Coastal Disturbance

by Jessica Speart

  He kicked his way back through the water like an overgrown kid wading in a mud puddle.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got here. Hmm, a couple of killifish that look like they’ve had a run-in with the Terminator.”

  My own skin began to crawl. If something around here was doing that to fish, what might it do to me? I instinctively patted myself, just to make certain I still had all my body parts.

  Gary placed the fish in a plastic bag and we moved on. Blades of spartina grass rhythmically slapped against my thighs as if in protest. They softly whispered that I was encroaching somewhere I didn’t belong. Their sharp red tips bit into my skin to emphasize their point. We hadn’t gone very far when Gary spotted a dead clapper rail that had been feeding in the marsh.

  “Time for another body bag,” he darkly joked.

  A marsh rabbit lay on the bank, where it appeared to be catching ten winks. I plodded through the grass and carefully tapped it with my toe. Either it had downed one hell of a sedative, or the bunny was sleeping the sleep of the dead. Gary bagged and tagged the rabbit as well, and we continued with our search. However, anything else that might once have been here was now gone. Most likely, it had become breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a multitude of hungry critters.

  Gary next pulled an acid clean jar from a satchel he was carrying and filled it to the brim with marsh water. Then he produced a stainless steel bowl and spoon.

  “Here, hold this,” he said, handing me a second clean jar.

  Terrific. I was thigh deep in water and muck, only to have Gary turn into a saltmarsh version of Martha Stewart. I watched as he carefully scooped up some mud and methodically began to mix it in the bowl.

  Add two eggs and bake at three hundred and fifty degrees, I silently mused, as he scraped his creation into the jar that I held.

  “You want to make sure to stir your sample well. That way, whatever contaminants are lying at the bottom will be picked up,” he explained.

  “Well, aren’t you prepared?” I lightly teased, though I was thoroughly impressed.

  Gary grinned and placed those containers in his satchel before handing me a new jar. “It’s the law of the six Ps. Surely, you know them. Proper Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance.”

  Bending down, he painstakingly removed some tiny snails from a few blades of spartina grass.

  “Is there anything that you don’t take samples of?” I asked, looking on in wonder.

  Gary shook his head while adding that specimen to his collection, after which he pulled out yet another jar. “Nope. It’s always best to remember that everything’s got a story to tell. Some are going to be obvious and shout at you, while others are just going to whisper.”

  I silently vowed to remember that piece of advice.

  He continued on, filling jar after jar with spartina grass, blue crabs, and fiddlers. I had a sudden image of what Gary must have been like as a child, and quietly laughed to myself. I’d once read about a boy who’d taken a jar full of spiders to bed, only to have the arachnids escape. They must have been busy during the night, since his mother found him covered in cobwebs the next morning. I had no doubt that Gary also slept surrounded by his samples.

  “What say we head over there?” he suggested, pointing farther down the creek.

  We trekked even deeper into the marsh.

  My mind wandered as I journeyed through an endless field of spartina grass, pretending that I was a pioneer woman and this was my little house on the prairie. It’s when I least expect it that I’m usually caught off-guard. That’s what happened now, as a form mysteriously began to take shape. I squinted, and the marsh joined with my pulse to beat like a drum. I could have sworn that sticking up from the mud was a human hand. I warily edged closer, and it slowly transformed into the lifeless body of a juvenile egret.

  Wuss! I chided myself.

  I pointed the bird out to Gary, and he added the carcass to his collection. Lying nearby were long white feathers rimmed with black, clearly those of an endangered wood stork. Gary picked them up, as well.

  “What are you going to do with feathers?” I asked, continuing to be amazed by all the different samples he was taking.

  “It’s another great way to test for contaminants. A bird’s system will try to secrete toxins by storing them in their feathers.”

  Okay. Who was I to know the difference? Up to this point, I’d thought of myself as being incredibly thorough.

  “I learned long ago that unless you look good and hard for something, you generally won’t find it. That’s why the bureaucratic weenies in Fish and Wildlife call me Dr. Doom and Gloom. They know once I get on a case, I don’t let up until I’ve discovered the truth. Even when they prefer I didn’t. I refuse to stop poking around until whatever’s screaming to be found has been uncovered.”

