Washed Up

by Skye Moody

  Fear of Geekism

  You’ve seen them on the beach. Usually they are large men with generous beer bellies, their Popeye forearms sunburned, their feet encased in knee-high rubber boots. Such a man wears headphones and a baseball cap, and in one hand he carries a shovel and pail while the other hand grips an object that resembles an alien’s vacuum cleaner, and he sweeps it over the sand at the tide’s edge as he follows the strandline in a slow, methodical gait. Occasionally he pauses and cocks his head. The alien vacuum cleaner concentrates on one spot for a while, then he sits on his haunches as he homes in on a small patch of beach.

  Meanwhile, strandliners passing him gawk and sneer. Geekism personified, the beachfront bounty hunter hears not their jeers and derisive jokes; all he hears is silence interspersed with a series of intermittent tones, some high, loud and insistent, others low, sonorous and occasional. Finally the shovel comes out of the pail and the bounty hunter starts digging. Most folks are mortified for him and so they turn their heads as if he were relieving himself in the sand; he embarrasses the heck out of them, but they can’t say why.

  It’s just that he looks so ... geeky.

  When I ordered my Bounty Hunter Scout Metal Detector, I had visions of my husband, or a friend, accompanying me to the beach. Fat chance. Apparently I know no one willing to risk his or her reputation being seen on the beach with a metal detector person. I called everyone I knew, even my own siblings, to no avail. You’d think I was planning to streak the beach—no one agreed to join me. When I say no one, this includes my editor, who, when I told him I needed someone to come along and photograph me actually operating a metal detector, said, “I don’t blame your husband for turning you down. I wouldn’t do it either.”

  And so my Bounty Hunter Scout arrived. On the next low tide, I disguised myself beneath bulky clothing, hat, and sunglasses and hit the beach, Scout in hand. Instantly my neighbor’s two sons, ages five and seven, recognized me.

  “Oh cool,” said Jack. “Let’s go treasure hunting.” I should have thought of this before—kids have no inhibitions, and they’re willing to give geeks a chance.

  Headphones in place, the Scout’s dials turned up full blast, I moved along as the instruction manual suggests, slowly sweeping the alien vacuum cleaner across the beach. The boys, Jack and Max, scampered beside me. Nothing happened for a while, and then, “Screeeech!” I turned down the Scout’s volume and began digging where the metal detector had indicated buried treasure. You’ve got to be patient; kids aren’t known for long attention spans. After watching me dig for ten minutes, Jack and Max, to my extreme mortification, outed me to their approaching father and, adding insult to injury, deserted me to go off with their dad for hot chocolates. Who could blame them?

  Alone now, digging in the sand as numerous strandliners walked by and gawked, I became acutely aware of a woman watching me. I placed my cell phone to my ear and pretended to be having a conversation, as if this made me look more normal. I could literally feel the strandliners’ sneers and, turning my back, kept digging. Ah, here it is. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the metal object is ... what? I believe it’s a rusted arrowhead from the Iron Age. That or a section of rusted drainpipe. Yep, drainpipe metal. But the Scout worked, and I was motivated. Three hours, forty sneers, and fifteen holes later, I came home with the faux Iron Age arrowhead, three rusty nails, a rusted Corona beer bottle cap, an electrical fitting of some sort, a rusted wheel, perhaps off a chair or stool, a rusted ring missing its diamond, and an unidentifiable blob of deeply pitted, rusty metal.

  Originally I had intended to use the metal detector once and then ditch it. Poring over my meager first-dig treasures, though, I asked myself, “Was it worth all the scorn and ridicule?” Surprisingly, the answer was, “Yes, indeed.” I hadn’t had this much fun since I was five years old trying to dig a hole in the beach from here to China. Now whenever I go metal detecting for beach treasure, I still go disguised, and with a cell phone to symbolize conformity, but in my chest burns a smug satisfaction, for one day I will surely strike gold.

