Richard Foss: At Last the Sun

“Sure, even though them graduate students eat like horses. Might hafta repeat myself on some things, but I don’t suppose they’ll mind. Gonna be low on water by three days on, unless I lay out every pot when this storm comes in and collect some. Either that or you radio back to Bayou Teche and get your cousin Eugene to go to the market, load up his boat, and run it out to us. Probably somethin’ you should consider anyway if you want any fresh vegetables.”

Eddie looked thoughtful. “Might do that, I might. They want to keep sampling this area a few days after the storm. They might pay extra to be able to stay out longer.”

“You’re making me wonder if somewhere down there, you do have a greedy bone or two.”

“Let’s just say my altruistic side needs a paycheck once in a while, too, and it ain’t had one lately.” He paused a moment, then continued more softly. “This thing could be the end of us, you know. My daddy made a good livin’ with this boat, you know. I ever tell you the whyfores about the name of this boat?”

He had done it plenty of times, but rarely when sober, and just in case the story changed, Dennis looked inquisitive.

“My daddy was half set to marry Gertrude of the Courville sisters, richest family in Jefferson Parish back then, but he always had an eye for a sweet little thing that worked at the local coffee shop. He thought about askin’ her out and thought about it, but he couldn’t get the nerve, and couldn’t think of a way to get her to talk to him. Her name was Caroline Tillie, and back then this boat was called the Beau de Barataria . One day my daddy bought this boat, and that night he came out and painted the new name, Miss Tillie . Word of that got around real quick, and it soon got to old Mr. Courville, who was already making plans for his daughter’s wedding. Since he had also been the one who loaned my daddy the money to buy the boat, he was quite upset, and he went down to the docks with two of her brothers and, I heard tell, three pistols. I’m only sure about the two brothers, because everybody saw them waitin’ for my daddy to dock after that shrimping trip. Then someone thought to go to the café, and they found that Miss Tillie’s first customer that morning had been the harbormaster, and he told her about the wet paint on this boat. He was the last customer she ever served—she closed the café, walked down to see this boat, and went onboard. My daddy was sitting in this wheelhouse, waiting. They talked for ten minutes, then she slipped the lines and they sailed out to the gulf. They fished out of Plaquemines Parish for about a year until he had the money to repay Mr. Courville, then they came back. Then they found that Gertrude Courville had been married for seven months—she had been sweet on Leander Chauvin and was planning to elope with him all along. So they were all friends afterward, and Gertrude became my godmother, and my mother was godmother to their son Robert.”

After he finished the often-told story, he was silent for a moment, then continued in a soft voice.

“And that is what these farmers and chicken keepers are takin’ from me; not just my job, but the boat where my momma and papa wooed and wed, where I was conceived and woulda been born if a storm hadn’t let up so they could get ashore. If I were to sail this boat up the river and destroy their farms they’d jail me, but they destroy my shrimping grounds and nobody does nothing. So I take the money from Dr. Coolidge and he makes his measurements, but in case he collects the data that makes them stop, I would do this for free. And it is not altruism, it is saving my heritage, that’s on this boat and was in these waters before the oxygen went away. I would tell Eugene to empty every store shelf in Bayou Teche and load up his boat to feed them and charge it to me.”

They were silent and somber for a moment, both men looking at the deck like the scratches in the well-worn wood might have an answer. Then Dennis chuckled and shook his head.

“And the vegetables Eugene would bring in his boatload are from farms that run off into this water, and help cause the problem that afflicts our sea.”

Captain Eddie looked like he had bitten into something sour. “It is complicated, but things cannot stay as they are.” He set his jaw and reached for the paintbrush to finish detailing the electrical conduit. Dennis turned to go and almost collided with Dr. Coolidge, who was standing in the door of the wheelhouse.

“Gentlemen, I do not know if my readings will help to change the situation, but I pledge to you that I will do all that I can to make them known. You must know, though that even if every possible action is taken now, it may be a decade before you see schools of redfish on that screen again.” He gestured at the fish finder, then looked at it sharply. Faint wavy lines flickered near the bottom of the screen. He relaxed after a moment.

“Interesting interference pattern there. Probably a cold current going underneath a warm one at the thermocline. Not something I’d expect to see, even with the scope on high sensitivity.”

Captain Eddie frowned. “It ain’t on high sensitivity. That’s standard.”

The three men peered at the screen, where a straight line was arcing upward to resemble a dome.

“Big bubble of gas and mud sometimes comes up from the bottom, looks a little something like that,” volunteered Eddie uncertainly.” Just as he said it, the curve became sharper, and a piece of it separated into a disc and started to move laterally. “It don’t do that, though.”

“Your strip recorder—turn it on!” barked Dr. Coolidge. Captain Eddie flipped a switch, and paper started scrolling past a pen that twitched with each movement. Dennis had a different idea and grabbed his cell phone from the pouch at his hip, aimed the camera at the sonar screen, and started recording. “Good thought,” said Coolidge approvingly, his eyes not leaving the screen. The disc moved in a slow circle near the bottom of the screen, then came to a halt.

“Depth?” Coolidge asked crisply. Eddie glanced at a readout. “Canyon just south of here goes down past forty fathoms, but here we’re at sixteen fathoms, pretty even.” The scientist stuck his head out the door to call to his assistants.

“Mac Leod, what’s the oxygen level at thirty meters?”

There was a momentary hesitation, then a reply of, “Last reading, one point four parts per million.”

“Nothing on Earth larger than bacteria can live under those conditions,” Coolidge said firmly. “The reading’s wrong, or…” he broke off as the thing started moving again. “What size is it?”

Captain Eddie glanced at the gain dial on the finder. “Same as a fair-sized marlin… call it eight feet.”

“I want it. Can you catch it?” He stuck his head out he window and bellowed, “Mac Leod, come here now and bring a recorder! Davies, to the port side amidships with a recorder, and catch any movement you see in the water!”

Captain Eddie glanced at Dennis. “Lonesome Joe done servicin’ that winch?”

“Oughta be.” Dennis stuck his head out the window and shouted, “Joe, whatever net you got ready, get it in the water, now!”

There was a sound of scrambling, the whirr of an electric motor and rattle of chains, then a splash and a sharp curse in Acadian French. Dennis and Eddie ran to the top of the gangway to see a piece of colorful striped fabric sliding below the deep blue surface of the water. Dennis laughed.

“Joe musta left his hammock draped over the boom, and when he swung it to attach the net, it went over. He’s gonna have to go all the way to Grand Isle to get another one.”

They were interrupted by a shout from the cabin. “What’s that?”

They rushed in and looked at the video screen, where they could see the image of the waterlogged hammock undulating toward the ocean floor. “Hammock,” answered Dennis. “Got a piece of chain on one end to hook it up, why it’s moving like that.” He pointed his cell phone camera at the display as the shape at the bottom of the screen started spiraling upward. Suddenly, it moved forward and struck at the hammock, then recoiled.