  I knew there was a good reason why I liked this guy.

  “So, what do you think is going on out here in the marsh, Doc?”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Gary said and gave his satchel an affectionate pat. “But whatever it is, I’ve got a gut feeling that it ain’t good. There are a few too many dead critters.”

  He stretched and looked back toward the S.S. Lucille for the first time since starting our walk. “Oh shit!”

  My stomach responded with a sickening lurch. “What is it?”

  “The tide’s rushing out. We have to head for the boat pronto. That is, unless you’re particularly fond of this place and want to spend the rest of your day here.”

  The scent of mud and algae had already begun to heat up, coalescing into a foul-smelling brew tinged with a dash of rotten eggs. Though the odor might prove a good incentive when it came to dieting, this was a lousy place in which to be stranded.

  “No thanks. Nothing personal, but I’ve got better things to do.”

  I began to take a step toward the boat, when Gary’s hand wrapped itself tightly around my arm and sharply jerked me back.

  “Uh, uh!” he warned.

  “What the hell did I do wrong?” I asked, feeling mildly defensive.

  “Take a look at where your foot was going to land.”

  Though I eyeballed the area, it all looked the same—a slimy, dark field of mud.

  “Do you see how shiny that patch is right there?” Gary asked, pointing to the exact spot where I’d been about to step. “Now take a good look at the puddle of still water that’s sitting on top of it.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So, step into it and you’ll probably sink right up to your eyeballs, if not clear over your head.”

  That image slyly preyed on my senses as I now envisioned soft mud plugging up my nose and mouth. Perhaps I imagined it a bit too well. I felt myself begin to gasp for air.

  “You have no idea how many people don’t pay attention to black mud when they’re out here, and wind up dying that way. It’s a hell of a lot easier than you’d think. Even if you only get stuck in it up to your waist. Sure, you might be okay, as long as you don’t panic and try to fight your way out of the stuff—assuming you’re not alone, or that somebody finds you in time. Otherwise, you’re a real goner.”

  “How so?”

  “Because sooner or later, high tide is going to roll in just like clockwork. Once that happens, you’re bound to die a gruesome death.”

  “Well, that really sucks.”

  But I knew he was probably right. Tides in this area could fluctuate up to ten feet, and came racing in from three to nine miles per hour.

  An army of little fiddler crabs popped in and out of the mud, where they danced in a frenzy around my feet. But it was the blue crabs that I feared. There were millions of them here in the marsh. I’d heard tales of how they would appear en masse and quickly devour a body. I imagined I could already feel their pincers at work, sharply nipping away at my toes, legs, and arms.

  “Thanks for the lovely vision,” I wisecracked. “What are you trying to do? Sufficiently scare me so that I never again venture into the marsh withou
t you?”

  “What can I say? I like to feel needed,” Gary quipped.

  “It’s just a natural occurrence that happens as the tide washes back and forth. Water saturates the mud, breaking it down until it becomes ten feet thick and gooey. Those puddles of still water are letting you know that the gunk sitting there is in suspension.”

  I looked over and saw the S.S. Lucille tied to a bunch of spartina grass, where we’d left it. Only now, it was barely floating in a few inches of water. Even more frightening were the shiny black patches of glutinous mud that seemed to have popped up everywhere. They lay like deadly land mines between ourselves and the boat.

  “Terrific. In that case, how do you suggest we get home?” I asked, pointing toward the ominous checkerboard.

  “That’s an excellent question,” Gary responded, pretending to twirl an imaginary mustache. “It’s exactly why I brought these along.”

  Tucked under his arm were a pair of paddles.

  “What do you plan to do with those? Have us paddle our way through the mud?”

  “Very funny, Rach.” Gary chuckled, as though he were having the time of his life. “It just so happens these babies are going to act as a bridge to get us across the marsh.”

  My eyes nervously wandered back to the foreboding dark blobs. “Are you sure two paddles will be enough to do the job?”

