clean drinking water

Posted on January 24, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty-Three

Kori and Jack lay huddled together, partially-clothed, a single throw covering them. A soft click preceded the quiet, familiar musings of NPR’s Terry Gross. They had failed to draw the curtains before retiring for an hour or so of love and sleep and Jack cracked one eye open and peered out the window into the expectant night air. Snow flurries added to the soft blanket already on the ground and he groaned at the menacing, orange-grey sky. He rolled over and checked the alarm.

“Kor. Wake up.” He nudged her gently, but she didn’t respond. “Kori. It’s time to go.” He bit her shoulder gently and her eyes flew open.

“Huh. What?” Kori sat up on one elbow and blinked, trying to orient herself.

“What day is it?” Kori stared wide-eyed out the window, her unseeing eyes darting to and fro across the night sky. Jack grinned.

“It’s Thursday. You have to bake an apple pie.”

“Apple pie?” Kori turned to look at him, but the darkness hid his features.

“Two of them.” This time he laughed and Kori woke up. She checked the alarm and fell back down on the pillow.

“Oh, the public meeting.” She rubbed a hand over her eyes and coughed. “I really didn’t know where I was for a minute.”

“I could tell.” Jack lay back down and pulled her in close. “And you said you’d bake me two apple pies.” He kissed her then rose to pull on his jeans. In their earlier haste, they had removed only the bottom half of their garments.

“Where you goin’?”

“To work.” He buckled his belt then sat down to put on his boots.

“I thought you were done for the day?”

“Installing home brains, yeah.” Jack nodded toward the window. “But now it’s snowing. People’ll need me to plow them out.”

“It’s barely a flurry.”

“They’re calling for another four to six inches.”

“By tomorrow. Not in the next two hours.”

“Hey. I gotta make money, right?”

“Jack!?!” It’s a side business, for Godsakes. You said you were only going to do it until your other business got off the ground. Well, it’s levitating. You can stop now.”

“Not tonight, I can’t.”

“You’re just doing this to get out of coming to the public meeting!”

Jack laced up his boots, leaned over and kissed her on the head.

“I’ll be back after I’m through.”

“Don’t bother.” She kicked at him, pushing the blanket off herself in the process, and stomped past him, retrieving her clothes as she headed for the door.

“Kori, come on.”

“Bastard,” she said, and slammed the door behind her.

➣➣➣

The public meeting wasn’t scheduled to start until seven, but the controversy surrounding the landfill and the effectiveness of the citizens group, helped along by the flurry of Kori’s afternoon calls, brought the crowd out early and in droves, snowy weather notwithstanding.

The high school auditorium had seating capacity for two hundred people. Kori, Avery and Gil stood at the back, scanning the room for seats together, a commodity in short supply.

“Can’t I just go home?” Gil asked.

“Gil, what’s the big deal? It’s a couple hours of your life,” Kori said. She turned to face Avery in an appeal for assistance. He shrugged.

“He wants to watch Star Trek ,” Avery said, at present feeling more inclined toward his brother’s sensibilities himself.

“Star Trek is on fifty times a week on seventeen different channels,” Kori said. She bent down, coming face-to-face with her brother. “But this – this chance to make a difference – this only happens once or twice, and it’s really, really important. So come on.” She dug in her pocket and pulled out a handful of Tootsie Roll Midgets. Gil smiled and reached for the proffered sweet, but Kori snapped her fingers shut.

“I was saving these for later, but I guess we need them now. If you take them, you have to stay and not whine and complain about wanting to leave. Okay?”

Gil nodded and she opened her hand. He grabbed every last one, accepting her gift as a compromise. Avery held out his hand and Gil reluctantly handed over a single Tootsie Roll. So buoyed by chocolate, they followed Kori down the aisle in search of seats.

They found them near the front. Aunt Stella’s coat, scarf and brilliant red hat lay draped in varying states of repose across four seats where Aunt Stella sat as border guard. She waved madly when she saw them, her knitted brow relaxing. Kori glanced around, scanning the auditorium again, looking for something a little farther back – in the event Gil started acting up, she wanted to be able to make an unobtrusive getaway – but the place was packed to overflowing with groups of people lining the walls. She turned to say something to Avery, but the boys had already made their way into the aisle and she had no choice but to follow. Gil took the seat next to Aunt Stella who always traveled with treats in her pockets.

Kori leaned over and gave her a kiss. “Thanks for saving seats.”

Aunt Stella waved it off as if it were no big deal, but given the general mood in the house, Kori knew it was a feat almost Herculean in nature.

“Where’s Jack?” Aunt Stella asked.

Kori shrugged, defeated.

“Excuse me? Is this seat taken?” Kori jerked around to see a handsome young man standing there.

“Um, no.”

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Should I?” Kori asked.

“Chris Kane. We went to high school together.”

“Oh my God.” Kori gave him the once over as surreptitiously as possible. Whatever resemblance this guy had to the Christopher “D, for Dork” Kane that she knew in high school had long since passed. “You look…”

“Different?” He nodded. “That’s what everyone says. Late bloomer, I guess. Plus I started working out.”

“I’ll say. What are you doing now?”

“I’m a correspondent for The Philadelphia Inquirer, ” he smiled, holding up the notebook in his hand.

Kori gave him a “hmmmmm” and nodded in acknowledgment. She turned to find Aunt Stella’s old crone smile and felt the blush rise in her cheeks. Gil and Avery were too engrossed in Aunt Stella’s candy to notice so she turned back to Chris Kane, a bright, full smile on her face.

➣➣➣

Kori spent the next thirty minutes engrossed. Chris proved engaging and a good listener, something Jack was not. Jack always nodded politely, interjecting when he thought appropriate based on Kori’s non-verbal cues, but this guy consumed her words. He even took notes. Kori felt a thrill run through her abdomen. She stole a glance at her brothers: Gil was working a Gameboy while Avery and Aunt Stella, their heads bowed together, spoke in conspiratorial tones.

“So. What’s your take on all this?” Chris asked.

“Do you really want to know?” Kori responded.

“Of course.”

