13 November 2012
The Great and Billowing Sea
by David Dean
The other visits to the sea I mentioned were not without challenge, either. My very first time in the Atlantic my very life was in peril. Nicky and I (I always seemed to be with Nicky when things went wrong) had waded out to our waists at low tide and were splashing merrily about, as eight-year-olds are wont to do, when he returned to land to retrieve something. In the meantime, I lost myself in the warm water and gentle waves, feeling almost sleepy beneath a very hot sun, only remotely aware of a distant shouting. After a few moments of this dreamy inattention, it suddenly broke through to my consciousness that this shouting was drawing closer and closer. I also became aware of a lot of splashing. Turning back to face the beach, I could see that everyone to my right was fleeing toward shore, and even as I stood there, amazed and uncomprehending, the people to my left began to very actively join in this stunning migration. Then a single word separated itself from the others and floated from shore to me, somehow rising above all the din..."Shark!"
Though I had never given sharks much thought, and the book and movie version of "Jaws" was yet many years in the future, that single word managed to convey to me a keen sense of terror. As if dreaming, I turned my head in the direction the exodus had begun, and there, not so terribly far away, a large fin sliced through the calm waters further out, following the coastline at a leisurely pace. I could even see its tail whipping along behind it. Then I did what every rational person does in such a situation, I began to wade as quickly as my short, little legs would carry me toward terra firma, splashing and thrashing away; neither in a position to run nor to swim. It was then that I realized how life hangs on a moment...especially when it involves the great and billowing sea. I made it to shore unscathed, though rather shook up. I was told that despite all my agitation in the water, the great shark never wavered in its course, obviously uninterested in bony little boys...at least for that moment. I used this experience in a story entitled, "Natural Causes", which appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine's November 2003 issue.
On my next visit, I was stung by a very small sting ray. It hurt, but didn't require medical attention. The only catastrophe of note that occurred during the Panama City visit was a sunburn that I shall never forget. Lest you think Cousin Nicky escaped unscathed, during the St. Augustine trip, on our first trek beyond the safety of the walls of the hotel courtyard he was attacked by a dog and bitten several times. A short time later he would make headlines by becoming stuck between two buildings and having to be removed by the fire department. My aunt keeps a yellowed copy of the local paper covering this extraordinary event which contains a grainy black and white photo of my favorite cousin wedged into a small gap between two brick office buildings. I was not with him, so can offer no explanation.
The second half of my life I have spent cheek-by-jowl with the Atlantic. And though time and experience has improved my overall opinion of the sea, it has certainly not lessened my respect for its power and capriciousness. Hurricane Sandy demonstrated that just recently. We were largely spared the worst of it here, but to the north of us there is great devastation. There could have been no hurricane without the cooperation of the mighty sea.
Sandy is only one of many, many storms I have lived and worked through; not to mention floods. The sea is always at work trying to reclaim the land. It also claims people. Hardly a winter goes by that a clamming or scallop boat is not lost at sea off our coast. During the balmy summer months swimmers are taken by rip-tides.
Sometimes the sea returns things: A lady once came into my police department to speak with a supervisor. As I was the sergeant on duty, I met with her and inquired how we might be of service. Opening her rather large hand-bag, she extracted something yellowish, placed it on the desk between us and asked, "Do I have to turn this in?" It was the lower jaw bone of a human being and still retained most of its teeth. Some bore fillings. My own lower jaw may have hit the desk; I don't remember. Being a crack investigator however, I cried, "Where the hell did you get that?" You might guess her answer. "I found it on the beach after a storm." The next statement surprised me a little. "I've been using it as a paperweight on my desk."
With little grace, she reluctantly parted with her prize. I had obtained enough information to both identify and locate her should I need to. Perhaps you can also guess what my first line of inquiry was? Yes, that 's it--I quickly determined whether any significant other in this strange lady's life had gone missing. She had a divorced husband, but he was still amongst the breathing. The jaw appeared quite old, though this can be very deceptive after not a very long time in the ocean. It did strike me that the fillings appeared to be made of steel, not something commonly, or at all, used in the U.S.--many foreign freighters pass our coastline, and men overboard are more common than it is comfortable to think about. In any event, the jaw was packaged off to the state medical examiners office. To my knowledge, a match with a missing person has never been made. It remains a mystery of the deep. Other things have been brought ashore by the sea, but are too grisly to discuss here.
Even so, most of us are very drawn to that same dangerous sea. On sunny days there's nothing more pleasant than lying on the warm sands as the sea laps the shore mere yards away, and gulls wheel in a flawless sky. It is, after all, where life began...even if it is also where it sometimes ends.
Countless mystery and suspense stories occur on, or next to, the sea. Most of mine do. I suspect you could name dozens of stories and novels inspired by the sea if you put your mind to it. In fact, if the sea were to vanish tomorrow (and we were to somehow survive this catastrophic event) half the stories yet to be written would probably remain so.