Field Tripping

As per usual, the promise of salt water succeeds in reducing me to absolute nerd-dom as we careen through the suburban streets of Massachussets in an old yellow school bus. A pebbly beach and reams of algae await us at Nahant Marine Station, and despite the fact it’s a cloudy Saturday morning, I manage to prod my hung-over companion into compliance and step out onto the grass, waterproof clothing in tow.

It smells strong, salty, and not entirely pleasant. Enormous rocks covered in long green strands dot the shoreline and algae coats our path like a thick carpet. It is entirely possible (as demonstrated by yours truly) to find oneself ankle-deep in water all of a sudden – or worse, slipping with undeniable speed into a prostrate position, face-to-face with the barnacles.

The algae all look the same at first, but then, as I sketch and observe from a precarious perch, I start to notice little details. A bit of hairy purple pokes out at the bottom of a green patch; spongy air pockets decorate a few strands. A rubbery brown belt lies on the rocks, translucent, and the strands of another species resemble Matisse puzzle pieces linked together at the hinges. 

Photo by: Sofia Castello, Director of Photography 

I am only just beginning to understand that these variations can mean a world of difference; there are groups of algae more distantly related to each other than we are to sea sponges.

Water laps, transparent against pink- and green-encrusted rocks (also algae). The distinction water makes is a clear one in this half-in half-out environment, where dark rocks mark the waterline several meters above and behind our heads.

Photo by: Sofia Castello, Director of Photography 

Three dead starfish are littered, in a line, on a rock in the weak sunlight. Why a seagull hasn’t eaten them yet – it dispensed with a crab earlier, as evidenced by the scattered pieces I found in another location accompanied by a little dribble of bird poo – is beyond me.

Hermit crabs scuttle around in a puddle – one, two, five, eight – and little black snails adorn almost every surface. A rusty red sponge hides under a rock, and algae with iridescent blue tips nestle underwater, losing all shimmer when they are yanked out into the air because their coloration depends on the refraction of light that occurs in the water.

A fellow student, who seems to peek in all the right places, suddenly discovers a dusky brown starfish with rough white spikes alive in the shallows. His triumphant crows trigger an unsteady mass migration over the rocks, and after much fondling the starfish is placed in a bright yellow bucket. There it lies, curling one of its arms so it looks like it might be missing the end of a limb, with limpets, mussels and hermit crabs. It is surprisingly mobile when it wants to be, delicately lifting one arm at a time and hoisting itself over to deeper water in pursuit of a snail.

As someone pulls it out and brings it to rest on their fingers, fat little tube feet emerge, waving in the air but seeking substrate and sensation.

I conduct a desperate search for an anemone, climbing up to the furthest puddles and going as deep into the water as my wellies will allow, but I encounter little success. I have seen them underwater, waving their tentacles and never far away from little Nemo’s, but someone recently told me that poking one on land makes it eject a stream of water. Not that one should ever poke an anemone – it seems cruel to make it eject its insides – but I am curious nonetheless. 

Photo By: Sofia Castello, Director of Photography 

On one of my slippery hikes I come upon a rocky tide pool, where little shrimp, not a centimeter long, dart about several meters above the current shoreline. Up the tide will come, and sweep them away from prying hands that try and sieve them out of the water.

A snail is crushed under my sliding foot. Someone pokes and prods the sponge is into pieces, examining them in her palm, and a mussel’s shell gets cracked in an attempt to get a better look.

 Clambering back over the rocks, we are gone; in our footsteps lies wreckage which will soon be repaired.