There was so much she wanted to tell him, stuff Ruth had weaned them on, always talking to them like they were smaller versions of the adults they would become. Since Kori could talk her mother had held nothing back. Discussions ranging from the world’s political machinations to the nature of life and death were commonplace. Ruth was no artist, but it was her love of it that set Kori on her chosen path. In that instant, Kori was no longer sure where Ruth left off and she began and suddenly realized that was the way of it. We either become our parents, their prides and prejudices, or we run far and fast in the opposite direction. And right now, Kori, like Ruth, was finding it hard to keep her mouth shut.

Apparently everything Kori told Chris Kane was fascinating because he’d recorded all of it in his notebook. She talked about everything from the birth of the landfill and the spread of the deadly plume of noxious chemicals to her own personal tragedies, including the mysterious death of her parents and her current position as head of the house. She concluded with the tragic, but as yet unverified, death of her brother.

Chris wrote at a furious clip. “Whew. Alright, give me a chance to catch up.”

Kori waited for him to pause and when he did, he looked at her with new eyes, ones that said they wanted to stuff her in his pocket and keep her safe.

“Okay,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“It’s these corporations that are the problem. And the government’s in bed with them. They make it cheaper to buy virgin products by giving no incentive to buy used, like we’re never going to run out of the new stuff. It’s a pain to separate the wheat from the chaff of recyclables, I know that, but it could be a lucrative pain with the right incentives. And what about the trees? They recycle all our carbon dioxide? The fewer trees we have, the harder it is to breathe. Is it any wonder asthma in children is at an all-time high?” She bounced her knee up and down involuntarily. “People act like the environment is negotiable. Just wait. Freak weather is only the tippy top of the iceberg. Floods, droughts, water shortages. The collapse of the honey bee. Talk about end of days.” She snorted as her mother’s blood rushed through her body, and folded her hands in her lap, concluding her tirade.

“But the science is contradictory. Maybe they just don’t know,” Chris opined, smiling.

“Bull. If the government really wanted to change the way the world did business, rather than continue to let the few loot the common resources of the many, it could give tax breaks to the high-minded companies, the ones that did business with sustainable development in mind. Don’t even get me started on public lands. The government is selling our public resources at pennies on the dollar to the corporations that curry the most favor, i.e., that donate the most election dollars. Those are our lands, our children’s lands. They shouldn’t be for sale, dammit.”

She felt the truth of her own words and believed them with a force she’d never experienced before this moment. And whether it was this force or the fact that Kori felt woefully inadequate to carrying on Ruth’s legacy, she closed her mouth, because if she said one more word, she would break down and cry.

Lucky for her, the public meeting began as a speaker from EPA stepped to the podium.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. If we could have your attention.” The EPA representative, Stefanie Pierson, stood at the podium as the remaining individuals took their seats. The murmuring of the crowd died out like ripples spreading across a pond. A half dozen agency officials sat on stage with Stefanie, each with a microphone.

“As you know, we’re here tonight to lay out our findings with regard to the Stahl landfill and to draw you a road map as to what you can expect in the future. You, as the public, have a right to be part of these decisions and we would also like to encourage you to exercise that right by expressing your comments either here or in writing.”

“What about our right to clean drinking water?” Andrew Dodd shouted. He was a first cousin to Jim Stahl. He sat way in the back, but his voice carried far and away over the din of the crowd. A general murmur of agreement swept the room like a wave.

Stefanie Pierson didn’t flinch. “You absolutely have every right to clean drinking water, clean air, clean soil, a clean environment. That’s the law. But you’ve got to help us help you.”

“How the hell you gonna help us? That damn aquifer’s so polluted even the fish can’t live in it.” The crowd rumbled in agreement, the din in the auditorium growing louder.

“Sir. First of all, an aquifer is below ground and fish don’t live in it. Microbes, yes. But not fish. I do take your meaning, however. And if you could just give us a minute to run through the chosen alternatives that came out of the ROD. That stands for Record of Decision.”

“A minute?! A minute!” Jim Stahl burst into the room pushing a wheelchair, amidst a cacophony of bottles and tubing. Gasps shot through the room when the audience got a look at what had become of the once healthy and vital Vera Stahl.

“I’ll give you a Goddamn minute. But who’s going to give that minute back to my wife, huh? Is it you? Or you?” Jim pointed an accusatory finger at each of the government representatives. “How about you?” He was only halfway down the aisle, his progress hampered by the many bottles hanging from the wheelchair: salines, antibiotics, and, from the looks of Vera Stahl, morphine. Vera looked one step away from needing a hospice nurse and clearly didn’t know where she was which is probably why Jim got away with displaying her in such a vulgar and obtrusive fashion.

It was at this point in the proceedings that – to use that time tested cliché – all hell broke loose.

➣➣➣

The public meeting ended sometime after 11:00 p.m. with both hosts and participants showing signs of exhaustion. Jim Stahl’s tactic of putting his wife on display worked well initially, getting the crowd riled to a fever pitch, but the blame worked its way around again and when neighbors suggested that if Jim’s father would have complied with any one of the missives sent from Pennsylvania DEP the Hickory Hills development might not be sitting atop a despoiled aquifer. Kori was grateful the evening hadn’t been reduced to fisticuffs. In fact, real progress had been made as the EPA and DEP outlined their plan. The water in the aquifer would be pumped out of the ground, run through a carbon filter and returned, clean, to the aquifer, the same theory Marty had used on the family’s in-house filtration system. The downside was that the treatment would likely bring the cost of the remedy up to the forty million dollar range and may take as long as twenty-five years to complete.

EPA told the residents of Hickory Hills that they were to continue drinking and cooking with bottled water while their well water was to be used for the rest. Kori wondered about the wisdom of this – daily bathing would mean daily absorption of contaminants through the skin – and was about to raise the issue when Vera Stahl began a violent coughing fit. When she regained her composure, Jim gave over to the evil glares and took her home.

Gil had fallen asleep during the meeting, a deep REM sleep which followed his inhalation of a handful of Tootsie Rolls, taffy, and half a dozen mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, courtesy of Aunt Stella. Aunt Stella had not plied Gil with that much chocolate. He’d found the mother lode while she was chatting and worked it until her coat pockets sagged, depleted. Aunt Stella turned after a long discussion with a neighbor to see a pile of wrappers in Gil’s lap and him out cold. She flashed Kori a guilty look, collected the trash and covered Gil with her coat.

