1
Sea turtle guzzles
red bendy bucket handle
how tempting its color.
2
Turtle perishes
and washes onto the shore
with other plastics.
French filmmaker Mathias Frantz and his crew had spent weeks searching the wilder crannies of New York for the quintessence of nature in the city—material that will be used in the first of four profiles of wildlife in major international cities they are calling “Naturopolis.” The week before I’d accompanied them on a boat on the East River where we angled for striped bass in the riptides of Hell Gate and snuck up on a colony of nesting cormorants on U-Thant Island, situated below the cliff-like UN building that towered as a backdrop. One week later we met at River Park, a pocket of greenery in the West Farms section of the South Bronx that is named after Gotham’s only true freshwater river, the Bronx River.
The Bronx River is an urban flowage that is becoming restored mainly through the efforts of the New York City Department of Parks and the Bronx River Alliance of non-profits. River Park sits just below the lowermost dam on the river, one that prevents typical migratory fish such as alewife from ascending farther upstream to spawn. The river is also home to the American eel, a species that was described in the subtitle of a recent book as the “most mysterious fish in the sea.” And mysterious they are, baby eels, having migrated all the way from the middle of the Atlantic Ocean are slowed down, but not always stopped from passing dams. Our crew of agency and academic biologists and volunteers planned on first electrofishing below the dam and then above it to obtain a sense of the relative abundances of eels on both sides of this barrier.
Our colleague Chris Bowser of the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation wore the backpack electroshocking unit on the first pass. Probing around the rocky shallows with the device’s electrical hoop turned up plenty of eels, together with sunfish, darter fish, and crayfish that were all momentarily stunned while two eager netters tried to gather them before they revived.
On the second pass, my Ph.D. student George Jackman operated the shocker. George has an unusual background for a doctoral student—he is a retired New York City police lieutenant. As such, he sees things that mere civilians miss. As George stepped deeper into the flow to begin “fishing” he eyed a plastic device and reached down and then held up a metal sleeve—the magazine from a handgun. Our crew and the observers who gathered were amazed, making comments about this truly being urban nature. But a minute later the incident became considerably enhanced: George yelled “wow” as he spotted the actual handgun—and then retrieved and held up a10 mm Glock. The assemblage couldn’t quite believe this, and neither could the French filmmakers who asked whether we’d planted it there for Naturopolis.
We hadn’t, of course, but I wondered whether the eventual viewers of Naturopolis would believe that such an iconic urban symbol would have been discovered by accident. The gun’s being found there makes sense, it was located just below the 180th Street Bridge—a perfect place to stop a car and toss a gun into the water. I questioned if its owner threw the gun into the river when it was raging with high water, not knowing that the Bronx River is a “spate” flow that floods quickly when it rains and then drops to low levels, shallow enough to reveal a handgun.
George later gave the weapon to a patrolman, who guessed it was used in a murder and promised to do ballistics tests. The tests showed that the gun was used in a shooting not far from there about a week earlier, and at a time when the river was so high we needed to cancel our fieldwork. This gun had been fired 10 times into the back of its victim. Remarkably, the man survived, this gun is so powerful that it essentially perforated his torso while apparently missing vital organs.
The remainder of the day was less eventful, with many eels surveyed below the dam and only about one-fourth as many above, showing that eels can indeed somehow work their way past the dam. The eel “ladder” we plan to install next year should ease their access to the river’s headwaters as they follow their natural instincts and swim, obliviously, maybe even mysteriously, past whatever unnatural jetsam society leaves along its bottom.
Note: This piece was originally published on the Fordham University Press blog, Fordham Impressions. Underwater New York is republishing it here with permission from the author.
John Waldman has studied and explored New York Harbor for much of his career, first with the Hudson River Foundation for Science and Environmental Research and then as Professor of Biology at Queens College. In autumn 2012 Fordham Press will publish two of Waldman’s books on nature in New York City, a revision of Heartbeats in the Muck: The History, Sea Life, and Environment of New York Harbor and Still the Same Hawk: Reflections on Nature in New York, an anthology of new creative non-fiction by celebrated New York authors.
