Lock Tight

There are many days when I am extremely satisfied to spring out of my bed, throw on my overalls and pull in my crabs from the traps for the market, but the putrid smell of the marsh today has me rethinking my whole career. Well, I didn’t become a crabber by choice anyways, but I can dream of the days where I wanted to be a marine biologist and rehabilitate sea creatures affected by the heinous pollution that has consumed the world. The smell of the marsh snaps me out of my dreams and back to my routine. I finish pulling on my boots, grab my favorite sturdy gloves to protect me from the snippy crab claws, and head out my door into a new dawn.

My 6-foot Carolina skiff is waiting for me tied up at the pier, a mere 8 feet from the marshes. The Chincoteague marshes are dispersed throughout the channel, and they change every year with the tides and storms, which make them near unnavigable to most boaters. Yet out of necessity, the local fishermen have managed to perfect their routes every year since the 1600s, adapting to the everchanging shoals and grasses that spring out of the mud to tickle the horizon.

I hop in my skiff, giving her a welcoming rock in the water, check for my bushels, then turn over the engine and begin the beautiful morning ride to my crab traps. The morning today is like any other morning on the island waters, peaceful and ridden with mosquitos. You would never think the world was burning if you spent all your time crabbing in the marshlands. Yet this is a new way of life for me that I have been living for the past 6 years, along with the other refugees who made it to the island before they destroyed the 5-and-a-half-mile causeway from the mainland.

Chincoteague Island became a refugee colony 6 years ago to provide a safe haven from the pollution driven world collapse. The glaciers are almost completely gone, many species have become extinct, disease travels faster in the hotter and moister environments, and most of the mainland has become unlivable due to air and water pollution.

When I was younger, I grew up on the Chesapeake Bay, another haven of marine life and prosperity. In the span of time from childhood to adulthood, I saw the changes that occurred in the Chesapeake. The egrets all launched away, no fish were being caught, and the ones that were had 2 heads or were filled with mud from the Baltimore industrial runoff. The water went from blueish brown to complete brown, and the water was deemed unsafe to swim in, which broke my heart. I can still remember being dragged behind the back of the boat on a small raft while my mom tried to throw my sister and I off into the water on sharp turns, as her dad had done.

The weather has become completely unpredictable. Sometimes we will have a couple of days of what seems like normal sunshine and wispy clouds, and then the next we are ravaged by a category 4 hurricane that seemed to appear out of thin air. In any case, the mornings are usually safe, I think that’s when whatever gods are left decide to enjoy the scenes before the onslaught humanity has caused themselves. But hey, safe mornings mean pulling in my crabs easier.

The bobbers that indicate where my crab traps live under the depths and are dispersed every 10 feet. As I pull in the traps, my job is made much harder by the incredible winds that threaten to dunk me in the drink. I can’t remember the winds ever blowing this hard in the morning. To my delight, the heft of my first few unloads indicates that today will bring a great haul. Amara will be happy. She will be even happier if I can manage to grab some fat soft shells for her, I think to myself. Those are her favorite, fried whole and to a crisp. I touch my hand to the small heart shaped locket around my neck. My sister would have liked them too.

I finish pulling in my lines and begin the trek back to the island, except this time I make my way around to the Northern tip of the island where the sea food market is. Everyday, crabbers and fishermen sell their catch here to the islanders. The main sources of food on the island are the daily seafood hauls and the small amounts of produce the island can provide. There is no beef, and due to the small size of the island, there is no room for wheat fields either, so bread is not a common delicacy.

The island cut itself off from the mainland by choice, but by doing so we had to become completely self-sufficient; our survival is dependent on the residents working hard and cohesively. The colony has survived for 6 years now, and for most people, there are no signs of that changing. But I know better. A few of us know better. When glaciers melt, sea level rises, and Chincoteague has been sinking long before the collapse. There is an inner circle of residents that tried to come up with solutions for the imminent submersion of the island, but we all decided to let the other islanders live in peace without fear of the submersion, for there is nothing that anyone can do. Before I could start to think about the morals of my choices for the 100th time, I heard “I’ll give ya a hefty sum for those soft shells Gale.”

Ah yes, JJ Barnet, a man who rivals Amara’s love for soft shells. As well as the only marina owner left on the island.

“Ah I can give you a couple JJ, but I’m saving most of these softies for Amara and me today” I say with ease, knowing I don’t have to lie to him like I have to for some of my other customers.

