A Sea in Flames - Carl Safina [101]
“But do you have phone numbers, any contact information?”
“No, I don’t.” Now he’s pretty fed up with me. Feeling’s mutual, I’d estimate. The eye contact between us is turning hostile. I ask if I can take a picture of him and the younger guard at their booth and, not surprisingly, he says, “No.”
“But you’re on public property,” I point out again. I assume he’d have a private right not to have his photo taken. Since he’s saying he’s acting in an official government capacity, however, I’m pretty sure I’d be within my rights taking a photo of an “official.” But this is not a discussion on the fine points of the Constitution. We’re miles and miles from the fine points. This, after all, is the Oil.
“I said, NO!” he yells. I see hatred in his eyes and he’s starting to shake with rage. I guess he’s not accustomed to being challenged. Most cars coming to the park just turn around upon seeing the guard booth. He usually doesn’t even have to talk to anyone. His mere presence is enough to repel people. Everyone can see it’s closed, never mind the sign. And obviously, I’ve come with an attitude about this. I hate all of it. I feel myself pointlessly returning his glare of rage.
He reaches for his radio in a threatening way, as if to warn, “I’m going to call Daddy.” He’s got his finger on the key.
I should make him call some real police, who work in tax-paid uniforms and drive a real cop car. But I presume they’ll side with him and we’ll all get angry. I turn and leave.
Later, I do find a sheriff and ask how private security guards can keep people off public property, especially where the sign very clearly says a park is “Open.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “The park is closed; that’s true. But right now there’s a lot of screwy things on this island. I don’t understand it all myself.”
I guess you can’t explain something that doesn’t make sense.
Lunchtime. Shootin’ the breeze over a beer with Marion Laney. He says, “There’s a weird difference between what the government says to do and what this corporation does.” He can’t understand why, when the U.S. government tells BP to do something, BP seems to have the luxury of deciding whether to comply. “If this was a Venezuelan drilling company—or a Cuban drilling company,” he chuckles, “I wonder what the government tone would be.”
He’s spoken to some of the fishermen whom BP is paying in the idiotically named Vessels of Opportunity program. Laney says, “Guys who’ll talk when there’s no camera around say they just putter around, not getting much done; say there’s no real plan of attack. It’s just, like, get in your boat, get out there, come back at quitting time.”
He adds, “I hate to be a conspiracy theorist, but I think it’s all just a big show. They’re spending a lot of money. But either they’re totally incompetent or there’s some reason behind putting a lot of people out there and getting very little done.”
Cooking up conspiracy theories here is easy as cereal and milk. Laney thinks BP wants the fishermen’s mouths zipped—everybody just stay calm—and for a day’s wages, they comply. But with bills to pay, what other option do they have? I think it’s exactly that simple.
On docks where no one would think to wear life preservers just to walk to and from the boats they’ve run for decades, everyone wears life preservers. Former captains of their fate now march to rhythms not their own. Second childhoods in their own prime. Fishing boats lie stacked with white absorbent pads, like the diapers for whole communities suddenly severed from the normal progression of a life’s memories.
At the marina, no one’s in the store; they’re not expecting customers. When a fisherman wearing a life preserver enters, we surprise each other. I’m not expecting “Abandon ship!” on land; I just want a few snacks. He calls a thirtyish woman, who takes her place behind the counter.
With a chuckle, she says, “We could be unemployed in the blink of an eye. Everyone’s working for BP. That’s all there is now. No one can think past next week.” She says, “Everyone’s worried in every way you can imagine.