WhaleQuest!

by Matt Musson

  “What are you going to do with the whelks?” Toby asked.

  “I have not decided yet. Maybe Scungilli Pomodoro or perhaps a Bahamian Conch Salad.”

  “You're going to eat them?” Pam asked incredulously.

  “No,” Donnie replied. ”We're going to eat them.”

  Then Donnie removed his diving mask and switched back into his Ray bans.

  ************

  Dinner that evening was a lot of fun. Oh, I guess it was also tasted pretty good, too.

  All this time in the salt air helped sharpen our appetites to a razor edge. But, mostly it was fun, because we got to use the rusty old Weber grill and cook our own hamburgers and hotdogs while we watched Donnie and Pam go at it.

  Shad was feeling much better. He was sat at the wooden picnic tables with us and swapped jokes. Meanwhile, the rest of the gang manned the Bar-B-Q grill.

  Our homemade results varied widely. Some items came off the grill half cooked and cold in the center while others came out crunchy carbonized chunks. But, most stuff came off the trusty old Weber flame kissed and surprisingly tasty.

  Miss Mynah provided side dishes of potato salad, baked beans and a delicious homemade banana pudding filled with vanilla wafers and topped with tiny marshmallows. She also made a special baked potato just for Shad and his still sensitive stomach.

  But, the hit of the evening was the Bahamian conch salad Donnie put together using the fresh Whelks.

  With a very sharp knife, some rubber gloves, newspaper and a screwdriver, Donnie removed the whelks from their shells. After watching the process closely, I learned one thing. The best way to clean a batch of whelks is to have someone else clean them for you!

  However, in no time Donnie had the creatures out of the shell and into a large stainless steel bowl where he rinsed and rinsed them, attempting to remove any lingering sand or shell bits.

  Next he took a sharp knife and cut away the big white muscled ‘foot' from the innards. Discarding the unidentifiable pieces, he sliced the feet into quarter inch strips and then into smaller chunks.

  Donnie added the chunked whelk to chopped red onion, fresh tomato, avocado, garlic, salt, cilantro, a little jalapeno, a dash of EVO and plenty of lime juice. He stirred this concoction together and let it marinate and chill for an hour in the refrigerator.

  When the salad was ready, Donnie brought it out with a flourish – and a bag of chips.

  Of course, we all tried the whelk just to prove we were macho guys. But, we were surprised to find the chewy shellfish salsa was cool and refreshing. And, it sure was great on a tortilla chip!

  The whelk appetizer disappeared quickly as we worked on grilling the rest of our supper. Shad even nibbled a bit on a Frito, while Pam Rockhart came back for seconds.

  “This whelk salad is excellent,” Pam applauded as she shoveled another chip full into her mouth.

  “You're a man of many talents,” she crunched.

  “Babysitter, turtle rescuer, master chief. What do you do in the off season?”

  “Oh, a little of this and a little of that,” Donnie replied smugly.

  Bogdon butted in. “He's working on a PHD in Animal Science at NC State.”

  “Oh? A man of letters as well? Maybe I underestimated you, Mr. Gee.”

  “Don't forget that I'm also working to perfect my sliding 360 and backside rail grab,” Donnie replied, striking his best surfer pose.

  Pam chuckled. “Well, I don't know if you are a surfing Chef or an academician that really cooks – but I want to thank you for what you did for that turtle today. You and the boys saved that poor creature's life. And, I for one am grateful.”

  “De nada,” Donnie replied. “I like to do what I can for endangered species. It would be a shame if the turtles disappeared from Cape Lookout.”

  “Yes,” Pam agreed sadly. “There was a time when hundreds, maybe even thousands of turtles nested on this one twelve mile stretch. Now, we get maybe fifty nesting turtles a year.”

  “What happened to them all?” asked Freddie.

  “Well, habitat was lost to coastal building. Some died from pollution or litter – like what almost happened to our hard shelled friend today. But, in most cases they were just plain eaten. They were slow and easy to catch and supplied a lot of meat. And, turtle eggs were highly prized by bakeries because they add moistness to cakes and breads.”