“Oh, I’ll be darned, it’s y’alls anniversary isn’t it? Then I can’t take a single soft shell from ya Gale, Amara will have my head,” JJ chuckled out, only half joking.

“Will you take some regular blues instead?”

“Your blues? You know that’s no question Gale” he said with a smile as he adjusted his waders and picked up a bushel for himself. “These males will do just fine.”

“You bet they will, today’s haul is incredibly full.”

JJ pays me for the crabs and even adds a tip. I watch him as he walks away. He has always been kind to Amara and I. Unlike many others. Pre-colony, Chincoteague was a rather conservative town with strong Christian beliefs that too often misconstrued Christianity with homophobia. There are still some that actively avoid us, claiming we ruin the island; even though we’re just 2 lesbians whose favorite doomsday pass time has become crochet. But for all humanity has done to the earth, I don’t really see any of us being allowed salvation.

I finish selling the rest of my crabs early, which gives me plenty of time before Amara gets home from working the gardens to prepare a feast. I have my soft shells, some lovely scallops, and have been secretly growing just enough wheat to have milled enough flour for a whole loaf of Italian bread. I glance out my window to the marshes as I knead my dough and notice a remarkably low tide. That’s odd, I think to myself. Usually if there is wind in the morning it gets sucked out then and returns for high tide at night, but this is strange. Then again, the weather is supposed to be strange now, so no use fretting it.

As I prepare dinner, I let myself think too much. I always go back and forth on whether or not the islanders should be told that we will sink soon – likely in a matter of hours with the next strong hurricane. Yet there is nothing to be done, and we have nowhere to go. Transporting and evacuating everyone and their valuables to the mainland would take weeks, and we would have no where to go for the imminent surrounding areas are all toxic. I haven’t even told Amara.

For these past 6 years I have been able to enjoy peace, the whole island has. I get to see Amara every day. I get to enjoy waking up and seeing her two hair buns a mess, not wanting to get up. I get to crochet her fun pieces of clothing, make her breakfast as she wraps her arms around me, hold her mocha hands in mine, and appreciate her radiance and life force. I can’t stand to see her crushed, her sense of security taken away. I already lost my sister. I can’t lose her too.

“Well well, somehow I knew you’d whip up bread, should I tell councilman Corey you were growing secret wheat for our anniversary?” said Amara. She leaned in the doorway with an expression halfway between a smirk and a smile, her signature expression.

“You certainly can, but I’ll have to just eat the whole loaf I made you alone while you go and rat me out to him” I say back, turning around, holding a sneaky handful of flour behind my back.

“Alright alright, I guess I won’t rat you out, but only because I see some beautiful soft shells behind you” she almost purrs out while sauntering over to me, giving me the perfect opportunity.

“How generous of you head gardener Amara, although it’s hard to take you seriously with whatever’s on your nose” and before she has the change to speak, I gently hold out my hand and blow flour onto her. It looks almost like snow. I never got to see Amara in the snow, another experience with her that was robbed from me by the collapse.

We both laugh for a little and she chastises me for wasting some flour, but it was totally worth it to see the smile of shock on her face. I finish cooking dinner and after Amara wipes off the remaining flour, we both sit down at the table and I give her my finest spread of bread, seafood, and even some Champagne. If only I could sit at this table with her forever.

SHWAP. The window gets flailed open by a strong wind and scares the daylights out of both of us. “Don’t worry I got it,” and I motion for Amara to sit back down. I walk to the window and I almost puke. I should have known. Curse the Atlantic. The strong winds, the drastic sucked out tides, all indicators of one thing. A tsunami.

I calmly close the window and pull the drapes. I don’t want to give off that anything is wrong to Amara. Even if we hopped on the boat now, there is nowhere to go, and the tsunami will go for miles inland. I touch my hand to my locket. I’ll be seeing my sister soon.

I continue to chat with Amara for another minute before the sounds of the ocean and the wind become too much to ignore. “This storm better not mess with my produce” Amara says chuckling but scared. “I’m sure it will be okay, you manage to grow fruit in the marshlands, have some faith in yourself.” Those were the last words I said to Amara. My decision to hide the conditions sealed our fate lock tight as the tsunami overtook our home and quickly washed over the island, JJ’s marina, and onto the mainland.

The next day, the gods looked down on the island, except they could not find it. All they saw were a few floating empty bushels, and some perfect, uneaten produce.