The submersed eel grasses also looked stressed so she removed entire plants from the underwater support instead of just a sample. As an afterthought she strained and struggled until she’d hauled one of the three mushroom anchors that held the platform in place into the boat. She scooped a generous sample of the muck that coated the inside into a collection bottle. Perhaps there was some clue in the residual sediments. She stirred the mud to see what squirming life was present and was surprised to find the muck strangely dead.
The rest of her examination of the platform was routine. It showed no signs of drift from its position. The mesh was providing enough support for the array of life on the top, and the bags of oysters that hung from the floats appeared to be surviving. She had put a few of those in her collection bags as well. Since everything was in order she worked her way back to the boat, set it loose and headed back out into the river. If she was lucky she would beat the dark clouds that were even now making their appearance on the horizon and be on her way back before the storm hit.
“PCBs, asbestos, and quite a bit of metals—that’s what’s making your grass so yellow and killing the oysters,” Donald remarked dryly. “Got to notify the EPA on this one, Mary. This stuff is really dangerous!”
“How in the name of bloody hell can this stuff be getting into Candle Creek?” she said plaintively. “There’s no chemical factories around there. No heavy industry either.”
“Well, that’s not the only way these things get into the water. Lots of stuff contains these; industrial machinery, paints, antifreeze, cleaning solvents, just to name a few. I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t some farmer’s leaky drums stored away in a barn or some old stuff shoved into a culvert somewhere that’s doing the damage. But that’s not our problem. Let the environment boys track it down and handle it, that’s their job.”
Mary swore. “The EPA guys won’t be able to get to this for another year, what with their workload and small staff. We need to do something sooner.” To her mind this was the same as poisoning a city reservoir, only then just a few people were at risk, not an entire ecosystem. How could people be so stupid as not to realize what effects their actions had on the Bay? Damn, she was going to have to talk to Jim Shepherd about this, maybe he could spark some of his political contacts to take quicker action.
Jake had had a pleasant sail down the Bay in the crisp fall air. Sailing on the Bay was mostly a spring and fall affair when the breeze had some character and you didn’t have a problem filling your sails with wind. Midsummer was the doldrums, limp canvas and water like molasses. Man could lose twenty pounds sweating away an August afternoon, it was so bad. But this morning was perfect sailing weather. He’d been on a fifteen degree heel ever since leaving home.
After he exited the Chester he took a long tack across the Bay to the mouth of the Patapsaco, and then back past Middle River where he picked up a nice off-shore and high-tailed it due north past Banner Point. By the time he pulled into the harbor and walked up the slight grade to Es-ton night had already fallen. The diet of sandwiches and water that had sustained him through the long day had left him with a hunger for something more substantial, so he headed down Glochester to the Crabbin’ Inn where he knew he could get some good cream of crab soup and a nice crab-cake or two cheaply, it not being the type of place the tourists would likely visit. They could even provide a bit for Chessie, since they already knew her good manners and careful behavior wouldn’t create a problem.
Margaret and two of her boyfriends were gabbing at the bar when they entered and took a seat. After five minutes, where he was left twiddling his thumbs, Margaret finally came over, threw a menu down on the table, and stalked back to the bar. “Hey,” Jake called out. “What the hell did I do?” It wasn’t like her to act so unfriendly.
Pete Stovall turned around from the bar and gave him a withering stare. “Damn eco-pussy of yours decided to kill the town. We figure that stupid floating thing of yours is what done it to us.”
“I don’t understand. How could the float hurt the town?”
“Seems Miss Ever-so-proper decided that her precious water was more important than our jobs. They shut down the plant. Said it was an environmental hazard.” He raised his bottle of Thomas Point and saluted. “Here’s to your damned ecology, Jake.”
Margaret chimed in. “Lots of folks around here going to be hurt by this, Jake. Half the town was drawing income from the plant. And there ain’t enough fishing, farming, and crabbing work had to be had ’round here. I figure those that have some savings will move out, and the rest will go on welfare or something. And welfare folk don’t come ’round here for dinner, that’s for sure.”
Now that Jake knew that he realized what had struck him when he first entered. Usually the Crabbin’ was filled with a dozen or more locals having a meal or a snack, instead of just the three of them at the bar. Maybe he’d better find out more about this situation.
Margaret’s soup and crabcakes might have been their usual high quality, but eating them under the stares of the three at the bar made them practically tasteless. She’d not even offered to give the dog anything so Jake snuck her pieces of crab and most of the crackers under the table. He paid and left as quickly as he could. That night he and Chessie slept in the boat, under a tarp.
From what the mayor told Jake, the local situation was straightforward enough. The Eston plant had always been a marginal operation. Its two managers figured that, by spending little for maintenance, they could keep up an appearance of profitability, at least enough for their limited line, and keep the corporation from closing it down. Eventually the lack of attention to the physical plant resulted in rusting storage containers, leaking transformers, and decaying ceilings. The residue washed down the drains and into the creek, eventually finding its way to the Bay.
As soon as the corporation learned of the extent of the problem the plant had been closed. The only beneficial thing the corporation did was cap the drains and write a cleanup contract to CGI, washing their hands of all responsibility for what followed. Since nearly all of the workers were hourly wage rate there were no residual benefits, not even a health plan. The two managers were told in no uncertain terms not to seek transfers, or even further employment for that matter.
The town’s congressman and state senator had tried to find a solution, figuring that it was their help to the institute that had caused the problem, something they didn’t mention too loudly. Eston wasn’t on a main truck or rail route, didn’t have any natural resources to speak of, unless you wanted to corner the market on a poor grade of clay and sand, neither of which was in short supply in this eon. The pitiful excuse for a harbor allowed only a scant four feet of draft, making any hopes of attracting the tourist trade negligible. Most of the pleasure boating folk went to St. Michael’s or Cambridge anyhow. The local soil was suitable for corn and strawberries and made melons taste like the inside of someone’s commode. Even chicken ranching was out; Perdue had financed enough suppliers around the rest of the Shore that he didn’t need one more.
Fishing and crabbing were also poor sources of income. The local oyster crop hadn’t been good for years, and the clam market wasn’t worth digging for them. This part of the shore didn’t have enough estuaries or marshes to attract a large crab population. The few crab traps folks put out caught those heading up and down the Bay to more attractive waters and produced barely enough for a family’s feast.