  “That's true,” agreed Donnie thoughtfully. “The burden of the poor turtle is that he tastes even better than whelk. At least to me.”

  Pause.

  “What do you mean – at least to me?” Pam inquired. “Surely you have never eaten Turtle?”

  “Well, not wild turtle,” Donnie replied defensively. “But, I had farm raised turtle a couple of years ago when I visited Grand Cayman in the British West Indies. They have a place down there called the Turtle Farm where they raise turtles. Half of the turtles are released into the waters off the island to augment the remaining wild turtle population. In order to support the release program, they butcher the other half and sell turtle meat.”

  “But... you ate TURTLE!” Pam said incredulously.

  Miss Mynah tried to soften the resolution.

  “To tell the truth, Honey, I ate turtle as a little girl growing up in this area. Most people around here did.”

  “That's different,” Pam replied. “I am sure you did not realize the turtle was in danger of extinction. But, Doctor Surf Boy here knows full well the threat sea turtles are facing worldwide!”

  “That's right, I do!” Donnie said, raising his voice to match. “That's why I supported the recovery effort in Grand Cayman by buying and eating turtle. You might not approve. But, that money I paid for turtle steaks went to support the turtle population. The net result is there are more turtles in the sea precisely because I ate some!”

  Pam did not have a reply for Donnie's statement. You could see the fury in her eyes. But, she obviously could not think of a good logical reply.

  That's when I opened my big mouth.

  “I want to know something,” I said. “What exactly does turtle taste like? Does it taste like chicken?”

  Pam and Donnie were still face to face in a silent confrontation. Donnie kept up his gaze as he replied to my question.

  “No,” replied Donnie. “Turtle does not taste like chicken.”

  He continued, “Turtle is darker and more succulent. Turtle tastes like a cross between Bald Eagle and Spotted Owl.”

  For a moment there was silence as the pressure built up. Even so, we all knew - like an old steam boiler, it had to blow.

  “Arrgghhh!!!” yelled Pam Rockhart. She was so mad; she could not find the words.

  Finally, she stomped off. Over her shoulder she barked, “You blonde butthead!”

  The screen door to the kitchen slammed with authority as Pam left our little dinner party and went back inside.

  When I turned back from the slamming door, I was surprised and confused. Donnie was grinning from ear to ear.

  ***********

  Chapter 12 – Cape Lookout Day 5

  We were up early that morning. It was earlier than I wanted to be up. And, I am sure it was earlier than we needed to be up. But, Freddie was anxious to show us his Sound Monster. After hearing the mysterious hydrophone recordings, Thor suggested we could use the hydrophone to track back to the origin and settle the gill man question once and for all.

  The plan was simple. Freddie would walk the shoreline carrying photographic equipment, while the rest of us paddled up the Sound. Bogdon and I shared the two man kayak. I was in the back steering and Bog took the forward position using the hydrophone as a direction finder. Charlie, Thor and Toby manned individual kayaks beside us.

  We planned on using our night vision equipment, but dawn slipped up on us before we got into the water. So, we left that equipment in a footlocker at the dock.

  Dawn on Cape Lookout was a
spiritual event. The gray skies receded as orange sunlight crept across deep green waves capped with salty white frosting. Cotton candy clouds tinged in pink and purple stretched across the horizon. Early morning shorebirds scattered along the beach while flocks of ducks, terns and black scooters hunted the Back Bay for food. Sea oats and cattails waved in the cool morning breeze that was almost chilly. A few bird calls rose above the wind. Just out in the channel, mullet scattered, as some unseen predator slashed into the school and caused a jumping frenzy.

  Grandpa Gus always says, “God's a little closer in a house beside the sea.” On this particular morning, it was a true statement.

  Caught up in the calm beauty of this island, we launched our kayaks soundlessly. And, each command and inquiry came out as a whisper. We even paddled quietly as we made our way in a large half circle like cowboys on horseback fanning out behind the herd. Charlie and Thor were inshore to our right and Toby took position on our left farther into the sound. Bogdon sat in the front of our two man kayak dangling the hydrophone into the water. Since he was wearing headphones, we communicated using hand signals, so we would not interfere with Bogdon's audio search.

