"A huge fish just came in, I'm not sure what it is..." and so a giant bluefin arrives at the dock outside Morehead's Sanitary restaurant. They say the season has started slowly in North Carolina but the grins on the crew's faces and their foul weather gear smeared in blood speak for themselves. The tall white boat with an open deck and fixed rods for reeling in giants has clearly been here before.
This time, the biggest bluefin tuna lies stiff on a heap of ice, shining with two rows of triangles top and bottom. In overcast light, the headless 400-pound fish is pushed, shoved, and hauled onto a stretcher-like tarp which allows it to be moved by four men with great difficulty up to the dock and across to a waiting pick-up truck that arrived only minutes ago.
Someone slips on the wet gunwhale and their leg is briefly caught between the fish and the dock. The leg seems tiny. It's hard to imagine being attached to such a large animal by a thin plastic line as it fights the hook and and swims for its life. A handful of admirers have spilled from the Sanitary restaurant to train digital cameras on the scene. The air is jubilant. Though no money has yet changed hands, this single fish could be worth thousands of dollars. If it's been handled right and can be sold for sushi, that figure increases by a power of ten.
Two more tuna half its size lie waiting. Even the largest catch today is hardly full-grown for a species that easily boasts 1000 pounds and circles the ocean during in its annual migrations. The bluefin tuna is a powerful, warm-blooded, swimming machine that we are only beginning to appreciate through satellite tagging and other hi-tech research that is gives a window to their lives on a planetary scale.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
Shag on the Strand (SOS) swept through Myrtle Beach again this fall, as it has every year for a generation or two. Beach music played too loud, smiling faces with a little too much make-up, and off-season hotels filled for a solid week of dancing. And these people can dance. The loafers, the bermuda shorts, the tight white pants aren't as flattering as they used to be, but the hips still swing and the feet know how to hover.
While the road behind is an unremarkable mess of concrete and neon, the nighttime lap of waves on soft sand remains. Buildings have sprung up along the beachfront but are mostly low-rise, bordered by snow fencing along cresting dunes here and there. Perhaps only the beach itself looks as bright, as sparkling as the original Shag craze of the 1940s and 50s.
While the road behind is an unremarkable mess of concrete and neon, the nighttime lap of waves on soft sand remains. Buildings have sprung up along the beachfront but are mostly low-rise, bordered by snow fencing along cresting dunes here and there. Perhaps only the beach itself looks as bright, as sparkling as the original Shag craze of the 1940s and 50s.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Port Townsend, Washington
The damp flannel landscape feels like home, welcoming me back to Washington State for a friend's wedding. Smooth granite dinner rolls cover North Beach slide beneath our feet. Large trees reach sideways to the surf, their outstretched fingers bathed by small ripples, grasping and simultaneously letting the water go.
As we walk to the lighthouse, graying tones of blue, pink, white, and brown paint the sky. The distance seems fixed and the time does not pass as we trail behind a dog chasing imaginary birds. Some of the birds are real but so far ahead and unconcerned that his pursuit is imaginary if not his prize.
As we walk to the lighthouse, graying tones of blue, pink, white, and brown paint the sky. The distance seems fixed and the time does not pass as we trail behind a dog chasing imaginary birds. Some of the birds are real but so far ahead and unconcerned that his pursuit is imaginary if not his prize.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Monterey, California
Summer fog hugs the coast. Kelp dresses the sea surface and sea otters frolic at its edge. Two otters roll and toss together, chasing, playing, or flirting it's hard to tell. Cormorants perch on a lone rock. The cormorants dry their wings to avoid the cold. The otters groom for the same reason, and float high in the water on dense fur (a million hairs per inch).
We pedal down Cannery Row and spot a sleek head poking up from the waves. After scanning the water and pressing up against the fence, one or the other of us suddenly recognizes the fifty or a hundred prone shapes below, an entire haul-out covered with seals. Impossible to miss once you notice them.
Late that night I open the window, fresh air for my roommate and the rumbling drums of waves to bring sleep.
We pedal down Cannery Row and spot a sleek head poking up from the waves. After scanning the water and pressing up against the fence, one or the other of us suddenly recognizes the fifty or a hundred prone shapes below, an entire haul-out covered with seals. Impossible to miss once you notice them.
Late that night I open the window, fresh air for my roommate and the rumbling drums of waves to bring sleep.
Key West
Key West, Florida. Though one could argue that the Keys are only precariously attached to Florida. Driving in the shuttle, we skim along heavily bulkheaded not-quite-land and someone asks the unspoken, "Does any of this really survive a hurricane?" It is explained that the rip rap has just been replaced.
Diving among placid tarpon, we go with a charter to the protected Western Sambo section of the Florida National Marine Sanctuary. I'm sure I never knew how large a tarpon was, how shiny their silver plates. They seem to know fishing's not allowed here.
Drinking at the end of the continent, we sit by the beach with all the pink midwesterners, all the armed services, and are served by Conch residents. Our divemaster explains why he stopped drinking: it's too easy to do nothing other than drink, when really you could be doing nothing other than being on the water, enjoying the ocean.
Diving among placid tarpon, we go with a charter to the protected Western Sambo section of the Florida National Marine Sanctuary. I'm sure I never knew how large a tarpon was, how shiny their silver plates. They seem to know fishing's not allowed here.