  The epiphany shouldn’t have surprised me. I suppose my psychiatrist had known it all along. I believe it hit me around the third or fourth time out with the metal detector. I was wearing my wet suit, wading knee-deep along the tide line, the Scout hovering just above the water’s surface. If anyone was sneering, I didn’t hear it. I was wearing a set of Bose headphones, listening for the low beep that signaled gold. Instead, I heard a voice, maybe my own, recite as if from a news banner, “Oddball Discovers True Calling as Flotsamist.”

  He’s everywhere. Nixon in Japan.

  There it was. The answer to Curious Question number two: WasIamere beachcomber or a genuine flotsamist? I couldn’t wait to tell the world. My husband. My psychiatrist. Like a child taking a first step, or a Scientologist reaching Full Clear, as if a rogue wave’s fetch had swept me up in its cleansing maw and deposited a reborn me on the tide line, I wanted to shout above the roaring sea, “I am a true blue flotsamist.” The answer to Curious Question number one, regarding the mysterious floating stone, would soon follow, or so I thought.

  Metal detecting is a popular hobby around the world. Germany makes the most sophisticated metal detectors for beachcombers.

  Strandings

  Strandings—what an interesting word. A beach or shoreline is also called a strand, and so it makes sense to say a whale washed ashore has been stranded. Boats are stranded, people are stranded, anything washing ashore is stranded. Flotsam discovered on beaches has been stranded by an ebbing tide. A tax some coastal communities levy on fish or other washed-up commodities is known as strandage. According to international maritime law, whoever finds flotsam on the high seas or washed up on beaches may take rightful ownership unless the flotsam is clearly marked as property of a government, or unless its previous owner can prove rightful possession.

  I’m wondering if I should try to locate that Japanese boy whose pink plastic airplane propeller I found washed up. And then it dawns. As gently as my forehead clears of lines, a slow chill travels from a sprung brain gate down along my spine, where it comes to rest in the pit of my stomach.

  Pit. Peach pit on steroids. I dive for Ed Perry’s book on drifting seedpods. I thumb through it, then skim, then go page by page. Not there. Ah well, sometimes you just have to let go of your flotsam dreams. Eventually I removed the pictures of the strange floating stone from my bathroom mirror, from my car’s dash, from my desk. But I never forgot it, and to honor its place in my flotsaming life, I made a screensaver of the picture and moved on as flotsamists will, to seeking new treasure on the tides.

  One day near summer’s end I plucked a book on Hawaiian plants from the shelf and leafed through it. I’d been considering paring down my library and this seemed a good place to start. I mean, come on, why did I need a book on Hawaiian garden plants? And there it was.

  Stared me right in the face. My beach stone. An exact replica. The plant’s name: Hawaiian country apricot. A cold thrill embraced me. Could it be? Was it possible? Well, it had happened. I had proof, of sorts. A photograph of the floating stone on beach gravel—not Hawaiian sand. But would anyone believe me? Would they think I’d gone to the Hawaiian countryside and picked up a country apricot seed, brought it home, and placed it on my own beach? I know someone who travels the world’s beaches and places non-native stones everywhere, just for the fun of confusing folks. Had someone done this to me? No, indeed. The stone I found had washed up.

  I’ll keep on searching for it, mentally castigating myself for leaving the flotsam treasure of a lifetime on the beach where I’d found it, after it had traveled, at the very least, according to the calculations of the late Amos Wood, from Hawaii, for seven years via the Kuroshio Current some eleven thousand miles in circular Pacific Ocean currents, before washing up on Alki Beach, where I had fondled and wondered over it before recklessly tossing it into the water, where the next tide carried it back out to sea, or with luck, on a circuitous journey around P
uget Sound. And so all you fellow flotsamists and beachcombers, please take note: Dibs, I saw it first, and I’ve got the picture to prove it. If that isn’t enough, I’ll swap out my metal detector for that marvelous floating stone.

  See why this Hawaiian apricot seed was mistaken for a floating rock?

  So my psychiatrist said, “Now maybe you’ll settle down and face your real demons. Get over this.”

  “What? Just because I’ve finally discovered a globally thriving social group into which I may comfortably fit? Just because I’ve figured out that I’m as geeky and obsessed as other flotsamists? Hey, doc, I’ve dumped my demons. Traded them in for a house full of flotsam. Ever since I discovered the origin of the floating stone, I’m cured.”

