The Creeping Kelp

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Dave Noble had just pulled up the last but one of his sample bottles when thin, grey smoke began to waft from the four-stroke engine of the Zodiac.

That’s all I need.

He had to clamber over the bottles to reach the helm, barking his shin on the raised fibreglass ridge that bisected the dinghy. He cursed, long and loudly. It didn’t make him feel much better.

The smoke had turned darker now and the engine rattled and whined. He switched it off and pushed the button that raised the propeller from the water. The dinghy seemed stable enough in the water, so he risked leaving the steering wheel and headed to the rear for a closer look. Black, almost oily goop hung from the blades in ropy strands.

Blasted weed.

At first glance, this particular area of the North Atlantic seemed serene; a sheet of blue glass laid under an azure sky, the water only intermittently ruffled by a breeze so faint it could hardly be felt; the water gently lapping on the side of the dinghy. But after two weeks of study, Noble knew that the surface hid a multitude of sins.

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