, which prompted a lasting friendship and mutual respect between them. Avid fishermen, their expeditions to gather specimens for the Aquarium garnered them their nickname, “the saltwater cowboys.”

  “So, what do we have here?” Jason asked, moving to the crate.

  Ethan removed the towels from the sea turtle, shook his head and said ruefully, “Looks to me like another Barnacle Bill.”

  Jason whistled softly. “She’s in pretty bad shape.” He lowered to inspect closely. “She’s very thin and dehydrated. Her eyes are sunken, her skin is wrinkled. Look here,” he said, pointing to the dry shell. “Even the keratin on the carapace is wrinkled.”

  “We didn’t spot any outward signs of injury, other than a few minor scrapes and cuts,” Toy reported. “From the looks of her carapace, we figure she’s a floater.”

  “Floaters are tough to rehab without knowing what the underlying problem is,” Jason said. “Our oceans are sick and these turtles reflect that.”

  “Where did you find her?” asked Ethan.

  “Floating in the surf off Isle of Palms. At first I thought she was dead, but when she moved I swam out and brought her in.”

  “Aha. So you’re a hero.”

  She shook her head. “Cara and Brett helped carry her in and once Jason gave us the okay to bring her in here, we kept her overnight in a blue plastic kiddie pool under my porch.”

  They guffawed at this image.

  “I’m surprised she lived through the night,” Jason added. “But these animals never cease to amaze me. They come in more dead than alive, yet still they manage to survive. This looks like another case of Floater Syndrome.” He rubbed his jaw as he considered his options. “Okay boys, let’s move her. Is there something I can use to set her down on so I can get a better look at her?”

  “If it’s okay with you, we have to get going,” Brett interjected, putting his hand on Cara’s shoulder. “Memorial Day is around the corner. It’s one of our busiest times of the season. I’ve got more work than I can shake a stick at.”