A few
summers ago, I was lucky enough to spend an afternoon at a friend’s seaside
summer home. The place is on a little Island, set back from the hustle and
strain of civilization where Mother Nature is largely left alone to do her
thing. It’s simply one of the most beautiful places on earth.
I sat
high and dry on a rock just below the house watching the splashing, swirling
waters below as the bay began to fill with the evening tide. There was another
shelf of rocks just below me, easily reached in low tide. Right now, beneath
the clear waves, I could see a purple star laid flat across the top of the
smooth boulder. I watched him for a while as the water above him grew ever
deeper, inch by inch. Then, as my eyes wandered, I realized he had a friend a
few inches away. And another. And another…Hey! There were starfish all over
this boulder! It’s kind of like that feeling when your eyes begin to get used
to the dark and you suddenly realize all that surrounds you that you couldn’t
see a second ago. I suddenly realized I stumbled across a colony of the little
guys!
And as
the subsequent years passed by, I began to believe that might very well be the
last star fish colony I ever laid my eyes on.
In the
last few years, scientists have been reporting startling and distressing
declines in the star fish populations in many areas. For my part, I went
several seaside vacations in a row without seeing a single, solitary star. Not
too long ago, scientists announced that their research had revealed a cause for
the depletion: disease. There was some sort of star fish illness running
rampant through the ocean world. It was a dreadful thing. It robbed them of
their signature “star” shape and turned them into an icky mess. Then they’d
simply decease. And they did so in droves.
So, with
broken heart, I began to think that the newest member of my family might
actually only know starfish in photos and the wistful tales we’ll tell her of
long ago summers spent in the bay at low tide examining the big purple mounds
of starry life crammed between the rocks.
I know
the disease is a huge part of it. But I wonder if something else is playing a
role? In the last several star-fish devoid summers, I’ve noticed that it seems
to be increasingly difficult to find any stretch of seashore that actually
resembles a seashore. It seems that it’s become increasingly difficult to find
any of those natural rock formations we used to scramble over so gleefully, not
to mention all the creatures, plant-life, and other treasured wonders that went
with them. Seashores seem to more often be lined with concrete sidewalks, metal
railings, and towering skyscrapers. In other places, it’s all smooth sand and
snack shacks for tourists. In all places, all manner of water craft plow and
roar through the harbors, churning up the water and leaving oil slicks and
trash in their wake. I had a bird’s eye view of one such harbor, not long ago,
and wondered if whales and seals had ever played down there. If so, they
certainly hadn’t been around for a long, long time. And might never be again.
Now, if bigger animals like that can’t stand the over-developed seashores
anymore, what about smaller guys like starfish and crabs? Is it possible that
whatever population is left has made for distant, unpopulated Islands where
they can get some peace and quiet? I wouldn’t blame them in the least. It just
kind of makes me sad that we won’t be seeing them around anymore.
And then,
this summer, a twinkling of hope! We were walking along one of these ridiculously
over-civilized concrete seashores, when I happened to peer over the railing. I
was pleased to see that, beneath the slightly murky water, there were still
some of the original boulders heaped up along the shore, giving you the vague
impression that this might be, in some way, the ocean. Then, there in the murk,
a starfish relaxing on the surface of one of the rocks! Yay! There are still
some around! I grabbed a picture, of course.
Then we
went into a nearby gift shop to see all the trinkets. We couldn’t have been in
there any more that 15 minutes or half an hour. When I came out, I just had to
have one more peek at the little guy, so I leaned over the fence again. Holy
cow! He was gone! Entirely! I had no idea they could move so fast! I’ve never
actually witnessed a starfish sprinting for the high seas. I’d kind of like to
see that sometime.
But was
he a loner? The last of his kind? A little further down the concrete path, I
found a whole family of the little guys speckling the surface of a big rock.
There
weren’t a tremendous amount. Just a few. But enough to give me hope that maybe,
one day, my little baby relative will be able to see them for herself.
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