Ford threw down the pencil he was holding. "Concentrate, damn it!" Talking to himself, trying to get his mind back on the project at hand. "You're acting like some moon-eyed adolescent. Get to work!"
He pulled a yellow legal pad to him and wrote: "Reversing the Effects of Turbidity and Nutrient Pollution on Brackish Water Littoral Zones."
There, he was started.
He wanted to demonstrate the impact of murky water on sea-grass beds and, hopefully, find out for himself just what effect the siphoning animals-sponges, sea squirts, and tunicates-had on murky water. That's why he had built the sea mobiles. That's why he had set them out in the bay to attract the kind of growth that boaters and dock builders despised.
He touched the pencil to his tongue, then wrote:
It is generally accepted that there has been a decrease in the population of finny fishes in the coastal waters of Florida. It is also generally accepted that the growing pressure of commercial fishing and sportfishing have had an injurious impact on the fishery. In Florida, for instance, more than 40,000 commercial fishermen and more than 5 million sportfishermen access the resource annually.
Ford stopped and reread what he had written. He would have to footnote the statistics, but the sources were from his own library and he could look them up later. And he didn't like the word injurious-to him it implied a sentimental, or at least a sympathetic, interpretation of an observation. He struck a line through it, replaced it with adverse, then continued:
However, it is the purpose of this paper to demonstrate that gradual changes in the water quality- i.e., increased turbidity from loss of ground root structure, and the increase of nutrient pollution from sources generally thought to be benign-i.e., the fertilization of lawns and golf courses-play an equal, if not greater, role in the reduction of the population of finny fishes in shallow water zones.
He stopped again. Jesus, he was beating around the bush. What he wanted to say was that Florida's coastal regions had lost more than half of their sea-grass beds because of fouled water. Hundreds of thousands of acres of sea meadow gone because there was too much phosphate and fertilizer from too many mine pits and developments draining daily into the estuaries. The fertilizer caused phytoplankton to bloom wildly. Saturated with the microscopic algae, the once-clear bays turned a murky, milky green. The murkier the water got, the more grass beds that died because sunlight couldn't get through the murk. No sunlight, no grass. That simple. When the grass died, the shrimps and crabs disappeared. So did the fish. So did the sponges, the tunicates, and the sea squirts that filtered the water and had once ensured that it would remain clear.
There were other factors, of course. Fluctuating salinity-many saltwater fish couldn't tolerate that. By building the Tamiami Trail, by digging the Buttonwood Canal through to Florida Bay, by dyking Lake Okeechobee, just to name a few, the state and federal governments had inexorably altered the flow of water through the Everglades. Then the state biologists, who were notoriously shortsighted, brought in an exotic tree called the melaleuca because it was a fiend for water and they felt it would help drain breeding areas for mosquitoes. But melaleuca trees were also fiends for reproduction, and even fire wouldn't destroy them. Now the melaleuca-just as the exotic kudzu had in Georgia-was taking over the Everglades. Out of control, it competed with other exotics like Brazilian pepper and casuarina trees to sap the land dry.
Oh, there were many other factors. But Ford had settled upon the question of turbidity because it was so seldom considered.
In his paper, he wanted to demonstrate that it was a terrible, destructive cycle. No, not a cycle, because that implied a return to course. It was more like a cancer. It just kept getting worse and worse. In the meantime, the sportfishermen blamed the commercial fishermen. The commercial fishermen blamed the sportfishermen. A passionate argument requires that issues be black and white, a straight path of cause and effect. Too few could look beyond the logged weight of fish corpses to see what the real problem was. Even fewer wanted to understand, because to acknowledge the real problem was also to acknowledge that banning cottage-industry netting was not a solution, only a delay. And the water just kept getting murkier, suffering gradual and insidious changes not only in turbidity but salinity, as well.
It all came down to water…
Ford began to write again, but his pencil tip broke. He spent five minutes sharpening it, using a lab scalpel to get it just right. When the point broke again, he stood and threw the pencil across the room.
"You're not getting any work done at all!" Reprimanding himself, but unaware that he had spoken aloud, just as he was not aware that he sometimes spoke aloud to the fish in his big tank. "You're farting around, wasting time."
Yeah, and that troubled him. Ford hated interruptions in his workday. Now he was the interruption-his imagination, anyway. Which was frustrating as hell, frustrating to the point where he felt like banging into the wall a few times, like the horseshoe crabs he kept out in his big tank. Maybe that might clear his head a little bit.
It's her, that's the problem. The woman out there on her boat.
Finally, he gave up. He put his notebook and pencil away, then carried the buckets outside so he could return the sea mobiles to the bay. As he lugged the buckets, he thought to himself: By definition, she's your neighbor, and neighbors are supposed to be friendly. So just go out there and introduce yourself.
Oh sure. Had he gone out and introduced himself to Ralph and Esperanza Woodring, who lived out on the point? Nope. It had taken him a year to meet them. Had he gone over and introduced himself to Tomlinson, who was anchored just across the channel? Nope. They'd finally met at the marina, both in to buy cold quarts of beer.
"You're not only acting like an adolescent, Ford, now you're lying to yourself." Talking again as he returned to his cabin and began to change into a fresh knit shirt and khaki sailcloth shorts. Thinking, What's happened is, you've created a fictional personality for a woman. You want to meet that woman because you hope she might be just a little bit like you want her to be. But you're afraid, too, because she may be a disappointment, plus you might make an ass of yourself, going out there uninvited.
Ford sat on his cot and began to put on clean socks. You pride yourself on honesty, so at least try to be honest with yourself. You have no interest in welcoming a new neighbor. You're lonely. Hell yes, admit it-you're lonely living out here by yourself.
He was putting on talcum powder, thinking about it all. At least trying to put on talcum powder-he couldn't find the damn stuff. Ford was hunting around, moving things on tables. He found a box of baking soda. Well, maybe he didn't have any talcum powder. So he looked for cologne, but all he could find was a bottle of vanilla extract that he used in eggnog at Christmas.
"Goddamn it, what the hell kind of bachelor am I? No talcum powder, no cologne. No wonder I live alone."
Might as well be a hermit, like Tomlinson said. Hesitating over the box of baking soda, he poured a little into his palm, sprinkled in a few dashes of vanilla extract, and mixed it between his palms. I used to get invited places. Key West for Hemingway Days. To Greek Epiphany Day at Tarpon Springs: the sponge diver thing.
The Gasparilla Festival at Tampa. All sorts of places, and I always said no.
He patted the baking soda beneath his shirt and around. Homemade talcum powder. Pathetic!