Christal Wagner Photography
IT’S COMPLICATED – PT. 1
RED LOBSTER
I looked out over the railing to see the sky beyond starting to shift at a theatrical pace. As quickly as it appeared, an ombre effect was soon smeared to menacing hues of charcoal grey. The sky seemed to crack wide open allowing darkness released from somewhere beyond to suddenly flood the atmosphere. The howling winds raged and the waves crashed in roaring orchestration. Water lapped up rhythmically before falling into a constant pour over the edge. The boat on which I stood was somehow still afloat, although, nearly incapable as it fell victim to the violent movement of the ocean. Sea-life spilled onto the deck, small fish flopping about seeking sanctuary, larger predators waiting patiently below for my demise. The water crashed louder, jaws of varying sizes opened and closed menacingly at the surface of the water, thirsty at the possibility of an early dinner. Tentacles revealed themselves slithering along the tipping vessel. The ship was taking on water and every creature imaginable was emerging from the depths of the ocean. I turn, throwing back a frantic glance. Surely there must be someone to shout out to for help, or shelter to seek? Staring at my sweaty palms, I am momentarily confused by my existence. Amidst the chaos, I am distracted by my soiled sneakers and disheveled bob cut, I suddenly realize I am very alone. There is no body to this ship , no stern nor bow, and certainly no captain. The abandoned helm alone, spinning wildly.
I turn again and the ship has managed to downsize in an instant. Torn apart and swept up into the world below, I now stood upon mere planks of wood nailed together. It was barely a raft, somehow bearing a striking resemblance to my backyard deck. The rich orange stain stirs up nostalgia in me and I am reminded of the summertime. A memory drifts to mind… I am playing ship with my younger brother. Today, the backyard, our sometimes baseball field, excavation site, and jungle, was the sea before us. In between bologna sandwiches and popsicles, we tip toed barefoot across the deck, seeking refuge in the shade cast by the patio furniture. Bringing me back to my dire situation, off slides the family picnic table and with it my memories of lunch, swallowed by an angry ocean. I hear what can only be described as a dance of clicks and clacks at various decibels surrounding me from much closer than is comfortable. I freeze. I am shook from my memories as the deck seems to have mutated into battered pieces of driftwood haphazardly connected by rusty nails and unraveling twine. The water works to seep through and I straddle the planks, desperate to stay out of the world below.
It seems as if the rock of the raft has stalled into slow motion, suspending itself impossibly with each nauseating lean to and fro. Still the sounds persist. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. My eyes make their way toward the sounds, and red fills my view. An insurmountable army of zombie lobsters with their needy eyes and oversized claws make their way toward my bare legs. From beneath the mass of crustaceans, a single giant claw emerges from the depths. It hovers over the rest of it’s crawling cousins and reaches out to collect me, and draw me into the sea.
Suddenly this nightmare becomes a tangling of every giant monster movie I’d ever seen, and I’d seen a lot. I wake in shear panic, running in a sweat filled nightgown to spend the last hours of the night on my parents floor. Before falling back to sleep in the safety of my parent’s room, I’m reminded of an image I had seen earlier in the evening… A dirty fish tank, full of slow moving imprisoned crustaceans mindlessly crawling over one another, their life in a constant loop. That is the last time my family ever took me, and my vivid imagination, to Red Lobster.
HOLLYWOOD HYPE
For years, my fear of the ocean had been growing and becoming more and more debilitating. Somehow while the anxiety continued to stew within, running parallel, so did my intrigue. I’d always been amazed by the ocean and simultaneously my imagination rocked by Hollywood’s influence. I bragged that I read Peter Benchley’s Jaws in grade school and was obsessed with Spielberg’s take on the monster and obsessed over the idea of the man-eating species. I followed it up with Benchley’s White Shark, then Beast, and would stop at the public library leaving with eyes wide, and hands full of both shark documentaries and books filled with images of creatures lurking deep below the surface of the water. From Disney’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and The Little Mermaid to horror flicks like Piranha, Iv’e always loved tales of the sea and its diverse, sometimes mystical, inhabitants. Fairytale, folklore, the enigma of Loch Ness, I was and still am intriqued.
Thanks, and no thanks, to Hollywood’s Blockbusters, my relationship with the ocean has always been a complicated one. The repeated theme of lurking monsters waiting below the surface to eat all humans certainly did a number on me. While the ocean is definitely to be respected, and it is extremely important to be both aware of your surroundings, and informed about what species you might encounter in a given area, pop culture has been unfair to many creatures that are essential to a healthy ocean. I believe that this fear has negatively influenced many humans worldwide creating a devastating impact on marine life and most notably, a negative image of sharks, and a lack of empathy for various species. From plastic to poaching, the ocean world demands our attention.
MIDWEST DELUSIONS
Growing up in the Midwest, the ocean and all its wonder was a complete mystery. It seemed so far away. Books and movies showed me the sea creatures of nightmares and that became my reality. A vacation here and there would allow brief step in the salt water but the longer time spent away, the more foreign the idea of stepping foot in the water became. On a few early visits to Florida, I recall I skipped along the beach with my younger brother. We stumbled upon washed ashore masses of jelly bodies and had close encounters swimming beside what I remember deciding was a portuguese man of war, or so my library rentals would lead me to believe. Before that, we had only seen a few specimens on a visit to Chicago’s Shedd Aquarium where they were restricted to tanks, not occupying the same waters as we were?! It didn’t seem possible to view these beings in real life even though we were in their territory. As an adult, on a recent visit to the Shedd, I was struck by the vibrant beauty of the jellies exhibit. It was mesmerizing to witness them bob and balloon in meditative synchronization.
