As we came down the coast, Fabio and I stopped in a wide variety of places – abandoned marinas, sleepy fishing towns, booming coastal metropoli. Each place was unique, but all had their fair share of drama.  Because I am naturally nebby, I would join in on local chatter, often extending touristic pleasantries into full-blown gossip. It’s a victimless crime, right?

One of my favorite hot-button coastal topics has been the charismatic Carolina Jelly Ball.  During our time loitering around St. Helena’s Island, the first of the Sea Island we explored, we learned of a local debate over a growing industry centered on this abundant and edible jellyfish that is gaining popularity in Asia.

The Carolina Jelly Ball is actually a cannonball jellyfish (Stomolophus meleagris), “a species of jellyfish in the family Stomolophidae. Its common name derives from its similarity to a cannonball in shape and size. Its dome-shaped bell can reach 25 cm (10 inches) in diameter and the rim is sometimes colored with brown pigment. Underneath of the body is a cluster of oral arms that extend out around the mouth. These arms function as a way of propulsion and aid in catching prey.” (Wikipedia)

Sounds delicious!

The drama arose over the siting and proposed expansion of a processing facility for the jellies on St. Helena, a pretty rural island where process water is necessarily discharged directly to a local creek.  Last week, the heath department in Beaufort County, SC held a public meeting that explored the issue, detailing what is known about the effluent, as well as the “natural toxins” that are secreted by stressed-out jellies. It’s no grand assumption that the jellies are stressed when they are being processed into a food product.

This topic  stuck with me as Fabio and I paid homage to each regional cuisine we encountered north to south, starting out in sea scallop country, then on to blue crab bisque, then flounder central, followed by fried oysters, and now shrimp as far as the eye can see. Today, for example we are going to a crawfish parade.  Could it be that future coastal southerners could be celebrating “Blob and Bluegrass Festivals” or “Blessing of the Jellies” ceremonies?

It might be hard to imagine this level of assimilation, but apparently change is already here.  During the public meeting, another jelly ball processor was highlighted as a “best practice”.  A local shrimper in Darien, Georgia has built a successful export model with the new jellyfish product, and operates within a municipal sewer service area.  The effluent from processing therefore enters the town’s treatment works, and everyone seems to be pretty satisfied with the arrangement.

Of course I am not going to rely just on Internet scavenging for the complete picture.  That’s plain irresponsible!  This calls for a field trip.

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.

This past month, Fabio and I have come far in our little boat.  It will take a long time for me to post here all of the things I have jotted down. This was one special moment entering Okracoke, an island of the Outer Banks in North Carolina. We arrived near sunset, and crossed a seabird superhighway. Fabio was doing his best to keep us on course as I scrambled around on deck with the camera. It was a bit of a come-to-Jesus moment, so here we are.

We miss being in NYC/Italy this time of year.  I miss Hanukkamas with Otto, Nicky and Sarah Bruner, window lights on Leonard St., trimming the nondenominational yet festive winter tree aka Geraldo Tree (RIP) in McCarren Park, walking through the overpriced pines-for-sale on city sidewalks, and the relative calm of the city between school semesters when the dynamic shifts towards that hardy year-round island resident feeling. Fabio misses his parents and friends, Mamma’s pumpkin ravioli, harassing his sister, playing with Meli… and a million other things.

We are happy with what we’re doing. Overjoyed, really.  But we miss you.