Drinking at the end of the continent, we sit by the beach with all the pink midwesterners, all the armed services, and are served by Conch residents. Our divemaster explains why he stopped drinking: it's too easy to do nothing other than drink, when really you could be doing nothing other than being on the water, enjoying the ocean.
Coastal Georgia
Coastal Georgia is an ode to wetlands and a gift of grace. And yes, of all the ocean places on my regular circuit, it's in the top tier. Last year was my first visit to the Jekyll Island Club, among former homes of the Northeast elite, Rockefellers, Goodyears and others famous to those who pay attention to such things. The fishing dock nearby is crowned by a raw bar, the actual shrimp boats run off years ago by this high-end crowd.
Yet late evening still brings a magenta glow to the sheltered water, black tree shadows cast against the glass surface. A friend and I walk beneath the branches of sweet gum and palmetto draped in spanish moss. We tell stories and drink the cool March air.
This is an island where only a few minutes bring my rented bike and me to the beach, to don a wetsuit, float around in the water and amuse the locals. It's really very cold water this time of year so if you live here most folks feel like there's no reason to go in. And so I swim alone on my back, watching terns glide and sandpipers pace with a stiletto gait.
Another night, I wander from our picnic towards two boys fishing from the pier. Flashes of light peak through the boards. We gaze across water ringed by grasses. Something breaks the surface and I can't quite believe it. A dolphin, and then a second smaller dolphin play and approach the pier. Could a baby dolphin really be playing with its mother just like this, just a typical evening in this magical place?
On my second visit to Jekyll, a friend lends me full sea kayaking gear. She narrates a scenic drive around the island with local politics, land use history, kayaking tips, and instructions for the next morning's launch. With a cheery wave I thank them, preparing to rise early the next day and squeeze in a quick exploration before the trip home.
I haul the boat down wet sand under grey skies. Wind and a light chop carry me forward, as I note how important it will be to leave time for the return paddle. Along the shoreline there are mud channels, thick reeds in british racing green, and dense oyster banks that scrape against my paddle. Fingers grow numb, and the herons stay just far enough ahead of my slow progress. Osprey swoop, far-off coastline shows itself around the corner.
Yet late evening still brings a magenta glow to the sheltered water, black tree shadows cast against the glass surface. A friend and I walk beneath the branches of sweet gum and palmetto draped in spanish moss. We tell stories and drink the cool March air.
This is an island where only a few minutes bring my rented bike and me to the beach, to don a wetsuit, float around in the water and amuse the locals. It's really very cold water this time of year so if you live here most folks feel like there's no reason to go in. And so I swim alone on my back, watching terns glide and sandpipers pace with a stiletto gait.
Another night, I wander from our picnic towards two boys fishing from the pier. Flashes of light peak through the boards. We gaze across water ringed by grasses. Something breaks the surface and I can't quite believe it. A dolphin, and then a second smaller dolphin play and approach the pier. Could a baby dolphin really be playing with its mother just like this, just a typical evening in this magical place?
On my second visit to Jekyll, a friend lends me full sea kayaking gear. She narrates a scenic drive around the island with local politics, land use history, kayaking tips, and instructions for the next morning's launch. With a cheery wave I thank them, preparing to rise early the next day and squeeze in a quick exploration before the trip home.
I haul the boat down wet sand under grey skies. Wind and a light chop carry me forward, as I note how important it will be to leave time for the return paddle. Along the shoreline there are mud channels, thick reeds in british racing green, and dense oyster banks that scrape against my paddle. Fingers grow numb, and the herons stay just far enough ahead of my slow progress. Osprey swoop, far-off coastline shows itself around the corner.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Gulfport, Mississippi
First encounter with the sea this year begins with an airplane conversation with a local retiree. "Where should I go if I have time in Gulfport?" He recommends driving south along interstate 10, at least if I want to "see the destruction" of 2005 hurricanes, Katrina and Rita. And so I trace the asphalt strip, level to the ground and stretching flat on either side between the water and a string of buildings with no first floor. Or rather, with beams-only fully-gutted first floors. The most disquieting characteristic of the floodwater damage is how perfectly intact many upper floors were. Looking upwards the view is of any beachfront strip of mansions, condominiums, community buildings, single-family homes. Perhaps a high number of newly constructed places with the Tyvek paper covering still exposed. Yet at ground level it's clear that it's a ghost town, uninhabited and slowly rebuilding one year after. On the water side a string of oversized road signs proclaiming businesses of which there are few if any signs of the establishments themselves, a waffle house, a mexican restaurant.
The white sand beach and the water itself breathe peace. I pull over and balance across a large conveyance, walking towards a large group of gulls. The birds rise, circling overhead. The water is cold to the touch, clear to its pebble-shell collection a few inches deep. Ridiculously shallow and calm, at least to the eyes of someone accustomed to other seas, to surf and crashing waves. Undeniably peaceful.
The white sand beach and the water itself breathe peace. I pull over and balance across a large conveyance, walking towards a large group of gulls. The birds rise, circling overhead. The water is cold to the touch, clear to its pebble-shell collection a few inches deep. Ridiculously shallow and calm, at least to the eyes of someone accustomed to other seas, to surf and crashing waves. Undeniably peaceful.
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