A few years later, on a visit to Clearwater beach, we spent the afternoon getting baked to a crisp, and completely schooled by the ocean. My family was revealed as total northerners when we came stomping out of the water at a ridiculous pace running, frantically practically tripping over ourselves, to escape the shadowed bodies sweeping across the shallow part of the beach, Floridians shouted, “Don’t Run! Shuffle! Shuffle!”. Oh. It turns out it was just sting ray season. Yeah. Definitely not something you’d hear near Lake Michigan and a sure foreign thought to us. We looked back to see that we were in fact the only people who raced out of that water as if someone had pooped the pool. I swear a few locals shook their heads at our reaction as their five-year olds continued to splash about in their teeny tiny life vests. Meanwhile, we reapplied our sunscreen, and somehow still left that beach streaked with sunburn.
TISK TISK
As a young adult, I approached the ocean like a careless idiot. No respect for its wonder, no understanding of the creatures whose home I was inhabiting, and no thought for my own safety. A couple of those experiences could have easily become the subject of a made for TV movie focused on a group of barely twenty something Americans acting a fool. Somehow I survived unscathed and Hollywood amped up foolish Americans in peril in a remake of Piranha instead.
Naive and freshly nineteen, a trip to a remote beach off the coast of Costa Rica left me with trail of welts from a passing jellyfish. Following my local friend blindly, we traveled through a lushly covered path, bouncing along on the dirt road for what seemed like hours to arrive at this secret beach. As I exited the water, and watched my skin react to the exposure of some foreign being. My friend reassured me that it must have been a school of baby jellyfish. Lucky me, I thought. Mostly disturbed by the fact that I had not seen anything in the water, began to wonder how it could have been oh so much worse. At the time, I had no understanding of the behavior of different species. All sharks wanted to eat you and all jelly fish to poison you. Well, knowledge is power and quite enlightening.
At the time, I was consumed with fear and hyper focused on the “aggressive” behavior of life below the surface. I had no idea where we were, my own fault, and at that time, cell phones were practically useless abroad. In hindsight, I should have been more aware of my surroundings and educated on life in this area of the Caribbean before just jumping in. I remember I anxiously watched as the trail of bumps around my back, across my torso, and down my leg became more pronounced and itchy. I tried to hide my overwhelming relief when awhile later my skin returned to its usual form and the raised redness finally disappeared.
I celebrated my twenty-first birthday while visiting Panama City Beach with friends. Soon a few friends, made a few friends, and we had ourselves a party at a rented beach house with direct access to the water. Generally a very chill person preferring small group hangs as opposed to a wild and rowdy bunch, I recognized this scene as a total recipe for disaster. Again, many movies have been made about this sort of scenario – Beach Party gone horribly wrong. It’s almost too easy!
Alongside the PCB house, among a pile of various items for sun and sand activities, a giant party raft was discovered. Having no backbone at the time, I went with the ridiculous plans that were to unfold. At the height of the wildness, sometime long after dark, the boys decided we should take the floatation fun out into the black water. I’m definitely blaming this on the boys. My ally and travel partner, refused to go in the water but the guys agreed to swim the raft out into the night and keep hold while we lounged within. Seemed like a solid plan. We got in, they swam us out, and liquid courage was our only guide. (Yikes!)
A short while later we notice something gravitating toward the raft. Then we notice more somethings glowing and gravitating toward the raft. It’s as if the local jellyfish thought it was their mothership. In an instant we all freaked out and it was every idiot for themselves. As the jellyfish gather and swarm the raft we abandoned ship, er party raft, recklessly. Diving headfirst into the water, just barely beyond the glowing jellyfish, and allowed the raft to float out to sea. We watched the raft get smaller and smaller until it was so far away that in the dark, it disappeared. I imagine the jellyfish had their own late night gathering to get to.
When I recall this event, I am reminded of a hilarious episode of Sponge Bob Squarepants where all the jellyfish move in coordination to a ridiculously catchy tune. In hindsight, while it certainly was no cartoon at the time, it was a darkly comedic three minutes. What I would have given to hear that theme song followed by waking up in bed! I often wonder if my mind has elaborated upon this day and its events more than I realize. The image of those glowing beings and their swarming of the raft is such a vivid memory but has time changed it? Have dreams twisted it? Was there really an army of bioluminescent jellyfish?
The next day, we woke hungover and hair tousled. Even though it was August, in typical Spring Breaker fashion, we went back out to the beach stinky and hoping the sun would wake us from our current states. Surprisingly the party raft was in view. Concealing our tired eyes behind sunglasses, we watched from our sandy towels as the guys swam out and successfully retrieved the beach house’s property. Know one would ever know the difference. Sunglasses on, cheap beers nearby, we resumed our beach recovery. A short while later, a baby shark head ripped from its body washed up to our feet on shore. That was more than enough of the ocean for that trip.
(See Pt. 2)
*PC: Christal Wagner Photography