  “I don’t see that we have much choice. If they’re not, we’ll have ourselves one hell of a mud bath, won’t we?”

  “In other words, I might die, but at least my skin will look great.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “How consoling.”

  “Aw come on, Rach. I’m just joshing.” He laughed. “You know I’d never let anything bad happen to you.”

  I looked over at Gary and knew that he meant it. An unspoken bond had sprung up between us these last few months. I completely trusted the man.

  “Okay, Captain Kirk. Lead the way.”

  “What you need to learn is that walking through the marsh is somewhat akin to piecing together a jigsaw puzzle. You just have to find the right areas where it’s safe.”

  I followed as Gary leapt from spot to spot like a billy goat, sometimes landing on both feet, sometimes balancing on just one. We continued to zigzag back and forth in roundabout fashion, slowly drawing closer to the S.S. Lucille. That is, until we hit the last stretch where nothing but black mud lay spread out before us.

  “This is where it’s gonna be fun.”

  Gary slung his satchel around his neck, and then carefully placed one of the paddles face down in the mud.

  “Just try to think of yourself as a tightrope walker. I find that image generally helps. Oh, yeah. And make sure not to step off the paddle without first checking for a patch of hard land on which to jump. Otherwise, it kind of defeats the whole purpose.”

  By now, my stomach had become one massive knot.

  “No problem. I’ll just follow in your footsteps.” What the heck. Gary had been pulling this stunt for years and apparently hadn’t died yet.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s the other thing. I’m afraid you’ll have to go first.”

  “What!”

  The rock-solid trust that I’d placed in the man instantly vanished.

  “Have you gone totally loony tunes? Or did you take out a life insurance policy on me that I don’t know about?”

  “Listen Rach, I’d gladly go first but I can’t. This sucker’s gonna sink beneath me like a rock due to my weight.”

  “Well, thanks a lot for waiting until now to tell me this,” I sniped.

  “Hey, no sweat. I’ll take the lead if that’s what you want. Of course, the problem is that then you’ll be left behind.”

  Gary blinked at me like an owl from behind his horn-rimmed glasses.

  Shit! I should have suspected there’d be a catch. Naturally, I’d been the klutz that never made it across the balance beam during high school gymnastics.

  “You can do it. Just be careful and keep your balance.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I muttered, throwing Gary a dirty look.

  “Maybe you should try holding your arms out at your sides like I do,” he helpfully suggested. “It kind of makes me feel like an airplane. Go ahead, you’ll see.”

  “Great. Then I can feel like one that’s about to take a dive,” I snarled.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be right behind, as soon as you step off.”

  Fall off is more like it, I balefully thought.

  I held my breath and tentatively placed one foot on the paddle. Not bad. That is, until my other foot joined it and the oar started to totter and sink. I instinctively jumped off.

  Gary’s fingers impatiently tapped out the Funeral March on his satchel. “I’m afraid you’re gonna have to move faster than that, Rach. Otherwise, we’ll never make it to the boat in time.”

  “One more word from you and I’ll be using your body to get across this damn marsh.”

  Okay. Think of yourself as the star on the women’s Olympic gymnastics team, I thought.

  I did my best to imagine that I was being held up by ropes and couldn’t possibly fall, as I stepped back onto the paddle.

  To hell with women’s gymnastics. Imagine you’re Peter Pan and fly across this damn thing, my inner voice instructed.

  That seemed to do the trick. I reached the end of the paddle before I’d even realized it.

  “Remember, don’t step off until you’re sure that it’s safe,” Gary called from behind.

  Black mud lay in all directions, except for one spot that appeared to be solid. The problem was, it would take a decent leap to get there. I had no choice other than to hope my guess was correct as I took a deep breath and said a silent prayer. Then I jumped, wondering how it would feel to be swallowed up by a chocolate mousse mud puddle.

  My feet hit dirt, only to feel something shaking. No, it wasn’t an earthquake, but the quivering of my legs. I’d managed to land on terra firma. I was tempted to fall down and kiss the ground but decided to play it cool, instead.

  “Your turn,” I said, pretending to stifle a yawn.

