Richard Foss: At Last the Sun

The sea stretched into the distance, flat, glossy, and almost black as it neared the horizon, the deep reddish brown of dried blood if you stared straight down into the depths of the dead zone. The view from the deck of the Miss Tillie hadn’t changed in days, but Dennis still gazed over the rail lost in thought. The subtle shading reminded him of an antique Venetian glass bowl that had occupied a place of pride in his mother’s house. An incident involving young children and a baseball had shattered it when he was in his teens, but he remembered the play of color in the wavy glass. As Dennis looked into the still sea, faint ripples spread out from the old shrimp trawler’s hull, completing the illusion of gazing into the scalloped crystal.

The afternoon sun beat down from a yellowish-gray sky, distant thunderheads to the south promising an eventual end to the serene seascape. The only sound was a muffled clattering as Lonesome Joe unbolted the cover of the boom winch and prepared to service the motor. The cover of a grease can made a musical tone as it spun on the deck like a coin. Dennis grinned wryly at the sound—the scientists who had chartered the boat had no need for Joe’s services, but Captain Eddie had brought him along in order to charge for an additional crewmember. They had no need for the shrimping gear on this voyage either, but Captain Eddie had Joe servicing it because he hoped it would be needed on the next trip. If there was a next trip—the dead zone of deoxygenated water off the mouth of the Mississippi was growing alarmingly, and the areas that were still productive were being rapidly overfished. Fertilizer and manure runoff from upstream farms was to blame, the scientists said, and everybody knew what had to be done, but nobody was going to do it. Farm states a thousand miles from the Gulf of Mexico would lose tax dollars if they enforced environmental regulations, so they ritually promised to study the issue further while phosphate and animal waste-laden water washed downstream. Algae multiplied in the warm, nutrient-rich waters offshore and died by the billion, exhausting the water of oxygen as they decomposed. The result was thousands of square miles of open ocean that looked as beautiful as Venetian glass, and as lifeless.

The whine of an electric motor and rattle of chain from the stern as Joe ran the winch through its paces was loud enough to cover the sound of footsteps, so it was a surprise when a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Mister Dennis, would you be so good as to get us some more iced tea?” inquired a British-accented voice heartily.

“Happy to, Dr. Coolidge—anything else?”

“Not at the moment, thank you, but we shall be wanting a bigger lunch than usual in case the heavy weather comes in near sunset. We expect to be quite busy with the instruments, and may not have time for even a light snack.”

Dennis went to the cargo hold, usually reserved for tons of freshly caught shrimp or crabs, but turned to a makeshift lab and pantry for the duration of this trip. The canisters of tea he had placed in the refrigeration unit had beads of moisture running down the sides, and he decanted two pitchers, grabbed ice and insulated tumblers, and headed to the small foredeck. The lanky, spade-bearded scientist was scowling distractedly at a set of covered canisters that were spaced along a length of bright yellow rope. Two graduate students were working on one of the containers with screwdrivers.

“The five and fifteen-meter samples from the rusken bottles are fine, but the ten didn’t open and the twenty didn’t close. It’s the messengers or the trap mechanisms gone wonky, and… ah, here’s some refreshments, take a moment and then back to work.”

The freely perspiring students looked grateful as Dennis filled cups and passed them out. “Y’all sure that crawfish etoufee I made last night wasn’t too hot?” he asked. “I hear tell where y’all from, they don’t cook with much spices.”

One of them laughed. “If you’re ever in Glasgow, I’ll take you out for Pakistani curry, and we’ll see if you still think so,” he replied.

“Nah, thanks. I had Indian when I was in visiting friends in California, and it took a whole day to recover. I’ll put more hot sauce on the table next time just for ya.”

The glasses were refilled, small talk briefly exchanged, and Dennis went to wash the empty pitchers. It was easy work, at least until the predicted storm came in, and he was glad to have it. The scientists seemed satisfied despite their makeshift lab in the hold and their tiny, shared cabin. The more luxurious boat they had originally chartered had rammed into the end of a dock thanks to a pilot who had been celebrating a bit too much the night before. The Miss Tillie had been in the next slip over, hosing out after a weeklong trawling trip that had lost money. A deal was struck on the spot, scientific gear transferred, and instead of striking nets and clearing fouled lines, Dennis was acting as cook and general helper. Dr. Coolidge and his assistants took the crew’s quarters, Captain Eddie bunked in the wheelhouse, and Dennis slept in an unused storage room. Lonesome Joe slung his garish Mexican hammock from a net boom at the stern. Joe could have a more comfortable berth in the other half of the storage room, but the taciturn Cajun had earned his nickname.

Dennis took Joe a cup of iced tea, earning a nod for his trouble, before taking a pitcher up to the small bridge. Captain Eddie Domingue was bound to be grouchy—after what happened to the first boat he had chartered, Dr. Coolidge had made it a condition that the crew didn’t drink. Eddie liked to start his day with a little brandy in his coffee, then a cold Abita ale at lunch and maybe another in the afternoon before dinner, after which the bourbon came out. He had agreed to not drink on this trip, and he had stuck with it, but he didn’t have to like it.

Dennis did a double-take as he entered the small bridge—Captain Eddie had taken advantage of the idle time to clean and polish every knob, switch, and instrument, and the little wheelhouse gleamed. When Dennis came in, Eddie was touching up the paint on the overhead electrical conduits that led to the radar and fish finder. The sonar’s screen was eerily blank, as it had been for days since they entered the dead zone. The featureless green screen caught Dennis’s eye, and Captain Eddie followed his gaze and scowled.

“My daddy used to come right out here and take a full hold of shrimp outta two swings of the net, and half of them were U-10’s that brought in the dough as soon as they hit the dock. Couldn’t fill one of your damned iced tea glasses with all the shrimp that’s out here now, all so some greedy fool in Ohio can raise chickens on bottom land that floods one year outta three.”

“Lots of greedy people in lots of states,” Dennis agreed. “Not like us shrimpers that don’t have a greedy bone in our bodies and work outta altruistic motives of feedin’ humanity.”

Eddie snorted, then grimaced as he drank the cold iced tea. “I’d kill for a beer right now, but my altruistic nature says I gotta drink this tea instead. It does go down nice when it’s this hot, but… I’d kill for a beer right now.” He lapsed into a moody silence, staring out at the calm ocean.

“What’s with this riding out that storm that’s coming in?” Dennis asked after a moment.

“They wanna see how the wave action adds oxygen back into the water, how it happens and how deep it goes. This little blow-up oughta be perfect—three—to five-foot swells if it goes how the weatherman says, enough to mix it up and not so much that they can’t work. Lonesome Joe’s got safety harnesses rigged, and two of ‘em’ll be passing samples through the hatch so the third can mark and catalog ‘em. Won’t bother me if they have to wait another day for this to blow in, considerin’ the rate they’re payin’. You got enough provisions in that galley for three more days?”