Spring arrived somewhere in
the middle of my plover warden shift this morning. The
fog and overcast at 8:00 AM changed to bright sun by
11:00 AM. It's about time.
I'm at the north end of the beach.
The dunes look like a sand-eating giant took a bite out
of them. I can see the roots of the beach grass. There
isn't all that much beach between the wrack line and the
dunes right now either. By the way, a reader asked me
what I meant by wrack line so here you go: The "wrack
line" is that line of dried seaweed, marine vegetation
and other debris left on the beach by the action of the
tides. This is where all that dried salt marsh cord grass
that flowed seaward over the winter comes back to the
beach and eventually becomes part of the formation
process of new dunes. Some kinds of seaweed are called
wrack, also. Those would be the brownish ones (genus
Fucus I think). Anyway, there is plenty of wrack
piled up here today.
Having
read several reports, on massbird
and on Tom
Wetmore's PI sightings
page, of piping plovers foraging in the wrack on the
north beach I figured I was going to be lucky
again
and see the little invisi-birds on my first shift of the
season. Hah! Didn't see 'em. Didn't hear 'em. Had to take
their existence on faith.
What
I did find in the wrack was sort of surprising. From a
distance it kind of looked like a horseshoe crab shell --
one side of it and the tail sticking out from under a
thick pile of grasses - the way it curved and the shape
of the tail. When I got closer I realized it was a
mammal. It was a dead muskrat. It didn't smell yet,
probably preserved by the salt. I don't know how
long it had been dead. I just left it alone -- gave it a
wide berth. A seafaring muskrat?
Further
down the beach toward the closed area I found a plastic
sail from a toy boat nestled in the wrack. No boat, just
the sail. Fairly weathered. For some reason I picked it
up and shoved it in my jacket pocket. I guess even
toy boats are subject to the long history of shipwrecks
on Plum Island. PI used to be famous for shipwrecks back
in the 18th and 19th centuries. Celia Thaxter of
neighboring Appledore wrote one of her
first
poems about the wreck of the
Pocahontas in the big storm
of 1839, which also claimed the Richmond Packet (though
her crew and passengers survived unlike the Pocahontas)
and damaged boats in Newburyport Harbor. No, I'm not 166
years old (or more!) and remembering the storm of 1839
personally! Just about every web
site about famous lighthouses mentions that
storm. Besides, all New
Englanders have memories that go back generations before
they themselves were born. See what a toy plastic
sail in the wrack can get one thinking about?
A
seal keeps swimming back and forth just offshore. I
swear it's looking at me. It pokes its head up above the
waves and stares in toward shore every time it passes me.
A mini-flock of migrating kestrels passes overhead,
flying remarkably low. Low enough for me to see them
clearly without binoculars. An osprey comes in over
the dunes and checks out the prey possibilities in the
near shore waters. I watch it for awhile hoping to see it
catch a fish, but it doesn't catch anything while I'm
watching. The usual loon, grebe, cormorant, and gull
suspects are all checking out the fishing possibilities
too. Must be tough to be a fish.
By
the time the shift is over, the sky has totally cleared
and it's a glorious spring day. I haven't contacted
a single visitor or seen a single piping plover but the
time seems to have gone by quickly. My relief arrives and
I warn her not to step on the dead muskrat. I show her
the toy sail and she exclaims "The poor little sailors!"
That gives new meaning to the prayer: "Lord, my boat is
so small and Thy sea is so vast." :-) We both laugh at
the plight of the tiny plastic sailors in their tiny
plastic boat.
Then
it's off to meet Ned to celebrate my birthday with the
ritual greeting "It's my birthday and we're not in the
ER!" and the ritual reading of the rat part from Charles
St.John's Wild Sports and Natural History of the
Highlands. Yup, it's my birthday and we're not in the
ER.