Gil was in the car with Avery now, wide awake and fidgety. He’d have trouble falling asleep tonight, but Kori would worry about that when she got home. Chris Kane had followed her out to the parking lot and waited while she started the car. They stood in front of Ruth’s minivan, awkward and antsy, trying to say goodbye. Gil honked the horn and Kori jumped. He was showing signs of driving away himself so she turned to Chris Kane.

“It was great seeing you again, Chris. I hope you do our meeting justice.”

“Which meeting would that be?” Chris asked.

Kori blushed, and turned away, embarrassed.

“Would you mind . . . I mean, I was thinking that a story on your brother and his, what did you call it? A TDU? That a story on his machine would make good copy for the business section. What do you think?”

“I’m not sure.” Kori looked back at Gil, jumping around in the back seat more like a monkey than the young man who held keys to the world’s better future. “I told you someone set our porch on fire. We’re don’t know if those two things are related. I don’t want anything else to happen.” For the third or fourth time tonight, Kori intuited that Chris Kane might want to lean over and kiss her, but maybe that was just wishful thinking.

“If you’re worried about it, the best thing you can do is get it out in the open. The more people who know about it, the better chance you have of staying safe.”

“Can I think about it?” Kori asked.

Chris nodded. “I’ll call you in a couple days then.”

“Okay,” Kori said, looking over her shoulder “I gotta go now.”

“Sure,” Chris replied. Kori extended her hand, but instead of shaking it, he kissed it.

to be continued. . .

This is how we got here

contaminated water

Posted on January 13, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty-Two

Twenty-five years ago, when Ruth and Marty Tirabi purchased a ten-acre plot in the middle of bucolic farmland, they thought they’d landed in heaven. Unfortunately, the realtor who sold them the property neglected to tell them that beyond the tranquil, bucolic edge of their horizon, a toxic stew was brewing. At that time, no one thought much about the environmental hazards associated with home buying. But then the intermittent smell wafted in, the one hundred and fifty-seven single family dwellings rose up like a tsunami, and carloads of benzene, toluene, and perchloroethane joined truckloads of mercury, lead, nickel, perchloroethate, and a whole host of other hazardous substances with equally unpronounceable names, forming car pools and organizing marches to the aquifer below. The caravan traveled slowly, inch by careful inch, undiscovered until a quarter century later.

And water being what it was – ubiquitous by any standard – the contamination did not confine itself to any legal borders, but spread throughout the entire aquifer, a massive thing that provided water to the Stahl’s, the Tirabi’s and their neighbors in the new Hickory Hills development. Hickory Hills attracted wealthy city dwellers who pined for pristine country air and didn’t know most farmers’ propensity not only to sell what they grew, but to rent what they owned to cover the spread. Jim Stahl, Sr. had covered his spread by renting a portion of his property to the County to be used as a landfill. And since there were few, if any, instances where one person’s actions failed to affect the lives of others, Jim’s contaminated water spread to his neighbors’ homes and discreetly took up residence there, finding permanent quarter in the kitchens and bathrooms of all one hundred and fifty-seven single family dwellings.

Lawyers advised clients in hushed, confidential tones to get a blood test and a wave of pandemonium spread through the development as test after test came back positive for cancer. Children with their developing immune systems were hit especially hard. The local newspapers did their part to raise the level of hysteria. Gossip spread rumors like a middle-aged waist-line, forcing the EPA to mount a public awareness campaign. EPA went door-to-door, offering all the neighbors of Hickory Hills bottled water until the in-house filtration systems could be installed. But in many instances, it was too late.

Jim Stahl Sr. had started landfilling in 1975, thirteen years after Rachel Carson wrote Silent Spring, one year before Congress passed the Clean Water Act, and eleven years before they would enact CERCLA, the Comprehensive Environmental Response Compensation and Liability Act, also known as the Superfund. Rivers were catching on fire, leaded gas was leaving a smoke screen out on U.S. highways, and Love Canal had exploded into public awareness. At that time, there was more to worry about than a few hundred thousand pounds of unprotected trash. But if the Senior Stahl had complied with even the most primitive dumping laws in effect at the time he started landfilling, the Hickory Hills development might not be on the National Priorities List today, and Jim Stahl, Jr. would not be mired in the muck that his father’s landfill had become. The National Priorities List or NPL was a list of the nation’s most contaminated Superfund Sites. Making that list was not something to write home about.

Over the years, corrective measures were put into place – a bit of cover here, some plastic to act as leachate collection there – but no one anticipated the rapid growth of the surrounding communities or looked at the scheme of the landfill in its entirety. Jim’s father retired, passing the whole problem on to his son – the sins of the father, as it were – and Jim took to greeting government inspectors at the door with a shotgun.

Several months and meetings later, EPA dispatched an OSC, On-Scene Coordinator, who directed two dozen people dressed in hazmat suits, moon suits as Vera, Jim’s wife, called them, to construct a temporary cap over the landfill. The cap was like a big Rubbermaid mat comprised of heavy-duty geosynthetic material. For three weeks, backhoes, trackhoes, bobcats, bulldozers and cranes dotted the landscape. When the temporary cap was complete, the contractors fenced the front half in, packed up and drove away, leaving the seething menace to percolate below and promising to send the culpable parties along to finish the job soon. Two years later, the temporary cap, held in place by used tires strung together with rope, had begun to show its age.

to be continued. . .

this is how we got here

Seven Miles per Hour

Posted on January 6, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty-One

Gil lay fast asleep on the hammock in the barn, his face pillowed against Max’s smooth, thick coat. The lights were off, and in the late-afternoon dusky, winter light, the figures entwined on the hammock looked like some monstrous, hibernating snow beast. Someone had turned the heat off, most likely by accident; the heat thermostat and the alarm system were side-by-side on the same wall. Gil’s breath, that is, the breath that escaped the confines of Max’s coat, rose in wispy tendrils mingling with the cold ambient air before dispersing its atoms at random. Gil breathed strong and steady and with purpose; the area of Max’s coat surrounding his nose and mouth was heavy with droplets of condensation. It was the breath of one knee-deep in REM sleep, working through the day’s problems with the help of divine guidance. Gil’s face bore an intense look which supplanted his usual innocent countenance and his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He twitched as if throwing off some distasteful thought and buried his hands and face deeper in the folds of Max’s warmth. Max had grown considerably in the months since they’d rescued each other — Max from life as a vagabond, and Gil from loneliness and despair — giving Gil all the more surface area to burrow beneath.