Asking you to meet me on Dead Horse Bay could be interpreted as passive aggressive. But I could have chosen Barren Inlet or the Millstone Trail; Brooklyn is paved in symbols. You were late. Broken bottles glimmered all along the stained-glass shore. As I bent towards a cracked plastic baby face, you came around the bend.
It had been ten years since you got on the bus without me. Twenty years since we were girls who played until dusk; the shades of our hair tangling in the breeze. My mother once said she was afraid she would have to cut us apart with her meat scissors. Even as teenagers we walked fingers entwined. When boys asked if they should be jealous, we’d wink; even our lashes were syncopated.
Your voice left its twang at some prairie pit-stop. “Do you still remember how to play?”
When we were kids, we played The Game of Lost Things. We liked to try to figure out why they had escaped or been abandoned. We’d take them home, hidden under sweaters and behind our backs, to rot in sour-salt piles in the backs of closets.
I pointed to the doll and told you go first, curious to see what you’d say.
“After surgery at the doll hospital, they throw the old and ugly faces into the sea. Your turn.” California spattered freckles across your nose.
I stared into the curling pink plastic. I see it at once. The salt ate her chest. The waves plucked off her arms and feet. She felt sand between her fingers and air between her toes. A crab came to live inside her right arm and she felt it scuttling. Then she drifted too far from herself and went numb.
A gull caught her up, her ringlets in its blonde beak. She thought she was saved. She did not see the second gull, but she saw the grey feathers falling. They fought for her hair. Brittle sections of scalp flaked off. Her eyes rolled out of her head. The gulls wrapped their eggs in her golden curls.
She was left with a mask for a face. She floated for weeks. When the sea eels looked in her eyes, all they saw was sky.
But I said, “I wonder what the new face is like.”
Hippolyte by Richard Larson
They were out on the salt-slimed boardwalk when Jack showed her the tits nestled obscenely in their plastic. Kristine shoved them back in the bag.
“Is it really that bad?” she asked, looking out over nightskinned harbor.
Jack fixed her with his clear blue eyes. “It’s fucking disgusting.”
Kristine weighed the silicon reluctantly in her hands. Jack had brushed back her hair like a highschool sweetheart while she splashed rancid vomit into the toilet bowl. Jack had taken a pityfuck from one of their therapists on an afternoon when she was entombed in a leather chair with IV.
She drew her arm back easily, so easily.
In the coming mornings she would inspect the puckered X-shaped scar in the mirror and leave her bra cup sagging empty. Her lipstick would go on more like warpaint, and Jack’s tits would choke fish at the bottom of the bay.
Roller Coaster by Mandi M. Lynch
Katie left the subway and braced herself against the bitter wind and driving rain that met her. It had been raining when she entered the underground system an hour ago, but not like this. Her sultry little red dress and sexy four inch heels were hardly appropriate for the weather, but she didn’t care. She hadn’t intended to ride the subway all the way to the end of the line, either, but she had. And here she was – Stillwell Avenue, the only subway stop on Coney Island.
It was half a mile from the corner of Stillwell and Surf Avenues to the end of the Coney Island’s pier, and she walked it by habit: west, then around the stadium, and a turn south before heading directly across the beach and down the wooden planks of the jetty. When she got there, there were no remainents of her $250 hair appointment; her limp bangs clung to her forehead as if they were painted on.
Any other day, she’d’ve worried about her Manolo Blahniks, but today, the only reason she took them off was because the heels caught the sand. Now, she fell to her knees and sobbed into Lower Bay. Coney Island had been the setting for every happy childhood memory; she had summered there with her grandmother, tucked away on the corner of 27th and Mermaid, where they’d tell stories of the mythical creatures of the same name. Katie would give anything to be back there again, where her wild hair and freckles were a sign of her beauty, not marks against them.
