Secrets Haunt the Lobsters' Sea

by Charlene D'Avanzo

  “Rachel Carson wrote about marine snow in The Sea Around Us,” Ted added.

  Surprised I’d missed this gem of information about the famous marine author, I said as much.

  “Um, let’s see if I remember how she described it,” he said. “Something like ‘Flake after flake, the most stupendous snowfall Earth has ever witnessed.’”

  “That’s perfect. Lord, she was a talented writer,” I said.

  I returned to my viewport. In the water, now deep purple blue, Carson’s snowfall was still visible. As Dylan activated Benthic Pioneer’s lights, long, thin wandering ghosts appeared in the murk. These were salps, barrel-shaped gelatinous animals that look like slimy slinkies. I enjoyed the shimmering necklaces until I had to sit up and stretch.

  “Dylan, how long before we reach the bottom?”

  “Better get back to the viewport, Mara. We’re very nearly there.”

  On my belly, nose to the window, I gasped as the hanging coral garden emerged from a murky fog. The forest of amber three-foot tall Primnoa corals—aptly called sea fans—blanketed the vertical rock wall of Schoodic Ridge.

  Delicate orange-pink coral branches reached out toward us. Inches from this newly discovered marvel of the deep, I touched a finger to the window.

  Behind me, Ted exclaimed, “Unbelievable. Just incredible.”

  “Mara, Ted, you’re good luck,” Dylan said. “I’ve never seen coral clusters as dense as this. It’s astounding. Let’s see if I can get a little closer.”

  The effort was delicate. By inches, the pilot maneuvered the submersible nearer to the corals and stopped.

  Squinting, I stared at the coral display. On the surface of each sea fan branch, thousands of round, tiny polyps waved gently in the current. They looked like clusters of miniature fleshy blossoms in coral, pink, and orange.

  Excited as a schoolboy, Dylan talked to folks on the ship above us watching the video feed. They sounded as ecstatic as we were.

  I returned to my viewport as Dylan maneuvered Benthic Pioneer along the wall. Silver schools of fish—cod and herring—wove around the coral branches. Like a bed of squat flowers, clusters of lovely light pink anemones waved finger-long tentacles in the current. A spiny do fish chased a stout redfish that easily got away.

  Dylan backed away from the wall so that we could explore the flat silty bottom. More clusters of fist-sized anemones—coral cousins—in pink, rose, orange, and white lay scattered across the soft terrain. Large orange starfish humped over unlucky prey. A squad of squid that jetted around stout sea pen corals annoyed a lobster that reached its claws up toward them. I glimpsed a large lumbering octopus before Dylan turned back to the handing garden wall. Once more, I was stunned by the abundance of life, color, and activity on the cold, dark, rocky ridge.

  Too soon, Dylan said, “Folks, we have to leave.”

  From my viewport, I watched as the hanging coral gardens became dimmer and finally disappeared. I stared into the dark stunned, a little sad, but mostly grateful. I was one of the lucky few who had witnessed in person one of the coral forests that blanketed New England’s submarine canyons and walls. Eyes closed for a moment, I winged thanks to my parents for their pioneering legacy as marine biologists in the Gulf of Maine.

  Dylan asked, “Both of you, I’m curious to hear your reactions.”

  Facing the pilot, Ted and I knelt on our pads. Ted spoke first.

  “It’s incredible that such large coral communities are down here, but we know so little about them.”

  Dylan checked his electronic array before answering. “That’s right. We don’t know how many coral forests exist or are exactly where they are. They have to be mapped.”

  “I’m wondering about their ecological role in the Gulf of Maine,” I added. “We saw herring and cod. Are these coral habitats important for fish like these so critical to Maine’s economy?”

  “Dylan, any idea about the age of the hanging gardens?” Ted asked

  “Maybe thousands of years old. Sorry, but now I need to monitor our ascent.”

  Ted and I stared at each other for a moment. “Your place or mine?” he asked.

  I scooched over closer to him.

  “What’d you think?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “It’s…I don’t know, so much to take in. At the moment, mostly I’m grateful for it all.”

  His eyes were full of things unsaid.

  “Ted, I’m also so very grateful for our friendship.”

  Neither of us needed to say more.

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  Ongoing thanks go to Connie Berry, Lynn Denley-Bussard, and Judy Copek, who have been with me right from the beginning. Maine lobsterman Richard Nelson helped with information about lobstering and reactions of fishermen to climate change. Cathy Billings and Bob Bayer from the University of Maine’s Lobster Institute also answered questions about lobsters and warming. NOAA marine ecologist Dave Packer advised me about hanging coral research in the Gulf of Maine. Sarah Blair reviewed the book cover. I am so grateful for the enthusiasm and support of the Briggs family.

  What I call eLobster is modeled on NOAA’s eMOLT program. The Center for American Progress’s 2014 survey of New England commercial fishermen is the basis for the study referred to in the story. I refer readers to my website for recommended books about Maine lobsters and lobstering, lobster research references, and information about climate change. Francis Collin Literary gave permission to use the quote from The Sea Around Us. The good folks at Maine Authors Publishing and their editors, including Jennifer Caven, continue to be immensely helpful.