  Imagine a psychiatrist rolling his eyes. He said, “You think this, um, Hawaiian country apricot seed is worth anything?”

  “Hey, I’m a flotsamist,” I said. “I’d pay at least twice what I pay you every year for that lost treasure.”

  “So you’d know this Hawaiian apricot seed when you see it?”

  “Oops,” I said, “time’s up. And according to my tide tables, I have twenty minutes to reach the beach before the tide turns. After that storm last night, I can’t wait to see what washes up.”

  “Hold on,” said the shrink. “I’ll get my coat.”

  Acknowledgments

  The following individuals provided valuable information, contacts, and anecdotes, for which I am most grateful. None, however, is responsible for any errors and/or omissions inadvertently perpetrated in this book; for these, I shoulder full responsibility and invite all naysayers to bend my ear if you can find me on the beach.

  Thanks to: Professor Tadashi Ishii, Fukuoka, Japan; Captain Charles Moore and crew of the research vessel Alguita; Robert Steelquist, education and outreach coordinator, Olympic Coast National Marine Sanctuary, NOAA; Neil and Kathleen Robbins, Newport, Oregon; oceanographers W. James Ingraham, PhD, and Curtis C. Ebbesmeyer, PhD, Washington state; reporter Luann Swanson, Tillamook Headlight-Herald, Tillamook, Oregon; Bill DeSousa and the Cape Cod Chambers of Commerce; artist Joan Lederman, Woodshole, Massachusetts; R. Hoarau, Mt. Kenya Safari Club, Nanyuki, Kenya; Datom Margishvili, Tblisi, Georgia; Jukka Petaja and Alpo Suhonen, Helsinki, Finland; Gregory Smith, San Clemente, California; Wakako Otake, Tokyo, Japan, sister, reader, and keen critic, Elizabeth M. Speten, the forgotten lascars of the world; copy editor Don Graydon—a miracle worker; Dana Youlin, Kurt Stephan, Liza Brice-Dahmen, Austin Walters, and all the Sasquatch staff; and, most importantly, special thanks to editor Gary Luke, who, in spite of refusing to be seen on a public beach with me and my metal detector, nevertheless smiled when I first mentioned flotsam, and kept smiling as he yanked the proverbial pencil from my graspy fingers.

  I am especially grateful to my husband and fellow writer, G. M. Ford, my lighthouse and beacon.

  Suggested Reading: Books on Flotsam and Related Subjects

  “A Rare Species of Ambergris.” Parfumes Cosmetiques Actualites 175 (Feb/Mar 2004), p. 28.

  Awano, K., S. Ishizanki, O. Takazawa, and T. Kithara T. “Analysis of Ambergris Tincture.” Flav & Frag Journal, 20 (2005), pp. 18-21.

  Burfield, Tony. Natural Aromatic Materials—Odours and Origins. Tampa: Atlantic Institute of Aromatherapy, 2000.

  The Columbia Encyclopedia. New York: Columbia University Press, 2005.

  Dennis, John V., and Charles R. Gunn. World Guide to Tropical Drift Seed and Fruit. New York: Quadrangle/The New York Times Book Co., 1976.

  DeWire, Elinor. “Mooncussers.” The Compass 3 (1989).

  Ebbesmeyer, Curtis C. Beachcombers Alert! Seattle: Published by Curtis C. Ebbesmeyer, quarterly.

  Felter, Harvey Wickes, and John Lloyd. King’s American Dispensatory. Cincinnati: Ohio Valley Co., 1898.

  Ford, Peter. “Drifting Rubber Duckies Chart Oceans of Plastic.” Christian Science Monitor, July 31, 2003.

  Green, Alan A. Jottings From a Cruise. Seattle: Kelly, 1944.

  Guppy, H. B. (1917) Plants, Seeds and Currents in the West Indies and the Azores. London: Williams and Norgate, 1917.

