A Sea in Flames - Carl Safina [99]
Dauphin Island, Alabama. Salt marshes on the north side. Egrets here look fine, miraculously immaculate. As do gulls. Adult pelicans—unlike those dingy birds near Grand Isle, Louisiana—retain the whiteness of their heads. Wherever they’ve been foraging, it’s the safe place to be now.
On the main island, palmettos and cicadas. Full-on summer. In the entrance to a bed-and-breakfast hangs a big, framed prayer:
We pray for your protection, Lord
From the oil that is on the sea.
We ask that you keep it far away
And our island safe and free …
Standard selfishness directed skyward. How about asking the Lord to stop the blowout. And why would any God of mercy whose eye misses not the falling sparrow actually need to be asked?
Marion Laney, a part-time real estate agent here, says, “Every day something happens that makes you say—y’know—‘What the fuck?’ Stuff that doesn’t make sense, at any level.”
How’s business? “I’m on the verge of bankruptcy in so many ways it’s almost funny.” Fourth of July weekend coming up. Last year one local company rented one hundred and eleven units for the holiday weekend. This year: ten. House values have fallen by half.
We park in the driveway of someone he knows. They’re away. He wants photos of the four bucket loaders currently digging enormous amounts of sand from the north side of the island. The sand’s being trucked to the ocean side, where other machinery patty-cakes it into ten-foot berms. Sand castles of woe. Also, unbelievably expensive.
They’re digging a series of pits about one hundred yards long, fifty yards wide, twelve feet deep. Destroying whatever habitat was there. Scale of digging, scale of sand removal, scale of vegetation ruination: astonishing. Likelihood that this will deter oil in a hurricane: zero.
I’m guessing the idea is: attempt to replace sand dunes washed away by the last decade’s major hurricanes. In other words, a subterfuge; the town is gouging BP while trying to fix an issue not related to oil.
Terns carrying fish circle the site; they seem to be looking for lost nestlings. Word is the permit was expedited. Loss of wetlands? What wetlands?
My other guess: BP doesn’t care what excuse municipalities use to tangle themselves in BP’s money. Money’s how they gain control. Money’s what they have. And all they have. Reasonable people might disagree with me. Unreasonable people surely would.
Also on the bay side, National Guard workers are replacing the natural shoreline with hard walls, armoring the shore against—what are they thinking? It all seems part of a “can-do” attitude that can’t do the job of distinguishing whether the cure aids the ailment or kills the patient.
Anyway, when a car pulls into the driveway, Laney tensely breathes, “Car coming.” He’s afraid it’s BP’s Bully Police. How quickly the chill sets in. How easily. How thoroughly. When he recognizes the person, he says, “It’s okay; I know them.”
But it’s okay either way, because all we’re doing it taking photos from the deck of his friend’s private house.
On the ocean side, a man is visiting a friend; he’s brought along his family. His vacation home is in Gulf Shores, but Gulf Shores is closed. “And anyway, your kids go a couple hundred yards, then track tar all in your house and ruin everything you’ve got.” He gestures with his chin. “These berms, they’re useless.”
He’s part owner of an RV park. Recent acquisition. Bad timing. No tourists, no business, but it costs him twenty-three grand a month to pay his note. And in the midst of renovations, his contractors quit to work for Better Pay. “We have $3.2 million invested, and I just had to lay off all our help. In six months, we’ll probably lose the place.”
Right on the public beach where there’s almost no vegetation left, I see a little puff of green near the end of a miles-long berm. Around this vegetation, a little string fence and a few small signs announce