  Finally, none of this would be possible without the wit, patience, and ongoing goodwill of my husband John Briggs.

  Stay tuned for the next

  Mara Tusconi Mystery expected June 2019

  GLASS EELS, SHATTERED SEA

  My headlamp spilled a circle of light onto the dirt path, a bright lodestar in a still, black night. Head down, I followed the bobbing orb in front of my feet—which is why I bumped right into Gordy Maloy, a Maine lobsterman and my cousin.

  “Damn. Sorry, Gordy. I can’t see a thing out here.”

  “Shh,” he said.

  I flicked off the headlamp, stuffed my hands in my parka pockets, and listened.

  To my left, the Gulf of Maine faintly announced its presence. One after the other, rolling waves upended pebbles on a beach a good half mile away. To my right, the rustle of dead leaves drifted across dense shrubs.

  Straddling a split in the path, Gordy said, “We go right ta the rivah.”

  I tried not to sound impatient. “How far is the river?”

  “It’s only down the trail a piece. An’ like I promised, Mara, there’ll be millions of itsy eels an’ Nelson Ives ta greet us.”

  He turned down the path and picked up the pace. After a quick look up at the spray of stars that was the Milky Way, I flipped the headlamp on again and followed with a bounce in my step. For the first time, I was about to witness one of coastal Maine’s springtime miracles.

  For once, Gordy’s “only down the path a piece” was accurate. Within minutes, we emerged from the thicket as the path dropped down to a fast-moving river. Walking gingerly alongside the river on flood-scoured boulders, I caught up with Gordy, who stood in the dark waiting for me.

  “Turn off yer light,” he said quietly. “That’s Nelson, right up theah.”

  Upstream a few hundred feet was an otherworldly sight. Bathed in glowing emerald green, a human figure leaned over the river and ran a long-handled net back and forth through the water.

  “What’s he doing, and why the green light?” I whispered.

  “He’s dip netting fer eels. White light spooks ’em.” Gordy raised his voice and announced our presence. “Ahoy, Nelson Ives. Gordy Maloy heah.”

  The green apparition stepped back from the river. His voice shaky with age, Nelson called out, “That you, Gordy?”

  “Ayuh. Me an’ my cousin, Mara.”

>   Nelson said, “Gimme a minute.” As he turned away from us, his green headlamp illuminated someone leaning against a boulder behind him.

  I touched Gordy’s arm and whispered, “Why can’t we just walk up to him?”

  “You’ll see,” he murmured.

  “Come on ovah,” Nelson called out.

  Curious about more than eels, I put my hand on the back of Gordy’s shoulder and followed as he picked his way over the rocks to his old friend.

  A bright white lantern at his feet, Nelson Ives enclosed Gordy’s outstretched hand in both of his. “Gordy Maloy. By Godfrey, it’s been a long, long time.” Ives stepped back and put both hands on hips encased in waterproof orange bib pants.

  “An’ who is this lovely young lady?”

  “Nelson Ives, meet my cousin, Mara Tusconi.”

  Ives stroked a white chin beard that neatly circled his lower face from ear to ear. Matching hair poked out from a tattered tan fishing hat pulled down to eyebrow level. “Well now. You look nothin’  like Gordy, which is good.” He winked.

  “Mara’s a marine biologist in Spruce Habah. She’s dyin’ ta see the eels,” Gordy said.

  The old man rubbed his beard again. “You at the oceanographic place?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “The Maine Oceanographic Institution.”

  “It’s jus’  Nelson, deah. I got lots ta show ya. Come on.”

  He turned around and placed the lantern on a large flat rock he was using as a kind of shelf for his dip net, a yellow slicker, a pair of waders, and other gear. He slid a large orange bowl closer to the lantern.

  “Here ya go, Mara. Glass eels.”

  I leaned in for a better look. At the bottom of the bowl wriggled hundreds of thin translucent eels about the length of my pinky finger.

  “Huh, they kind of look like clear spaghetti with tiny black eyes,” I said.

  “It’s amazin’ these little guys came all the way from the Sargasso Sea up ta where we are.”

  “The Sargasso Sea is in the middle of the ocean off the Carolinas,” I said. “That’s a thousand miles from here.”

  “Ayuh. Nobody’s seen it, far as I know, but adult eels spawn in the Sargasso Sea. After that, the baby eels float in the Gulf Stream before they peel off an’ go up rivahs all along the east coast.”

  I cradled the bowl in both hands. “Nelson, how much can you get for this many glass eels?”

  He stroked his beard for a moment and said, “Last I knew, they were payin’ fifteen hundred dollars.”

  I blinked and stared into the bowl once more. “Are you telling me you could get fifteen hundred dollars for this many eels?”

  “Right theah, that’s at least two pounds, an’ it’s fifteen hundred per pound.”

  Very, very carefully, I placed the bowl back onto the rock. “My god. The eels in that bowl might go for more than three thousand.”

