At Last the Sun

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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.

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