  Trailing up the channel, we were about halfway to the light house, when suddenly Bog put his hand up to the headphones. I stopped paddling and held my breath. I watched closely as he changed the position of the hydrophone and pinned down the exact direction of whatever he was hearing.

  Bogdon looked up and motioned toward the shoreline. Then he cupped his left hand over the headphone and pointed with the fingers on his outstretched right.

  I gave a short quiet whistle to get the attention of the group. I motioned for us to turn toward the shore and start making our way in. Toby shifted in closer, while Thor and Charlie spread out.

  We closed in about halfway to the shore when Bogdon looked back and gave me a halt sign. In turn, I motioned at the rest of the guys to slowly close in on us.

  Bog reached back into the kayak and pulled out a piece of PVC pipe. We'd installed mirrors at each end of the white plastic tube and made an underwater periscope. I watched intently as Bogdon lowered the periscope and began methodically scanning the area to our right.

  I used my paddle to steady the boat. However, I was mainly trying to look over Bogdon's shoulder. Of course it was impossible for two people to peer through the scope simultaneously, but I tried. I really wished we had two periscopes.

  About that time, a huge dark head popped up about three feet from the opposite side of the kayak.

  I let out a startled yelp and jumped backwards. Bogdon looked around with a scowl, shushing like an offended librarian. Then he spotted the head, too.

  Now I will swear to my dying day it was Bogdon who caused the kayak to flip over that morning, but it could have been me. The next thing I knew I was upside down in the dark waters of the sound. And, forget all that stuff you've heard about righting a kayak and not falling out. Maybe that works for Eskimos, but Bogdon and I plopped right out along with the all our gear. Luckily, we had worked our way into waters that were only about four feet deep.

  The other Rangers probably thought we'd been grabbed by the Gillman as we came up choking and spitting. And, I know they thought we'd lost our minds completely when we pulled ourselves across the upside down kayak, laughing like hyenas.

  The big Manatee beside us took it all in stride. The inquisitive fellow just kind of stared at us with that large cow face. Algae grew along his skin and gave him the patchy appearance that Freddie described. In addition, he had two sunken black eyes – but the wormy tentacles turned out to be whiskers growing from the big fellow's cheeks.

  The other Rangers came barreling in to our rescue and that was too much for the shy creature. He dipped back down below the surface and swam off a few feet.

  “What's going on? What's happening?” yelled Freddie from the shoreline. He waded out into the water halfway between us and the island.

  “It's okay,” I shouted. “Your Sound Monster is nibbling sea weed right over there.” I pointed a few yards to my left.

  “It's a Manatee,” Bogdon called. “I've read they come up as far as Virginia. But, I still think this visit is quite rare.”

  Hearing the creature was a Manatee, the other three kayakers relaxed and slowed their cavalry charge to a quiet glide. They maneuvered in for a closer look at the creature.

  Freddie waded back ashore and threw off his tennis shoes and his t-shirt and dropped his backpack. He grabbed a pair of diving goggles and waded back out into the water. With a swish, he splashed out into the chilly sound waters and swam over.

  The Manatee was busy feeding, and he tried to ignore us as he finished up his breakfast. But, as soon as Freddie approached, the big sea cow turned and welcomed him with a smile and some excited chirping. He was a big boy, ten feet long and maybe 1000 lbs. Yet he glided through the water with astonishing grace.

  Little four foot, 80 lb Freddie ignored the chill in the early morning water and swam with his ‘discovery' for over half an hour. Together they played like old friends, following the leader and gliding through the shallows until the dawn turned into a full fledged day.

  Finally, the sea cow stuck his head above the water and surveyed the rest of us once more. Then, he huffed, took a deep breath and disappeared below the waves.

  It was just as well. Freddie's lips had turned blue from mild hypothermia. It was time for him to get out of the water and warm up.

  Bogdon and I were also soaked from our tipping as well as from diving to the bottom to recover our equipment. We decided we had enough kayaking for the morning. So, we shouldered the paddle, the hydrophone and the periscope and let Thor tie the empty kayak to the back of his. Walking single file behind Freddie, Bogdon and I made our way down the Sound side beach and back to the Ecology Camp pathway.