  Behind me, Gordy said, “Now you understand what Nelson’s son Jake is doing here.”

  “Jake?” I asked.

  “Son,” Nelson called out. “Flip on yer headlamp.”

  A ghostly apparition suddenly appeared not thirty feet up on higher ground. Focused on the rifle, I didn’t pay much attention to guy’s face or the rest of him.

  “Oh,” I said dumbly. “He’s armed.”

  Without a word, Jake turned off the light.

  I leaned back against the rock, looked at Gordy, and crossed my arms. “So tell me the deal here.”

  “Las’ spring Maine fishermen caught somethin’ like ten million dollars’ worth of eels,” he said. “That’s in a couple months. On a good night, Nelson can make five thousand. Some guy could jus’ come along with a bucket, hit Nelson over the head with a rock, an’ end up with five grand at the end of the night.”

  I turned back to the old fisherman who was slowly pouring water into the bowl and talking to his eels. “There ya go, little guys.”

  Would anyone really harm this kindly old man over a handful of eels?

  “Nelson, has anyone tried to steal your catch?” I asked.

  “Ayuh. Couple yeahs ago, this punk come right down that path theah.” He pointed in the opposite direction we’d come from. “Big fella. He shoved me so hard, I nearly fell right in the rivah. Guy grabbed my eel bucket and marched back up the path. Heard ’im drive away couple some minutes latah.”

  The image of the old man falling backwards into that cold, rushing river was appalling. “Nelson, that’s dreadful. How could they?”

  “Easy money, an’ lots of it. Who cares ’bout a worn-out fisherman?”

  To change the subject in a happier direction, I quizzed Nelson about glass eels.

  “When does the eel fishing season start?”

  “March.”

  “What happens to eels you sell?”

  “They’re shipped ta aquaculture farms in places like Japan.”

  “For sushi?”

  “Ayuh, but I never ate it.”

  “Why are eels worth so much now when they weren’t before?”

  “There used ta be eels by the zillions, but now they’re gettin’ fished out.”

  The old fisherman returned to the American eel’s life history. In colorful language he described the animal’s transformation from bottom-dwelling freshwater glass eels to large sexually mature adults that travel the open ocean.

  “Nelson, you’re a natural teacher,” I said.

  “Teachers ask me ta tell school kids all ’bout the eels.” He gestured toward the river. “Every spring this amazin’ thing happens right in our backyard. Folks hardly noticed till there was so much money in it.”

  “Speaking of that, I’m sure you want to get back to your work,” I said.

  He lifted his hat, scratched the top of his head, and settled the hat back down to eyebrow level. “Well, I guess prob’ly. It’s sure been good talking with ya, Mara. I live in Friendship. Gordy knows wheah. Why don’t you come ovah fer a visit?”

  Affection for the old Mainer I’d only just met flowed through me. “I’d love to visit you, Nelson. Thanks for everything.”

  Gordy patted his longtime friend on the back, thanked him for his time, and promised to see him soon.

  Walking back down the trail, the river that carried eels upstream on our right, I quizzed Gordy about Nelson’s safety and the astounding amount of money eel fishermen could make in a single night.

  “It’s great money fer folks who work hard at their jobs and don’t make much. But it comes with big, big problems.”

  “Like the need for protection,” I said.

  “Ayuh. Jack’s got the rifle you saw plus a Glock.”

  “What other problems?”

  “Trafficking.”

  “I’ve read a little about that in the paper.”

  “The eel fishery is regulated,” he said. “Guys like Nelson have an annual quota, need a license, all that. Maine’s one of the few states that has any eel fishing at all. That means glass eels are at a premium. Las’ month a Portland seafood dealer got caught trafficking a million glass eels he illegally sold in Asia. That guy is goin’ ta jail fer a long time.”

  We followed the trail up the bank and into the thicket. What I guessed were bayberry, beach plum, and highbush blueberry shrubs brushed against my parka as I matched Gordy’s pace and thought about eel trafficking. I knew that in the world of illegal trade, animal trafficking ranked fourth after drugs, humans, and arms. I’d learned that every year countless birds (parrots like scarlet macaws), reptiles (turtles, snakes), monkeys, and many other animals were taken from the wild and sold live as pets or dismembered for ivory (elephants), horn (rhinos), fur (leopards, tigers), food (sharks), and bogus medicines (animal penises to improve male libido).

  But, for some reason, the illegal selling of eels right in my home state of Maine hadn’t registered as anything like the lucrative trafficking business it was.

  The crack of the gunshot ricocheted off the low shrubs. Together, Gordy and I spun around and faced the river.


  “Nelson, oh my god,” Gordy cried. “Mara, we gotta run back ta him!”

  Gordy jumped in front of me and sprinted toward the river with me on his tail. We bounded out of the shrubs, slid down the bank, and leapt over rocks until we reached Nelson. The lantern, still upright on the flat rock, illuminated the grisly scene. Sprawled across the trail, the old fisherman lay on his back, arms outstretched. In the middle of his chest, crimson oozed from a deep ugly crater and ran down his orange bib.