Safe Harbor

2 - Kathleen

2 - Kathleen

My rubber shoes sank in the wet sand. They produced a vampire suction sound each time I pulled them off.

The sea wind could not erase the smells of decay: lines of dead brown algae and plastic refuse undulated like a half-finished cartoon, fish skeletons lay among sea urchins cut open by competent gulls.

I sidestepped a dying jellyfish, looking like a glittery plastic bag with long trailing strings. A Portuguese Man O’ War.

This poisonous nightmare prevented our children to wade in those waters. The result of years of neglect, tons of industrial wastewater leaked into the sea, while our i***t mayor courted more companies to revive our dying economy.

His latest brainchild was a natural gas extraction site smack on the old fish cannery lot. This, after inviting a mega pig-production factory (fortunately they found a better site) and a luxury condo project close to the mall (the contractor went belly up, leaving half-finished beams). And, yes, the expansion of the Prodigal Fish Farm, whose unregulated effluents would kill what’s left of the fish life.

What a mess! It felt good to punch the air and kick out some sand, and watch the stupid gulls fly away.

I glimpsed a white shell, left there by the waves. Almost unbroken. I picked it up and pressed it against my ear, a gesture dating back from the time I still dreamed. Of course, there was no siren song inside, only a never-ending sigh, as empty as I felt.

A vibration throbbed in the air overhead: a black cormorant plunged, bringing death from above. It pierced the water with a minimal splash, then came up again, a quivering prey in its beak. It took up, its dark wings sending a spray of droplets around.

Thin-legged plovers ran as fast as hasty marketers, then stopped abruptly. Their scimitar-like bills pierced the sand, pulling up hapless worms.

I stepped up on the bedrock incline advancing on the water like a big gray tongue. I could feel the heat through my soles, as if the stone was alive. The rock face was scarred and lined as an angry old man’s. The smoothness of it gave the unnerving idea that a giant petrified cadaver was buried under the ground.

Normally, I would walk up the cragged rock face to the row of wind-abused pines, but, from my position, I spied an army-green backpack sitting there by itself.

A tourist. Somewhere in the pines, probably pissing. Meh.

I turned, one hand on Bryan’s cap so the wind didn’t carry it off. I was high enough to look at the harbor, protected by a long arm of concrete blocks.

The water break kept the marina in a smothering embrace, while clay deposits slowly built up its lee side. The indifferent sun lit up the marina in all its futile glory, uppity yachts and pristine sailboats snubbing the rickety crafts of the local fishermen. At the end of the water break, a lone automatic lighthouse rose, not tall enough to warrant a sightseeing gallery, not singular enough to warrant a postcard picture. Its beam brushed the waves at night, guiding the fishermen going out.

The low whine of a motor pulled my eyes to the sea. A cloud of gulls circled over cousin Stan’s blue-hulled boat, calling, bickering with plaintive voices, pleading for scraps of fish.

The hungry birds would be disappointed. The low speed of the boat told me of another empty-handed fishing night. A freighter must have ignored Stan’s line of floats and ripped through his nets. This wouldn’t pay for his fresh paint job! (Why did he pick this awful, look-at-me blue?)

A smell of fried fish wafted to me. In the distance, I could hear pop rock music, chatter and laughter from the covered restaurants patios, all noisy enough to wake the dead. In the beginning of June, most classes were over, and every day is a holiday. The main pier stuck out in the marina, lined with tourist traps, one support post half rotten.

This brazen pier was in a dire need of repairs, again. And guess who would have to pay for it?