  “Have I ever told you there are times when you’re actually very cute?” Gary chortled.

  I watched as he now held out his arms and proceeded to scamper across the paddle like an overweight version of Baryshnikov. Good thing he moved as quickly as he did. Gary had been right. The instant he jumped off, the paddle sank deep into the marsh.

  “Okay, one down, one to go. Just make sure you reach the boat on this next round, or we’ll both be sunk,” he instructed, laying the last paddle across the mud.

  “Thanks, no pressure there.”

  I mentally prepared myself the same as before. Only this time I froze, unable to take the first step, certain that I would fall. Gary instantly took note of the problem.

  “You’ve got to keep going, Rach,” my coach urged.

  That’s what I told my feet, but they still refused to move. It was then that I heard what sounded like the stomping and snorting of an angry buffalo behind me.

  “Goddammit to hell, I should have known better than to ever bring a woman out here in the first place,” Gary roundly swore. “Fish and Wildlife was right to want to keep Special Agents an all-male force. They obviously knew they’d run into this kind of problem.”

  My skin began to burn, partly in anger, partly out of humiliation. I now had every intention of not only making it across the damn paddle, but then lifting it from the mud and whacking him with it.

  Gritting my teeth, I placed one foot in front of the other, refusing to stop until I’d reached the end of the oar. Then leaning over, I grabbed hold of the boat and pulled myself inside. I stood up, determined to exact my revenge, only to find Gary oddly beaming at me with pride.

  “It’s amazing what a little reverse psychology can do, isn’t it? Please, no applause. You can thank me later,” he said, taking a bow. Then he proceeded to dart his way across the paddle.

  Boy, was he in for a
surprise upon his arrival. I was mad as hell. Turning around, I began to peel off my gloves when a loud commotion erupted. I looked up in time to see Gary lose his balance and fall off the oar. My heart lurched, and I held my breath, as he landed knee-deep in a pool of black mud.

  “Oh my God! Are you all right?” I yelled, forgetting all about my anger. I was too afraid the mud would malevolently suck him down and gobble him up.

  But rather than respond, Gary swiftly pulled the satchel from his neck.

  “Here, just make sure this is safe,” he instructed and threw the bag toward me.

  I caught the satchel in both hands and carefully placed it in the boat, more for his sake than my own. All I cared about at this moment was saving the man.

  “Okay. Now what can I do to help?”

  “There should be a long pole somewhere on the bottom in there. See if you can find it.”

  The S.S. Lucille was about as clean as my Ford. We both deserved to be given tickets as litterbugs. I swiftly pushed piles of junk around until I finally spotted the pole peeking out from under a bunch of life jackets. I held the stick toward him, but it fell a few feet short.

  “I think I can grab hold if I just stretch a bit more,” Gary insisted.

  “Don’t do that. It’s too dangerous. Let me bring the boat closer.”

  “No, stay where you are. Otherwise, you’ll get stuck in the mud,” he stubbornly maintained.

  Gary was so obstinate that I’d have gladly knocked some sense into the man, if only I could have reached him. Instead, I was left with little choice.

  “Okay, whatever you say.”

  I leaned forward while Gary lunged for the pole, only to lose his balance yet again. This time he fell onto his hands and knees like an impish child, causing mud to splatter on his face. I’d have been tempted to laugh, if I weren’t worried sick.

  Bracing myself against the side of the boat, I held the stick out once more. “Good move, Gary. I don’t think I’d have tried that myself, but you should be able to reach the pole now. That is, if you still have the use of your hands.”

  “Don’t say another word,” he warned, carefully straining to pull himself up from the muck.

  I’d have thought the stuff was Silly Putty, what with the way it clung to his limbs. He ever-so-slowly worked one arm free and grabbed onto the pole, as his other arm toiled its way out of the sludge like some primeval creature struggling to be born. I waited until he firmly had hold. Then, propping my feet against the boat, I began to pull. What progress we made was done in snail-like fashion. I felt certain my arms were about to give way when Gary finally hauled himself inside, where he sat huffing and puffing, minus his boots and covered in mud.