Even on those summer nights, she’d have been tucked in bed a long time ago. But that was then, and it was a long way from thirteen to thirty, and an even longer way from the penthouse apartment that had hosted the night’s disastrous soiree. Had Harrison really chastised her in front of six hundred of their closest friends and business partners for not getting Botox? Was that one laugh line really such a bad thing?
As the storm picked up and the waves wiped over the boards, she screamed into them, letting all the frustrations wash away with the water. To hell with Harrison and his collection of antique silk ties, his arrogance and his impossible standards of beauty, this was all she could take. Katie reached into the dress and pulled out both 400 cc silicone breasts – loaners to try out the voluptuous D cup size they would make her after surgery and weeks of painful recovery. Another request of Harrison’s.
She thought of the grandmother who would braid her hair before a day at the beach. They’d spend days with sand between their toes, stopping only for amusement park rides and corndogs and Sunday mornings at the church across the street.
With a scream that would make a banshee run, she threw the implants into the bay. To hell with Harrison. She would leave Coney Island the way she always had – with dignity.
Silicon Breasts, Coney Island by Hannah Karena Jones
She tried to comfort herself with the fact that, though he had asked her to stuff her bra with the silicone implants, he didn’t actually want to surgically alter her figure.
“To me,” he had said, placing his hand over his sagging pectoral muscle, pledging allegiance, “you are perfect. I like you just the way you are.” Underneath the bed sheets, he cupped her breasts in his hands. “It’s the other people, the strangers, these Americans who don’t think you’re beautiful.” He sighed. “I don’t want you to change, but it will be better if they think that you have.” He squeezed her. “The truth will be our little secret.”
She chose to believe this rather than admit that he was cheap. She saw the way he stared every morning when she tucked them underneath her natural breasts, filling the bra she had bought two sizes too big. She saw the smile that hid in the corner of his lips when she adjusted her shirt over her temporarily bulging chest. She knew that, if he could have afforded more than the twenty-dollar, Brooklyn flea-market—“gently used,” the woman had promised him—implants, he would have had her under the knife faster than he could write the check.
Even though the plastic edges peeked out of her bikini, he insisted she wear them at the beach. “We have to keep up appearances,” he said. She stared at the chest hair that grew straight up and out from the collar of his undershirt, stretching for the sky like their sun-starved houseplants, and said nothing. He watched her slip the implants in her canvas bag, next to her book and her subway pass.
She collected sea glass—a nice word for the piles of shattered stout-brown bottles scattered across the beach—before walking into the water, the goose bumps climbing up and over her knees. She held a perfectly circular bottle bottom up to her eye and squinted, wondering if she could see all the way home. The waves crashed against her body and, dedicated to wearing her away bit by bit, to smoothing out her rough edges, a wave dislodged her left implant. The bathing suit top hung empty, gaping and hungry. With her thumb, she pulled the strip of fabric away and allowed its mate to slide out and down into the ocean.
Way to Freedom by Nate Worrell
White hair arcs out of a black skull like a wind tossed wave against the rocks. The man in rags calls out to people passing by. He offers freedom and salvation. Yet, none seem to hear. The twinkling lights blind them, the organ music deafens them, the smell of butter and taste of grease distracts them. He’s nothing more than another noise in a world of amusement. Yet for just a second the world comes to a momentary hush. His cry for repentance echoes across the island and lands on the ears of a girl who once dreamed of becoming a great singer, but now sits among the candy wrappers and empty bottles building up the courage to once again walk down that dark alley where men try to quench insatiable thirsts. She hears him and follows the voice. He sees her step from the shadows and beckons to her.
-my child do you wish to be made pure-
She nods her head.
-it is only by blood that we are healed, we must die to our old self to live as a new creation-
Her eyes widen as he takes a small knife from his pocket.
