I WON’T GIVE UP: Shifting Sands, Shifting Marsh
- Deb Bowen
- 6 days ago
- 6 min read
I don’t remember how old I was the first time my father took me gigging for flounder on a summer night—7, I think. I am so happy to be in his boat.
“Be real quiet,” Daddy says. “Don’t scare the fish.”
“Fish can hear?”
I say nothing as the boat drifts the shallow creeks through the marshes. A light bolted to the bow casts an eerie beam into the water. Daddy stands on the bow, poling with a gig, its three prongs ready to strike when he spots the outline of a flounder hidden in the mud.
My favorite nights, however, are the nights we walk along the marsh edge, Daddy wading softly through the water so as not to disturb the fish. He leads the way, a lantern in one hand, a gig in the other, a fish stringer tied to his belt loop.
I trail behind him, spellbound by the magical marsh that holds mystical creatures I’ve come to know as friends. I stop, bending down to watch a hermit crab inch its tulip shell house along the mud. I pause, mesmerized by a periwinkle crawling its way down a cordgrass stalk, cleaning the stalk of detritus as it goes. Later I learn that the periwinkle’s repetitive work replenishes the marsh floor.
Sometimes I lag far behind, bury my feet in the mud, and dig for clams with my toes. Daddy stops, turns his head, “Come on now. We don’t have all night.” But we do, I believe.
In the lantern’s light, blue crabs scurry away and shrimp drift by, seemingly unaware of my presence. I spy on fiddler crabs as they face off, the males’ one big claw waving like a sword. Research shows that they, too, play a role in maintaining and providing nutrients to the marsh floor as they burrow and aerate the sediment.
In the moonless, windless dark, we cannot see the great blue heron rise from the marsh. Usually a silent sentinel, it squawks as it flaps by, startled by our invasion of its sacred liminal space.
This liminal space that is the marsh brings together earth’s elements in ways no other place does. Here, in this world of salt water and rich earth, of sunlight fire, and of oxygen and carbon exchanges, this dance of connection brings life to the planet. Here, where the rhythm of the tides speaks of in-between times and places, life begins and ends and begins again.
Years later, I understand that my father does not intend to kill flounder on those nights he takes me into the winding creeks of the marsh. It is years before I understand how precious that time with him is, how much he enjoys teaching me, how he fosters my exploration of that liminal space that he, too, believes to be sacred.
I did not know then that the day will come when the marsh and all its inhabitants are threatened by pollution. I did not know then that it will be unsafe to eat oysters and clams, even when cooked, from high-traffic boating areas. I did not know then that overfishing of some species will require moratoriums to be placed on fishing seasons. I did not know then that shrimpers will fight the state legislature in an attempt to maintain their livelihood, or that sea turtles will need laws to protect them.
I did not know then that narrow barrier islands move so quickly, or that the sea and the marsh will meet more frequently as hurricane strikes increase in damages and costs, changing delicate ecosystems in ways that threaten us all. I did not know then that coastal development would escalate beyond my comprehension. According to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, over half of the coastal wetlands in the contiguous United States has been lost to development in the past 200 years. Additionally, as development skyrockets, 3.5 million tons of carbon dioxide is emitted annually (Restore American Estuaries – estuaries.org).
I am 10 when the first berm project comes to the barrier island on which my family lives. I spend afternoons with my neighbors, watering the fragile sea oats seedlings that will one day be strong enough to secure these new sand dunes, their extensive root system holding the dunes in place against wind and rising water.
The following summer, I perfect a spiel I’ve written, explaining to tourists why we don’t walk across the dunes. I chase people down and lecture them.
The reason they should not invade the dunes, I say, is simple: Barrier islands move, and dunes protect marshes from the encroaching sea. When ocean water over-washes the shore, particularly in storms, it invades homes and businesses, and crosses into the sounds and marshes. As ocean meets marsh, habitats change and sometimes are lost. Dunes are an island’s best defense against the ocean flowing into the marsh.
My childhood diatribe falls on deaf ears at best, with sneers and obscenities at worst. It still does, all these years later. I’ve honed my speech, made it less didactic and more friendly, but people still ignore me, roll their eyes, and sometimes cuss at me. I won’t give up.
I won’t give up because I hold deep reverence and gratitude for dunes. While building artificial dunes may help, doing so cannot hold the sea at bay forever. Even natural dunes are no match for hurricanes, nor’easters, and shifting shorelines. For example, between May 29, 2020, and February 2, 2026, 31 oceanfront houses in the southern Outer Banks villages of Rodanthe and Buxton fell into the sea. When these houses were built, they were far back from the high tide line. Beaches move, always, and they move both north to south, and east to west.
My plea for people to stay off dunes seems absurd because, in some coastal towns, houses are being built directly on top of dunes. The people I lecture retort that their quick passage across the dunes does far less damage to the coastal environment than construction of a gigantic house atop them. They have a point.
In their seminal book The Beaches are Moving: The Drowning of American’s Shoreline, Wallace Kaufman and Orrin H. Pilkey, Jr. describe the results of building on beach strands on one side of an island and dredging sounds and marshes on the other. They maintain that doing so traps the natural movement of the island to a point that catastrophic damage and loss of life are inevitable when a storm occurs, and as naturally occurring migration escalates.
Jan DeBlieu, former North Carolina resident and NC Coastal Federation coast-keeper, writes in Wind: How the Flow of Air Has Shaped Life, Myth, and the Land, “It is a foolish person who builds a house on sand… yet millions of us have ignored that advice and allowed ourselves to be drawn to the cool breezes of oceans… Once there, we strive to cement our property claims with careful surveys and plats. Like all lines in the sand, these are destined to be erased by water and wind.”
On a day when the wind is perfect for sailing my Sunfish toward the marsh creeks, I rig the sail, and drop a clam rake and a small galvanized bucket into the boat’s shallow well. I cast off into the sound, lower the centerboard, adjust the sail, and grab the tiller. I sail south into the channel, heading for a sandbar near the inlet edge of the marsh. Here, the shellfish area is open and safe. I need to tack a bit to get there, but that’s fun, the boat rising up on its side in the wind, rocking in the wake of motorboats roaring past, the summer sunlight hot on my shoulders.
I beach the boat on a sandbar, and dive into the water to cool off. Then I take the rake from the boat, digging through soft sand in shallow water. When I’ve dropped a dozen or so clams into the bucket, it’s time to sail home. I only take what I need for supper.
My father would agree with Jan DeBleu. He taught me to never draw lines in the sand, but to see the world in deeply connected ways. He taught me to respect the natural world around me, and to pay attention to the lessons nature teaches. To smell the fecund marsh at low tide, to taste the salty beginnings of life in oyster and clams, to listen to a flock of gulls cry as they gather on the strand, to run marsh mud and beach sand through my fingers, are ways that I offer gratitude for the sand, the sea, and the marsh that are gifts I cherish.
Notes and Resources
The contiguous U.S. has lost over 50% of its coastal wetlands in the last 200 years, per the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. As cities creep coastward, wetlands are drained and developed to create space for growing populations, agricultural land, and other economic opportunities. Not only does this development lessen our defenses and stress fish and wildlife, but it also emits 3.5 million tons of carbon dioxide every year, according to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency. (estuaries.org)
DeBlieu, Jan. Wind: How the Flow of Air Has Shaped Life, Myth, and the Land
Kaufman, Wallace & Orrin H. Pilkey, Jr. The Beaches are Moving: The Drowning of American’s Shoreline