Gil tossed his head vigorously from side-to-side. His dream angels must have been working overtime and what they revealed must have sat squarely on his chest, for he groped and clawed at it as if to eradicate some pain. The behemoth beside him did not jump, simply looked back at his master to see if all was in order, yawned, then laid his head down again. He returned to doggy dreamland just as Gil opened his eyes to see his brother staring at him.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Gil said.

“That’s cause you don’t pay attention,” Robbie said. Max lifted his head and barked. He and Robbie cast appraising glances at each other. Gil patted Max’s hindquarters and, satisfied there was no threat, Max went back to sleep.

“Where were you?”

“Inside. Doin’ stuff.” Robbie inclined his head toward the house.

Gil stared at Robbie as if he were a mirage. He blinked his eyes hard and watched as Robbie strolled over to Marty’s drawings on the table. He thumbed through, studying them with intense curiosity before turning his attention back to Gil. “It’s a few days worth of work, you know.”

“I know.”

“Then why don’t you finish it?”

Gil shrugged. “It’s not that.”

“What, then?”

Gil sat up and studied his brother’s face. He looked thinner than Gil remembered and his uniform hung limply on his frame.

“Was it hard?”

Robbie nodded, a grave look momentarily alighted on his handsome face.

“Are you home for good now?”

Robbie shook his head, barely perceptible. “I still have some things to do.”

Robbie sat down on Marty’s swivel chair and pushed off hard. The chair spun. Robbie pulled his legs in close and coasted to a halt. Since they were children, the Tirabi kids played this game, seeing who could spin the most times around with one push. Being the smallest, and the lightest, Gil got the most out of his spin and held the all time record at just under four complete revolutions. Robbie pushed off again – two revolutions.

Gil watched him as happy and sad duked it out in his belly. “Do you still love us?”

Robbie abruptly placed both feet on the ground and focused on his brother: “I’ve never loved anything more in my life.”

They eyed each other a moment and then Gil smiled, his lips set in a tight thin line. He thought he might cry.

“Get to work, little brother,” Robbie said, and pushed off as hard as he could. He tucked his knees in and was spinning around once, twice, three times, when the door opened and a cold blast of arctic air preceded Avery into the barn.

Avery stood, dressed for skiing, his nose dripping. He reached for the box of tissues on the table by the door and blew profusely. Gil bolted upright and, flush with excitement, barked at his brother.

“I can’t believe you’re blowing your nose at a time like this.” Gil pointed to the chair and stared at Avery incredulously.

“You have a better time?” Avery responded, following Gil’s finger pointing to the empty chair. “Maybe I should wait until it drips down the front of my coat and then do it.”

Gil looked at the empty chair before lying back down on the hammock. He blinked and stared at the ceiling drawing quick, raw breaths.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Avery was at his side in a flash.

Water ran from Gil’s eyes, cascaded down to form small pools in his ears. Gil plunged a finger in each side to stop the deluge. Avery sat down on the edge of the hammock upsetting the equilibrium. Max groaned, but shifted his weight.

“Did you see something when you walked in?” Gil asked.

Avery looked around the room then shook his head.

“You didn’t notice anything strange?”

“No.” He felt the edge in Gil’s voice and a chill ran up his spine. He looked around uncomfortably, the breath from his mouth coming forth like giant billows of white smoke.

“I do notice the heat’s off,” Avery said. Gil shivered involuntarily and huddled closer to Max for warmth. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Gil looked at his brother for a moment and buried his head in Max’s fur.

“I’m not sure.” The voice emanating from the fur was timid and full of uncertainty.

Minutes passed and Avery was beginning to wonder whether Gil had fallen asleep, huddled beneath a blanket of fur, when without warning, Gil bounded from the hammock, dropping Avery to the floor and leaving Max to swing in the breeze.

“Stay, Max.” Max whined, but Gil stifled him with a look. The dog put his head down on his paws and watched as his master zipped up his coat and donned his gloves and hat, the one with the jingle bells on it.

“Let’s go skiing,” Gil said. And before Avery could answer, he was out the door.

➣➣➣

The tractor ran at a cruising rate of seven miles per hour through the woods. Gil and Avery arrived at the back side of the landfill in ten minutes. The Stahl’s had never put a fence around this side of the fill, a trash picker’s mecca, if there was anyone interested in picking trash.

Avery cut the engine, set the brake and hopped off. He grabbed a shovel and handed Gil one. Avery groaned. The thought of digging through trash made his stomach queasy. For some strange reason, it had relaxed his father.

Avery pulled a pair of leather work gloves from his back pocket and dug a few test holes, looking for buried treasure. Some worthy items lay scattered on top: a computer monitor, a box of clothes, a pair of sneakers. This was the newer part of the landfill that Jim Stahl, Jr. had worked toward the end of his reign – before EPA shut him down last year – and much of the trash still retained its original shape. In some of the older parts the refuse had already turned to sludge. Gil said the TDU could handle the sloppy mess, but Avery wasn’t sure if his nose were up to the task so he stuck to things that looked like earlier versions of themselves. He loaded trash with speed and dexterity, musing over the potential the TDU had to eliminate landfilling in his lifetime and thinking about Jim Stahl, Jr., their neighbor, and the son of the man unwittingly responsible for providing them with this bonanza of refuse. Like a miniature volcano, the landfill burped, releasing a pocket of foul-smelling methane gas into the ambient air. Avery jumped, coughed and covered his nose. Gil giggled.

Gil could feel rather than see the aquifer, bubbling as it flowed beneath the landfill, a toxic soup thick with carcinogens as unpronounceable as they were hazardous to the health. He stood up, stretching the last hour’s hard labor from his chicken wings. He planted the shovel in the ground and gave the area another cursory view. The trailer was already heaping, but Gil spied a box of recyclables, plastic bottles and aluminum cans, and couldn’t leave without them. Made from petroleum themselves, recyclable plastics were the TDU’s gold bullion. They yielded the highest quantity and best grade of oil. And Marty’s oil, already of superior quality, bumped up a notch each time the TDU ate a batch of recyclables. He tossed the shovel in the trailer, grabbed the box, and took a seat, hesitating a moment before setting it on his lap, the only free space left.