-do not be afraid my child, your body is a temple that has been defiled, pain is the way to freedom-
He smiles like he knows a hidden secret and so she trusts him. She closes her eyes as the heat pierces her chest. The pain is raw and electric for the first few seconds but then the darkness explodes into blinding light. She hears the sound of sweet music and feels like she is cradled in the clouds. Her body fills with warmth like drinking cider in November. She exhales and floats away into ecstasy.
The Middle of the Hudson by Eirik Gumeny
My buddy and me were standing along Van Der Donck when we saw it go down. We’d just finished at Westchester Environmental and were covering up the smell of bleach with a couple of cigs. It was late, maybe midnight, not a time when you’d really expect to see any boats, y’know? But we’d see ‘em sometimes. Some trust fund kid’d shove a handful of cocaine up his nose and take out daddy’s mini-yacht to show off for some chick and try to pork her under the moonlight. Almost be romantic if they weren’t such yuppie pricks.
There was a lot of fog that night, maybe the most I’d ever seen. It wasn’t like we’d never seen it, y’know? There were plenty of times when it’d just roll up slow and block out the whole damn Palisades. Looked like all of Jersey just up and vanished. But this fog, this was darker and heavier than we’d seen before. Moved quicker’n it seemed like it should. Me and my buddy, we thought something was up even before that boat froze.
These yuppie kids, they were never the best boaters, but this was strange, even for them. We’d seen boats swerving funny before, stalling out, even crashing into the waterfront, but they never just stopped, y’know? Something like that should even be possible, right? Even if the engines just up and died, there’s still the current, or inertia, or wind… Things don’t just stand still in the middle of the Hudson.
But this boat did.
Couple minutes after it happened, these two guys came strolling out of the cabin. They were moving frantically, like they didn’t know what was going on either. That’s when my buddy noticed the fog was even darker now, damn near black as the sky. And it was starting to roll up ’round their boat. But not like we’d ever seen, couldn’t of been just fog. It looked like there were these long, slow tentacles of mist curling themselves ’round the boat’s bottom.
One of the kids, he saw us, started waving his hands over his head. Thought he was ’bout to start screaming for help, but that’s when the other kid grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him ’round.
That’s when I saw it too.
The fog, it… it wasn’t fog anymore. It looked like a boat, some old-timey pirate ship or something. Had to be at least six times the size of that cabin cruiser, with these tall masts and ripped, tattered sails just hanging there.
The ship, it sailed right into those yuppies, swallowed that little boat right up into its foggy grey body.
And then the ship… it just… disappeared. Turned itself right back into black mist.
Me and my buddy, we stood there, staring, waiting, looking for those two kids and their boat. Thought maybe they were just on the other side of the fog, went to shore, something. But soon enough the fog passed… and that boat was gone.
The Story by Laura Silver
The young people, so modern, they think they are. So wise, they take themselves to be.
We are all in trouble. Deep trouble.
You want deep? I’ll give you deep. You got a minute? Sit down, listen. Listen good.
When I was young, fresh, without a wrinkle, not so far from here, it was the case you could walk in the streets and hear only my language. Like a prayer I tell you, people counted on me, like a prayer. Like I was their only connection to the Almighty, blessed be He. Now they like to say “She.” Oy.
Whoever the Almighty might be, that person should know. Maybe the Almighty is too shy or too polite to tell you. But, not me. I am not here to protect you from your ignorance. After all these years, that is not mine job to teach the new generation right from wrong, up from down, wet from dry. Some things are, how do you say? Eternal.
I was good at protecting people, you should know, from sun, from rain, from being poor. Not that I made them rich. But I made them laugh. This is better than riches? Sometimes you have no choice. I showed them that they were not so very much alone as they thought. They needed me. They held onto me as if I should be bread, they could live on me and share me with their family. I could do something for them.
You want I should tell you the story of how I ended up like this, turned inside out and twisted in the shape of a challah? (It should never happen to your worst enemy). That means a loaf of egg bread, prepared especially for the Sabbath. Not Sunday, Saturday. The Jewish Sabbath. Challah, you should know, means bread.
