I spent the last few weeks organizing myself to rejoin mainstream society.  We brought the boat to rest in the fabled Marshes of Glynn, where we currently reside between Brunswick and St. Simons Island in coastal Georgia.

It’s a real place, let me tell you, with a dynamic environmental and political scene.  This stretch of coast retains a large portion of the remaining salt marsh on the US Atlantic coast and a thriving wild-caught shrimp industry, in addition to rare and magical ecosystems like “interdune meadow” and “marsh hammock”.  It’s the kind of place where you might see a unicorn, but in the process you will get covered in bug bites, misplace an hour or two gossiping with a neighbor, and ultimately tuck in at an all-you-can-eat oyster joint by sundown.

So far, coastal Georgia has welcomed me with open arms, and I’ve found opportunities that meet my financial, social and spiritual needs. Which is to say, I found a planning job.  I am doing some research/policy analysis for One Hundred Miles, an advocacy organization that is doing really exciting work down here.

But before that happened, I spent a few weeks alone in the boat.

Last month, Fabio went on a delivery, meaning that he joined a crew tasked with transporting a beautiful luxury yacht from one sunny Caribbean island to another at the behest of the yacht’s owner.  He was away from SY Tranquility, and me, for about two weeks.  I spent that time in search of my own bit of work and trying to figure out what’s up in this strange world of Sea Islands and wild ponies.

I spent a good chunk of each day writing on the boat – proposals, applications, various iterations of resume, and an epic personal statement (available on request).  I found myself in a deep meditation on “Sea Level Living”, as I scanned my new horizon, the teeming golden marsh.  The massive victory of our arrival faded, and the details of our trip bubbled up – so many people, places and things.

Meanwhile, a rotation of bird species populated my vista, each with their own rhyme and reason. Our resident pelicans educated me on the term “plunge dive”, a perfect description of their bombardier feeding style.  The Hooded Merganser pairs enjoy the calm spaces between boat slips where they wet their beaks and preen their punk rock hairdos.  In a sudden turn that evokes John Wayne and the Wild West, high noon brings a population of sateen male crows, each staking out a mast or other high point from which to broadcast their midday caws.  I became acquainted with each phase of the welcoming committee, and over time came to anticipate the changing of the guard.

Now I greet them in the morning and evenings, on my way to and from town. I don’t know what the specific outcomes of my time behind a desk might bring, but I am highly motivated by my marsh residence. The experience that we have had, the absolute privilege of seeing this environment intact and witnessing first-hand the rich traces of history and culture that exist only here, should survive us and then some.

Not all marinas are created equal. Some are gruff places with basic services, while others cater to the super rich, or families, or locals, and so on.  All marinas, however, host some type of ecosystem at the edges and in quiet moments. For most boaters, interaction with this ecosystem might be limited to cursing at the sea gulls, pelicans and geese who crap all over your deck minutes after washing down the boat.  Its not all harmony and rainbows.

During this trek down the coast, we have experienced marinas during the low season, when boat traffic (and associated negative environmental impacts such as excess oil, nutrients and other nasty marine products) is relatively low, and the docks are even more accommodating for wildlife.

So I have been observing the components of marina biology…and letting Fabio deal with the guano.

On floating and fixed components of the dock structures, we see intertidal populations of oysters, barnacles, tunicates, sponges, algae and so on.  If the structure is fixed, we use these striated populations to monitor the tide (SPOILER ALERT: a few barnacles visible = high tide; barnacles, oysters and sea squirts visible = low tide!).  If the structure is floating, the encrusted population consistently enjoys a bit of sunlight and inundation…however they are never submerged far enough to be shielded from the poking beaks of egrets, herons and other sharp-faced birds that stalk the dock.

Fabio has noted that in many published tales about seafarers and those lost at sea, the human characters often end up deep in conversation with bird companions.  We are rarely without a faithful feathered friend (or several), monitoring the marina for food and resting spots.  We recently added a great birding book to our boat library (Thanks, Andy!), and our first unique sighting was a male Hooded Merganser that skulks around the Dataw Island Marina, where we are now. Not a bad start to our bird list!

We have noticed a big shift as we have moved south toward “soft edge”, or intact salt marsh and other wetlands behind or adjacent to the marina and other waterfront infrastructure.  Even in relatively urbanized downtown areas (these photos are from Charleston, SC at high and low tide) soft edge remains intact to provide dynamic life support and erosion control/storm protection to the waterfront users.

Whether through correlation or causation, Charleston also happened to be the most dolphin-active marina and anchorage we have experienced so far. We grew so accustomed to the characteristic sigh that accompanies a dolphin surfacing, that we stopped even pointing it out to each other.  I never thought I would see a day where a dolphin out the window was not remarkable!

I got this snapshot from my plankton friend Michael, taken with his phone. Not too shabby!

Attached is a photomicrograph of a diatom (Chaetoceros) from a Hudson River plankton tow, taken with my iPhone! Held it up against the ocular – takes a steady hand, and this was about my 5th try.

Mike