  Ishii, Tadashi. Encyclopedia of Flotsam: Encyclopedia-shinpen hyouchakubutsu gitenn. 2nd edition. Tokyo: Kaichousha Co., 2002.

  Jebens, Holger, ed. Cargo, Cult & Culture Critique. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2004.

  Johnson, Captain Charles. A General History of the Robberies & Murders of the Most Notorious Pirates. New York: The Lyons Press, 1998.

  Kinder, Gary. Ship of Gold, In the Deep Blue Sea. New York: Vintage, 1998.

  Le Galliene, R. The Romance of Perfume. New York: Richard Hudnut, 1928.

  Menard, Wilmond. “Neptune’s Sea-Mail Service.” Sea Frontiers 26:6 (Nov/Dec 1980).

  Moody, Skye [Kathy Kahn]. Fruits of Our Labor. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1982.

  Moore, Charles. “Trashed: Across the Pacific Ocean, Plastics, Plastics, Everywhere.” Natural History Magazine, vol. 112, no. 9, Nov 2003.

  Moore, Ellen J. Fossil Shells From Western Oregon. Corvallis, OR: Chimtimini Press, 2000.

  Morgan, Curtis. “LEGOs and Other Floating Flotsam.” Miami Herald, May 17, 1998.

  Mugurevics, E. Viking Age and Medieval Finds of East Baltic Amber in Latvia and the Neighbouring Countries (9th-16th Century). Riga: Amber in Archaeology, 2003.

  Out in the Pacific, Plastic is Getting Drastic (ship log of Capt. Charles Moore, aboard oceanographic research vessel Alguita, October 22, 2002). www.mindfully.org/Plastic/.

  Perry, Ed. and John V. Dennis. Sea-Beans from the Tropics. Malabar, FL: Krieger, 2003.

  Petitdidier J.P. “Fixeurs Animaux: L’ambre, le castoreum, la civetter, le musc.” Parfums, Cosmétiques, Arômes 90 (Dec 1989/Jan 1990), pp. 79-82.

  Pich, Walt. Beachcombers Guide to the Northwest: California to Alaska. Ocean Shores, WA: 1997.

  Pich, Walt. Glass Ball. Ocean Shores, WA, 2004.

  Steinem, Gloria. The Beach Book. New York: The Viking Press, 1963.

  Synthetic Sea: Plastics in the Open Ocean (a film produced by MacDonald Productions/Mindfully.org). Long Beach, CA: Algalita Marine Research Foundation, CA, 2001.

  Tennessen, J.N., and A.O. Johnsen. The History of Modern Whaling. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982.

  Webber, Bert and Maggie Webber. I’d Rather be Beachcombing. Medford, OR: Webb Research Group, 1993.

  Wood, Amos L. Beachcombing for Japanese Glass Floats. Portland, OR: Binfords & Mort, Portland, 1967.

  Wood, Amos L. Beachcombing the Pacific. West Chester, PA: Schiffer Publishing Ltd., 1987.

  Web Resources

  Algalita Foundation: www.algalita.org

  American Meteorological Society: www.ams.allenpress.com

  CargoLaw, Law Offices of Countryman & McDaniel: www.cargolaw.com

  DiscoverSea Shipwreck Museum of Fenwick Island, Delaware: www.discoversea.com

  Dr. C’s Remarkable Ocean World: www.oceansonline.com

  The Infamous Exploding Whale: www.perp.com

  International Colored Gemstone Association: www.Gemstone.org

  International Movie Database (IMDb): www.imdb.com

  International Sea-Bean Symposium: www.seabean.com

  Irish Seaweeds: www.irishseaweeds.com

  Tadashi Ishii’s official Web site of “What the Ocean Brought”: www.polepoleto.com/boboforest/home/t-isii/1.html

  Kellyco Metal Detector Superstore: www.kellycodetectors.com

  Maritime and Jutters Museum of Texel, The Netherlands: www.texelsmaritiem.nl

  Captain Charles Moore: www.alguita.com

  National Oceanic & Atmospheric Administration: www.noaa.gov

  Rice University Forum: www.ruf.rice.edu