Yes. That’s right, a loaf. I know this word, in English, it means something else, like when you sit on the couch all day and read only the newspaper. But nowadays they don’t even use the newspaper, they prefer something called, how do you say… Kindle.
Now we are getting somewhere.
I know, this word, kindle, in English, it means to turn on a fire. You want to turn on a fire? For this you need a newspaper, not an electronic thing that you plug into a wall. You want to know what language I am in? For this you need a saichel. Don’t try to pronounce it. Just know you don’t know. I’ll tell you something else you don’t know. Who I am.
You think I’m Hebrew? Gornisht you know. Nothing, not a speck. You have water in the brain. And brains in your stomach.
You want I should tell you my story?
Go learn something. Go listen from the ocean. And when you are finished, come back. You tell me what language I am from and I will tell you from my story.
Gowanda’s Sacrifice by Nate Worrell
Mike sat at the edge of the canal, playing the notes his father taught him on his pan flute. The gray water swirled and a familiar head appeared.
“Hello Gowanda” Mike pulled some French fries from the crumpled bag next to him and tossed them into the water.
He sat on the cement while the seal ate. He sighed.
“I messed up. My son’s lying in a hospital bed right now, he’s banged up pretty bad. It’s my fault. I only had a few drinks.” Mike choked on the words. “I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but you helped dad’s heart and you gave me my voice back. Can you fix my boy?”
The seal bobbed in the water, large stone eyes stared into Mike’s. He felt the pangs of guilt tear through his insides. Then Gowanda dipped beneath the surface. For a moment, there was stillness. Then the water started to bubble and red ribbons meandered across the surface. Then the water calmed and the seal came back to the surface. Mike saw the scars, white like lighting on a stormy night, and ran back to the hospital with tears in his eyes.
Gowanda by Sarah Curry
Gowanda’s eye pooled with blood from where her asshole of a husband had decked her. She sat on the dock holding her face and watching the water shine purple-black in the moonlight. Without thinking, she dove in. Brackish water filled her nose and mouth and immediately weighed down her fur coat. For a moment, she watched bits of trash, worn smooth and shiny, swirl around her like a school of minnows. She did not try for the surface.
*
Earlier that evening, Gowanda had come home wearing an old fake fur, and, like anything else beautiful she received, Bobby was intent on locking it away in his Navy chest. Since the day they married, he had worn the key around his neck where it thumped against the tattoo he’d gotten to commemorate their wedding. Across his chest, an anchor dug its sharp flukes into a red heart that had both their names scrawled across in cursive. But Gowanda’s had come out so ambiguous she wondered if he planned on sleeping with other women. She didn’t trust him after that, with the key and the tattoo of a fake heart covering his own.
Tonight, she refused to take her coat off and Bobby had yanked her arm like he might break it. She had kicked at him but he had dodged her. He slapped her hard then and got out his lighter. He tried to ignite the coat one-handed but she leaned over and sunk her teeth into his flesh. She walked out the door as he yowled.
She’d kept walking until she was at the canal. The garbage smell that hung heavy in the air the rest of the year was barely detectable. The frozen air was fresh-ish even. It was hours before the clinic near their house would open and she knew exactly what the nurse would say when she saw her. “Ms. Gowanda, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” By then, her lips would be covered in frostbite and she wouldn’t even be able to say Bobby’s name.
She kicked a used condom and an old Gatorade bottle out of the way and sat on the dock. The water with its dark oily rainbows called to her.
*
Opening her eyes, Gowanda is surprised to see the dusky grey sky of morning. She lies on the snow, steam rising from her bruise colored skin. She tries to lift her arm to motion to a group of nearby barge workers but her arm doesn’t work like she remembers. Hoarse sighs come out of her mouth. “They probably think I’m a dead body,” she thinks. Frustrated, she lets out a demanding gravelly bark, which delights the men. They laugh and take pictures of her with their cell phones. She looks up at the men with wet round eyes trying to understand. She barks louder as she realizes her entire body is covered in a beautiful soft fur of her very own.