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an off-road trek along the Gulf of Mexico in southernmost
Texas, Aaron Reed encounters many memories and a mystery.
The memories are familiar -- fishing with his grandparents,
nursing the injuries of a misspent youth -- but what is
that orange stuff out in the water? |
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With
proper supervision, kids enjoy exploring Padre
Island -- especially during warmer months. Longshore
currents and undertows beyond the first sandbar
can be dangerous, though, particularly for children
or anyone who is not a strong swimmer. No lifeguards
on duty here. |
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Pollution?
Paint in the water? An algal bloom? This orange
surf flummoxed us on the way down to the Mansfield
Channel. |
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A
confluence of currents on the lower end of the
island bring the Gulf's trash to Texas shores.
It's a problem first noted by Spanish explorers
in the 16th century, and one combatted today by
stricter offshore dumping laws and regular volunteer
beach cleanups. |
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The
interplay of surf and sand and light at the southern
end of the island can be sublime. |
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The
author enjoys the sunset with a tired and happy
hound dog. |
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Noctiluca
scintillans -- also called "seasparkle"
-- is a bioluminescent dinoflagellate. It caused
both the orange surf we saw on the drive down
and this incredible light show in the water after
dark. |
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[Continued from page
1]
The southern tip of the island
We continue down the beach, finally reaching
the Mansfield Channel jetties. The channel, also called "East
Cut" locally, was dredged in the 1950s. It cut Padre
Island in two and created South Padre Island, best known as
a college Spring Break destination. The Mansfield dredges
also dug right through the submerged wreck of the Santa María
de Yciar, one of three Spanish ships that sank in a fierce
storm here in 1554.
Perhaps as many as 300 mariners and passengers
survived the storm. A small contingent of skilled sailors
set sail for Veracruz in a small boat to notify officials
and organize a salvage party. The rest set out on foot, heading
south for settlements in what is now northern Mexico. The
trek toward civilization turned into a death march as the
survivors confronted hostile natives and an equally hostile
environment. Only one, Fray Marcos de Mena, made it to Panuco.
A salvage expedition was already in the works,
and the Spaniards recovered about half the cargo from the
three ships. More than 400 years later, a private salvage
company based in Indiana got some of the rest of the cargo
before having it wrested away by the state of Texas. Many
of the artifacts - including gold bullion and silver coins
-- are now on display at the Corpus
Christi Museum of Science and History, along with an account
of the doomed voyage. Sand-encrusted coins still sometimes
wash up on the shore here, especially after storms. It is
illegal to remove such artifacts from the park, but I can
say from experience that the mere possibility of finding a
genuine Spanish real is a powerful stimulant to a young
boy's mind.
Today there are no coins. Tamara and I cast our
lures from the rocks of the north jetty, but fishing is slow,
so we follow a trail through the dunes and marvel at the blooming
wildflowers: Indian blanket (gaillardia) and sunflowers and
Texas lantana, varieties that farther north in the state have
packed it in for the winter.
A couple of trucks pull up at the end of the
beach -- one fellow is driving a two-wheel-drive pickup, the
other a four-wheel-drive truck -- just in case, I guess.
"How'd y'all get that little car down here?"
the four-wheel-drive occupant asks us as he stares at Tamara's
Subaru Baja in amazement.
I couldn't resist: "We drove it."
More mysterious still
I climb a sand dune and call my brother to update
him on our progress. I know from previous visits that the
high ground at the end of the island is the only place one
can reliably make or receive a mobile call. Cell towers in
the fishing village of Port Mansfield, about 10 miles across
the bay to the west, are just close enough to provide service.
"Listen, we're going to try to get through
the bad area before high tide," I tell John. "If
you don't hear from us by 10:30 or 11, we'll be stuck somewhere
between the 15- and 25-mile markers."
I tell him about the weird orange stuff in the
surf.
John is our safety net. Sailors and paddlers
file "float plans." We had filed a "drive plan,"
and knew we could rely on John to come pull us out with his
big four-wheel-drive truck if we got stuck.
Heading north now, I'm driving faster, trying
to beat the high tide. Winter tides, especially when there
are three or four in a day, are not particularly large, but
still ….
It's dark now, and - again - Tamara is the first
to see it.
"Are those waves glowing?" she asks.
I answer with all the confidence of my experience
on the island: "I'm pretty sure it's just the moonlight."
But I slow the car, and then -- just ahead --
I see an explosion of intense blue light in the surf. It fans
out like lightning: a fierce, liquid line racing across the
face of a breaking wave, subsiding into a neon glow as the
wave foams up on an offshore sandbar.
There: another. And another. I am transfixed.
The surf is popping with lights. It's like a Fourth of July
fireworks show. It's like an approaching thunderstorm. It's
like …. nothing I've ever seen before.
"Lights crackle, waves crash," Tamara
says, under her breath.
It is an achingly beautiful sight.
We get back into the car and drive slowly north,
looking for a place to tuck the vehicle into a fold in the
dune line and perhaps build a driftwood fire and continue
to watch the show.
Headlights appear in the north. Something big,
moving fast, jouncing across the uneven beach. We pass, and
the other vehicle slews around in a spray of sand and pulls
alongside. I glance over, concerned, and see my sister-in-law
waving from the passenger window.
"John got off early," she shouts over
the sound of the waves. We pull up next to the water and attempt
to photograph the amazing light show.
With night, temperatures have plunged into the
40s. We huddle behind Tamara's car, watching in silence as
the minutes stretch into half an hour or more.
My brother turns toward me.
"This," he says softly, "was worth
the trip down here all by itself."
Postcript: I was convinced that the orange,
paint-like stuff we saw in the surf on the way down was unrelated
to the bioluminescence we saw after dark heading north. Tamara
… not so much. Intrepid and clever girl that she is,
she Googled "orange surf and bioluminescence" and
came up with something called noctiluca
scintillans.
I later confirmed with a Texas Parks and Wildlife
Department biologist that water samples in the area were indeed
showing concentrations of the harmless, plankton-eating dinoflagellate.
Turns out that beachgoers up and down the Texas coast in January
2008 were getting a rare treat as the organisms gorged and
reproduced in calm, near-shore waters.
Aaron
Reed
February 1, 2008