“What a waste of time,” Gil said.

“What’s a waste of time?” Avery asked tossing his shovel in the trailer.

“People spend hours every week recycling. And it ends up in a landfill.”

“That’s cause there’s no market. You can’t make food grade plastic out of lesser grades. We need a federal law and mandatory labeling. Then a milk container could be a milk container again. And a cat litter container could be a cat litter container again,” Avery said, getting behind the wheel of the tractor. “Right now they don’t know what’s what. Besides,” he said, starting the engine, “it would be political suicide to declare recycling a failure. It makes people feel like they’re doing their part.”

“So even if your SUV only gets eleven miles to the gallon, you can still feel good?”

“Right.” Avery grimaced at the slime now on Gil’s pants. “Hey, now when I call you a slime ball, I won’t be lying.”

Avery turned the tractor around and headed for home.

➣➣➣

Kori sat at the kitchen table, cordless phone in hand, rifling through Ruth’s telephone book. Up to the F’s, she thumbed down the list, then dialed. Avery and Gil walked in, the twenty degree air on their heels. They stamped their feet, flinging snow off their boots and leaving it to puddle on the kitchen rug. Kori scowled at both the intrusion and the mess, throwing a dishtowel at Avery’s head. Avery wiped up the floor.

“Mrs. Friedler? Hi. This is Kori Tirabi. I’m calling to remind you about the public meeting tonight at the high school. Are you going?”

“Hey, Gil,” Avery said. “You want some hot chocolate?”

Kori waved Avery away, shooting him a take your conversation elsewhere look. Avery asked Gil the question again, but silently as he pantomimed liquid being poured into a cup and someone stirring. Gil responded in kind, rubbing his belly with huge circular motions and Kori giggled.

“Oh no, I wasn’t laughing at you, Mrs. Friedler. I know hemorrhoids can be dreadfully indisposing, well actually, I don’t have first hand knowledge, but my brother Avery suffers from them periodically.”

Avery’s eyes shot up and he threw the soggy dishtowel back at her. She ducked and it missed. Avery bowed low, making a sweeping motion with his arm indicative of a good loser.

“C’mon, Gil. Let’s see what’s on T.V. We’ll deal with her later.” He grabbed Gil by the shoulder and steered him in the direction of the living room.

“Well that’s great. We’ll see you tonight,” Kori said. She hung up and flipped Ruth’s directory to the G’s.

there’s more to the story if you start here

love for oil

Posted on January 1, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty

A fairly starved Gil started right in on the plate of eggs, sausages, and toast with butter and raspberry jam that appeared like magic before him. He didn’t care whether anyone else would be joining him. He would not be participating in conversation. He could not spare a single brain cell for anything other than the food in front of him and the inner workings of his own mind, occupied as it was, with gears, gaskets and temperature adjustments.

He could see the TDU clearly, behind the eye, all gleaming steel and aluminum, its curves and junctures, the placement of each nut and bolt. He’d studied the drawings for hours, had known since the time his father had asked what needed to be done how to correct the problems, but it was only now, with his father’s blessing, that he allowed himself the luxury of dwelling on the actual mechanics of its completion. Still, maybe fixing it was not at all what Marty was trying to tell him….

Gil missed his father terribly and wondered why his belly hurt now, months later, and whether those two things were connected. Maybe it was his Dad’s refusal to speak last night that reminded him of the truth of things. Since his death, Marty had so often visited Gil on the astral plane, that magic place where dreams intersect reality, that Gil had tricked himself into believing his father was still alive. But last night, Marty wouldn’t talk to him, no matter how much Gil pleaded. And now with Robbie…. A lump formed in his throat, a sensation he wasn’t used to, and he gulped down a mouthful of milk to wash it away.

He wiped his plate clean with the last bite of toast, downed the rest of his milk and belched. Max raised his head, wagged his tail, and went back to sleep.

“Gil!” Kori’s voice shook him from his reverie and he giggled. Avery stifled a laugh and took a bite of his eggs.

Kori was looking at him weird, like his mother used to. The resemblance was amazing, and when Kori stood and gave him a hug, he felt for a moment his mother’s arms around him, shuddered as her spirit passed over his bones. She’d want him to sleep, they both would, because his eyes were red and his nose still runny from being outside for so long, and she wouldn’t want him to get a cold. Still, he wasn’t tired, but wired with an unending series of thoughts and fractions of them. He didn’t want to sleep, he also didn’t want to think anymore; just wanted his mind to wait a little. And he sure as heck didn’t want to fight with Kori. Better go upstairs. Pretend to do what she wanted.

“May I be excused?” he asked.

Kori nodded acquiescence. “What are you going to do now? Watch a movie?”

“I’m going to go take a nap,” Gil announced.

“Oh, really.” Kori raised her eyebrows in disbelief. He smiled at her and mustered his most innocent facial expression.

“Bring your plate to the counter then.”

Gil obeyed, placing his plate and cup in the sink. “Good night,” he said and turned on his heel. He smiled to himself as he left, pleased with the deception. Max jumped up with alacrity and followed Gil out the door.

“I need to run some errands this morning,” Kori called after him. “Avery will be here if you need anything, but you probably won’t because you’ll be sleeping.” Gil turned and from the corner of his eye saw Kori and Avery exchange a glance; he feigned obliviousness.

“Okay,” Gil said. Mother instinct. They must be born with it . Plans foiled, the smile left Gil’s face as he and Max rounded the stairs to his room.

➣➣➣

Gil waited forever while Avery ran the snow blower up and down their winding driveway and Kori shoveled out the walks. He was waiting for his chance to escape to the barn. He needed to decide whether to fix the TDU and maybe looking at it would help him. He paced the floor, indulging his impatience, then sat down on the floor, closed-eyed and cross-legged, concentrating on his breathing like Avery had taught him, but neither helped. After forever and ten minutes, he threw himself on the bed, pulled a blanket up to his chin, and stared at the ceiling. Patience was not his forte. Visions of valves and pistons danced in his cerebral cortex. Gil sighed and drew a deep breath.