  “That was pretty amazing,” Bogdon said to Freddie as we made our way along. “But, I don't think the Nobel committee is going to be quite as impressed as we were.”

  “Yeah. That Nobel Prize may have to wait,” I agreed.

  “That's okay,” replied Freddie, smiling. “I made a new friend, today. And, I've never felt more like an otter in my entire life.”

  Last year when we located the ancient Cherokee treasure ‘The Arrow That Would Not Miss', a friendly medicine man revealed our spirit animals to each of us. Freddie's spirit animal is the otter. And today, he really felt it. If Oprah were here, she'd say that swimming with the manatee helped Freddie get in touch with his “inner otter”.

  And, it's not hard to understand how an otter and a manatee would become fast friends. Somehow, Freddie and the giant sea cow had a spiritual connection. I don't know how. But, I think that was the reason the Manatee appeared to Freddie in the first place. Freddie Dunkleberger and the Manatee were kindred souls.

  Returning to the Eco Camp, we dried off, warmed up and enjoyed another hardy breakfast, before readying ourselves for our field trip of the day.

 

  **************

  The Cape Lookout Lighthouse lorded over the island throughout our stay. It looked down on us, just as it had looked down for a century and a half over Nazi U-Boats, hurricanes and more than a few latter day pirates. By day, black and white diamonds thrust into the Northern sky. And, each night brought repetitive flashes – crashing out against the darkness four times a minute until dawn.

  The Lighthouse stood proudly as Master in protective silence, mutely promising both safety and adventure. And, on this bright morning we would finally take her up on that offer.

  Later, the morning as our Manatee hunt, we mounted some beach bikes and caravanned up the island. At the appointed spot, we turned across towards the calm Sound waters, where the lighthouse rested. With the Atlantic at our backs, we followed an angled trail. The stunted maritime forest and scrub thicket gave way to a sandy clearing dotted with spindly longleaf pines.

  It's funny how
moving towards the lighthouse you can't tell how far or near it really is. There is nothing on a barrier island to compare it with. There's no perspective that allows you to comprehend its height until you arrive at the base. For the last quarter mile, I believed it was just a few steps further.

  We finally reached our destination and were awed as the lighthouse crown reflected golden rays of morning sun. We dismounted and chained our bicycles by feel - without even lowering our eyes.

  The grounds were almost devoid of people. It was too early for most day trippers who would grab a ferry across to the island and not show up until almost noon. Although, there were a handful of private boat owners wandering the neighborhood, seeking directions to a good fishing spot or some other closely guarded secret.

  We hiked the final steps to the lonely keepers' quarters located beside the old brick tower. Painstakingly restored, the whitewashed wooden structure stood proudly beside its lofty companion. New white paint covered its age like a cosmetic, but its ancientness was betrayed by the weathered bricks of its double chimneys.

  The top floor remains private living for the current keeper, while the bottom is populated with Park Service displays and a small gift shop. Since the Coast Guard automated Cape Lookout four decades ago, the keeper's job has shrunk to that of tour guide and caretaker.

  We stepped up onto the covered front porch, and I noticed the wood timbers were hand hewed. Each one was an individual - with a slightly different length and width. They came from a time before giant timber mills regulated wood to the sameness of precision manufacture and assembly line equivalence.

  We wandered through the center doorway into the house and found the keeper occupying a tall stool behind a wooden counter covered with souvenirs and pamphlets. A stack of bumper stickers trumpeted Cape Lookout National Seashore as “America's Least Visited National Park.”

  The keeper spotted us as we sauntered inside. He immediately recognized Ms. Rockhart and welcomed her with a smile.

  “Hello, Pam,” he said, rising up from his stool and making his way from behind the counter. Is this your latest bunch of ecologists?”

  “Yes, Mr. Tusdale. This is my most recent group. But, I better warn you. These fellas are a cut above average. They're middle school scientists from Granite Falls North Carolina. They call themselves the Granite Falls Rangers.”