“You almost need an oil company,” Marty said. “Otherwise, how do you think we’ll get the oil to the dealers? UPS?”

Gil laughed. My father, the card.

The back door slammed and Gil knew Avery had come inside. He sat up and looked around, rubbed his eyes. The room was empty.

“Rats.” The clock said he’d given the last four hours to Morpheus.

Gil listened at the top of the stairs and heard Avery banging around in the kitchen. He sniffed the ambient air with a deer-like adeptness and his stomach rumbled in response. Heavenly smells wafted toward him, threatening to derail his plans. Melted ham and cheese. Impulse and hunger almost threw him over the railing.

Gil found Avery bent over the toaster oven, fiddling with the sandwich makings inside. He looked at the table set for two and a satisfied smile crossed his face. He snuck up behind his brother and peered over his shoulder.

“Whatcha’ doin’?” Gil asked.

Avery jerked, slamming the door to the toaster oven as he did so. “You…have got…to stop …doing that,” he said, turning to his brother in slow motion.

Gil shrugged, smiled. “What’s for lunch?”

“Ham and cheese.”

“Chips?”

“You know where they are.”

“When’s Kori coming home?”

“She went to Jack’s. It’s anybody’s guess.”

Gil retrieved the chips then watched as Avery pulled the melted deliciousness from the toaster oven. His mouth watered at the sight of his second favorite food in the entire world, his first being roasted pork cooked with loads of garlic, rosemary and sage, and a heaping pile of mashies on the side. Despite his culinary dispositions, Gil hadn’t thought much about how indebted he was to the pig. He opened the bag of chips, laying a handful on each plate, routed around the bag, found and stuffed the biggest chip in his mouth, and sat down.

Avery set a glass of milk in front of him and they ate in silence while Gil did a little happy dance in his chair. He finished his sandwich, downed the milk and raised his plate.

“More sandwich.”

Avery raised his eyebrows and looked at Gil point blank.

“Please,” Gil said.

Avery retrieved a second round of sandwiches from the little oven, placing one on each of their plates. Gil leaned in close and sniffed in a lung full of ham and cheese. He held it a moment, before taking a whopper of a bite.

“Avery?”

“Hmmm?”

“Did Robbie really go to Iraq for oil?”

Avery dropped the hot pad on the counter and took his seat. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think there were some factors other than economic, perhaps humanitarian, but then I think about what the real legacy of the current administration will be and I wake up.”

Gil stared at his brother, perplexed. “What are you talking about?”

“Never mind.”

Gil rinsed his food down with some milk. “Kori thinks it was for oil.”

“Kori’s a cynic. But… she’s probably right.” Avery looked over at Gil’s crumby, milk-kissed mouth and handed him a napkin. “Does that upset you? I mean, would it upset you more?”

“You mean if he died for oil instead of something else important?”

“Yeah.”

Gil nodded, gazing out the window. “Uh-huh. Especially if I can make oil out back.”

“Do you think he did?” Avery asked. “Died, I mean.”

Gil shrugged. He’d been unable to formulate a coherent opinion on the subject, and all sources of help he might have received, divine or otherwise, weren’t talking. They finished their sandwiches in silence.

“You gonna do what Dad said?” Avery asked. “Fix the TDU?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Gil shoved a few chips in his mouth, but didn’t respond.

“If you decide to, I can get a few startup loads of trash.”

Gil dropped his plate in the sink, wiped his mouth with the sponge and grabbed his coat.

“Hey, Gil.” Gil turned.

“First of all, that’s gross. Second, I don’t think Robbie’s . . . dead. But regardless, the world still needs Dad’s contraption. Even if you don’t have a reason to build it.”

Gil gave Avery the briefest of hugs, rounded on his heel and ran out the door.

to be continued. . .

start here. . .

long way home

Posted on December 15, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Forty-Nine

Snow blanketed the fields, barren, but for the odd bale of rolled hay. The wind whistled through the leafless branches, and left them creaking and moaning with its passing. With only a week until the winter solstice, the mornings rose dark and still and laden with the musings of Morpheus, still lost in the labyrinth of the dreamy night. Today, the lingering full moon cast just enough light on the earth for a trail to be visible. A lone cross-country skier glided across the top of the hill at the horizon, dipped down below on the opposite side, then resurfaced.

Avery stood at the back door watching Gil ski up and over the top, disappearing only to intermittently reappear, a small, barely distinguishable figure in the shadowy dawn. Gil wore Marty’s headlight and Avery watched the light shine and recede, shine and recede.

Avery wore his ski pants and an unzipped jacket. His gloves dangled at his side, his ski boots propped in the corner. His stockinged feet curled at the sudden gust of wind that shot through the door.

“Either in or out, huh?” Kori shuffled in, still crunchy from sleep, and clutched her robe tightly to her chest, an impenetrable shield against the wintry gust. She headed straight for the coffee pot. She had a long crease down her right cheek where the side of her face had lain, smashed into a rumpled pillow for too long. Avery closed the door and watched out the window.

“How’d you sleep,” Kori asked, her own eyes red and swollen.

“I don’t think I did.” He turned his haggard face to her. “Or if I did, I don’t remember.”

“How long’s he been out there?”

“Since about four this morning.”

“Are you going out?” she asked. Avery shrugged, but didn’t answer. Kori stood and grabbed a mug from the cabinet. “It’s pretty hard core to go out into below freezing weather at 6:30 in the morning just to get an hour of skiing in.”

“Gil’s out there.”

“If he’s been out since 4 o’clock, it’s not exactly like he needs you.” She sat down at the table and fiddled with a stray napkin, rolling it up and unwinding it again and again. “Why’d you let him go out so early? It’s so dark.”

Avery watched the horizon where his brother had just reappeared on the surface of the world. “It’s not like I have complete control over him, Kor. He went out before I got up. I heard him clanging around in the garage trying to get the skis down, is all.” He turned back to her. “He left mine on the deck.” Avery sighed, zipped up his jacket and grabbed his boots. “Did you know we were supposed to get snow?”

Kori yawned and covered her mouth, nodding her head. “School’s canceled. I saw it on the news.”

Avery laced up his boots and stood. “Bonus.” He drew a deep breath before asking his next question. “Do you think it’s true?” Concern had etched lines in his face that weren’t there the day before. He knew Kori didn’t know, that it was pointless to ask, but she was older, and therefore, wiser and Avery was looking for confirmation or consolation, anything but resignation.

Kori picked up the dog tags that were lying in the middle of the kitchen table, pulled the chain out to its full length and rested her fingers upon them. She closed her eyes as if divination could be had by mere touch. She shook her head, slowly at first, and then with more vehemence.

“Me either,” Avery said. “I just have this feeling. I hope I’m not making it up.” He put on his gloves, pulled his hat down over his ears and eyebrows, and opened the door.

Avery?” Kori walked over and stood behind her brother.

“Did Gil have any dreams?” She shrunk and inch into herself as if bracing for a blow.

Avery touched Kori’s shoulder and smiled. “I guess I’ll find out now,” he said, grabbed his skis and was gone.

Kori watched until he vanished over the hill.

➣➣➣

The moon, low in the sky and paling more with each creeping minute of dawn, looked like a magnificent deity bestowing blessings upon all who gazed at her. The last of her beneficence left a light touch, a shimmering wake across the snow-covered fields. Even the landfill looked beautiful: a white, proud mountain of refuse. Avery caught up to Gil as he approached the backside of it. They skied together in silence for the last hundred yards until Gil stopped at the foot of the landfill’s fence, flicked off his headlamp and jammed his poles into the ground. He stared at the mound of trash, deftly hidden beneath a cloud of white, and began to hum.

“Only you could hum while looking at garbage,” Avery said. He stuck his own poles in the ground and watched the trash pile intently, waiting for something to shatter the tranquility.

“I was thinking about Daddy.” Gil said.

“Really? About Dad? Not about Robbie?”

Gil shook his head, slow and deliberate, like a metronome.

“Well, what about Dad?” Gil turned Marty’s headlamp on again and focused it on a specific spot in the center of a frozen mound.

Avery followed the light and thought he could see a computer monitor, but he was only guessing. He looked at Gil’s nose, dripping profusely. Gil didn’t seem to notice. Avery grabbed a clean, but crumpled tissue from his coat pocket and pushed it toward his brother who ignored the gesture. Avery held the tissue up to Gil’s nose and Gil blew, releasing more than a single tissue full of his own goopy refuse. Avery fumbled for another tissue while still holding the first to Gil’s nose and brought it to the aid of the first. He wiped Gil’s nose and grimacing slightly, jammed the soggy remnants back into his own pocket “Anything else I can do for you?” he asked.

“He wouldn’t answer me when I asked about Robbie. I kept asking, ‘Daddy, where’s Robbie? Is he okay?’ and he just kept smiling at me. Then he took me into the barn and showed me the TDU. He fiddled around and made a few adjustments….” The trash pile still showed no signs of movement. “I think he wants me to finish it.”

Avery’s eyebrows shot up. “Did he say that?”

“He didn’t say anything. But I just thought that was what he wanted.” Gil pulled a single pole out of the snow and drove it back into the ground. “Do you think maybe Dad doesn’t know about Robbie? Like maybe, if Robbie’s alive that he can’t see him very well or something?” Gil looked at his brother. “Or maybe Robbie doesn’t want to be seen. Like maybe he’s hiding.”

Avery had contemplated this same theory, but had not voiced it. His brother was canny, knew how to live in the woods off of nuts and berries and roots and other queer stuff, knew how to build a fire from two tiny little sticks, a veritable boy scout geekazoid. He would be a great guy to have around in an apocalyptic, end-of-the-world kind of event. But disappearing without a trace from a crowded market in the middle of a suicide bombing attempt leaving nothing behind but a set of dog tags, well, things seemed a little convoluted, even for Robbie. Still it was a relief to hear Gil voice the opinion.

“I don’t know. If he is still alive, he’ll be in touch soon.”

Gil nodded. “Will you help me?”

“Absolutely. With what?”

“With the TDU?”

“I thought you didn’t want to work on that anymore?”

“Well, I don’t because of Dad, you know. But I think…” Gil’s words tumbled out in a jumbled, yet coherent flurry. “I really don’t, but what if that’s what he wants, Dad, I mean, and if I didn’t do it well then he might be mad at me and maybe he wouldn’t visit me anymore so I really should do it but it really gives me the creeps I mean what if those creepy bad guys come back so I need some back up which is why I’m asking if I did would you help me? I’d need, you know, to get the TDU up and running and help get the feedstock from the landfill and…. I guess, well maybe it’s okay, cause I think Dad wanted it….actually, I don’t know what he wanted, but he kept showing me the drawings, and some newer ones that he’d worked on for the refining part. I don’t know what he was saying since I never really looked at the refining drawings – I was more interested in the TDU – so we didn’t talk much about it, but….why do you think he just didn’t come out and say what he wanted?” Gil said finally, frustrated.

Gil’s nose was running again and this time he ran his gloved hand underneath it catching most of the watery mucus. Avery grimaced and made a mental note to wash Gil’s gloves. He stamped his ski-shod feet on the ground to tamp down the cold creeping up his legs, cold to which Gil seemed impervious.

“I don’t know. It’s near Christmas time. Maybe he was trying to be the ghost of Christmas future.”

“The one with George C. Scott?” Gil smiled. “That one was my favorite.”

“C’mon. Let’s get moving before my legs freeze off.”

“Let’s go this way,” Gil said, turning toward the woods, the long way home.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before jump here

keep the birds warm

Posted on November 19, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Forty-Five

The Wildlife Rescue Center in northeastern Maryland, a one-stop emergency room for oiled birds and other mammals, was brimming to capacity. Trained staff and volunteers littered the aisles like road debris, working as quickly as possible to address the backlog. The temperature was set to a balmy eighty degrees to keep the birds warm, a temperature which worked quite well outside, especially with a nice crosswind, but not inside a building packed with so many CO2 breathing mammals. People were sweating profusely; a few of the workers looked like they just took a dip in the river.

The Wildlife Rescue Center was a coalition of the local SPCA, the Friends of Waterfowl, a local, well-known, bird conservancy, as well as federal, state and local government partners. The building itself was huge, about fourteen thousand square feet in the shape of an open rectangle, cordoned off with moveable walls to accommodate the varying resource needs. The largest area was set aside as the trauma center. The building sat, idle yet prepared, to be used only in the event of an oil spill. It was the coalition’s greatest hope that the money they’d invested in this building would go to waste and that the facility and its equipment would sit and collect dust. Unfortunately, today that hope was not realized as dozens of veterinarians and trained volunteers worked side-by-side, attempting to undue what might not be capable of being undone.

Doctor Alyssa Morgan, a veterinarian and Director of the Wildlife Rescue Center, was on the phone in a small walled office at the back of the room, gesticulating animatedly. Lapsley and Hart walked into the middle of the trauma center and looked around, lost children waiting for direction. Dr. Morgan caught sight of Lapsley through her office window and waved, the scowl on her face softening. Lapsley took that as a good sign.

By the time they reached the door, she hung up the phone and ushered them into the office. The office was a mere eight by twelve feet and harbored a desk with a phone, a couch which at present was a catch-all for a miscellaneous reports and papers, and a credenza with a coffee pot. Two more people could fit, but only if they took turns breathing. Realizing rather belatedly the ridiculousness of this arrangement, she hustled them out.

“Vic,” Dr. Morgan said, extending a hand. “Long time.”

“Hey, Alyssa.” Lapsley took her hand, holding it a few seconds longer than necessary. Dr. Morgan blushed.

“This is David Hartos. Chief of Engineering for Akanabi Oil.” Hart extended a hand which Dr. Morgan accepted, but the bloom faded from her face, replaced with a cold, hard stare.

“Lyss, he didn’t go out and dump the oil himself,” Lapsley said. One side of his mouth quirked in a wry smile. The joke worked.

“So what’s going on?” Lapsley said.

“You’re looking at it,” Dr. Morgan said, extending an arm in a wide arc.

“You look like hell,”Lapsley said, his gaze fixed on her face.

“Thanks. You look pretty lousy yourself.”

“You know what I mean,” Lapsley said.

Dr. Morgan nodded. “I was up most of the night cleaning oiled birds. They’re still coming in. And it’s not just the Rescue Team. Fishermen are bringing them in now. It doesn’t look like it’s going to slow down anytime soon.” She gazed around the room and back to Lapsley. “We need backup.”

A lock of hair fell into her eyes. Lapsley resisted the urge to brush it back.

“Why don’t you just put out a couple radio ads? Akanabi’ll pay for it.” Lapsley looked at Hart to make sure this was, in fact, true. Hart confirmed.

“I’m sure plenty of people would be willing to volunteer,” Hart said.

“First time at a Rescue Center, Mr. Hart?” Dr. Morgan asked. Lapsley detected the note of satisfaction in her voice and suppressed the urge to smile.

“Actually, I usually repair the leak before it gets to this stage so this is a bit out of my range, I’ll admit,” Hart said. “But I’d be happy to help.”

“You can’t. You’re not trained. All our volunteers have had a two-day intensive training. To allow you to work on these birds without the proper training would rise to the level of malpractice.”

“There’s got to be something we can do,” Lapsley said.

Dr. Morgan scanned the room. About fifteen de-oiling stations had been set up, all but one presently occupied.

“Check each of the stations and make sure they have sufficient quantities of Dawn dishwashing detergent, rags and trashbags.” Dr. Morgan said.

“I guess that means you want us to hang for awhile?” Lapsley asked.

“For awhile. You mind?”

Lapsley shook his head and smiled at her.

“When did you last take the training?” Dr. Morgan asked Lapsley.

“Probably ten years ago,” he replied. She sighed.

“Alright, you better stick close to me.” Lapsley looked at Hart and winked. He could think of nothing better he’d like to do this morning.

to be continued. . .

to read how this came to pass jump here

wildlife sanctuary

Posted on November 4, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fourty-Four

It was a wind like only January could send down, brutal and unforgiving. Zenone cursed under his breath and stumbled back inside the command post trailer, the wind slamming the door shut for him. It continued to beat against the trailers sides, rocking it inexorably, and he wondered if he and the command post might not end up in Kansas with Dorothy and Toto. In sharp contrast to the chaos, whipping white caps across the river, the snow clouds cast a calm, eerie light across the sky, beautiful and surreal like the color of Mars. By mid-afternoon, the increasing pain in his wrist told him the weather had all but arrived. With that ample warning, he had the foresight to shut down all beach cleanup operations for the day and radio in all seafaring vessels allowing them sufficient time to dock. So far, nine out of ten of the boats had radioed in, safely ensconced at various locations up and down the Delaware.

Zenone felt it his duty to stay put until the last boat was in and all personnel were present and accounted for, but what he really wanted was a beer. It had been a long day, eighteen hours if you counted the two hours he put in before he arrived at the command post. He knew if he drank a beer right now he’d be sleeping in the trailer, but he checked the small fridge anyway, hoping for a bit of a miracle. It was empty but for a pint of half-drunk chocolate milk and a jug of orange juice. He turned his nose up at the juice. The acid would rake his stomach and he didn’t need a full blown case of heartburn. He grabbed the chocolate milk, opened the carton and sniffed the contents, recoiling at the smell emanating from within.

“Aachhh.”

He set the milk down on the desk and made a mental note to stop at a store on his way home, that is, if he didn’t fall asleep at the wheel. He was bone weary from lack of sleep and his stomach rumbled, adding to the mix. A cheesesteak would be good right now.

The wind howled and the trailer throbbed, driving all thoughts of food from Zenone’s head. He took a stool at the drafting table, ran his hands through his hair. Outside, snow started to fall. Zenone stared at the phone, willing it to ring. The silence crept into his inner ear, as pervasive as the oil on the Delaware, making its bunk up for the night. The storm would go a ways toward breaking up the oil, but there was still too much in the water. If it could have just waited until tomorrow when they had recovered more. Then Mother Nature could get to work. He scanned the computer generated simulation Lapsley had brought him. The Coast Guard had sent a helicopter up on an overflight mission to map the extent of contamination – an aerial view of the spill was immensely helpful in these circumstances – but it was only partially successful due to the weather. The heavy cloud cover made it hard to distinguish the slick, while the clouds’ shadows cast what looked like dark stains, easily mistaken for oil, upon the water. After ascertaining the imperfection of purely visual analysis, the overflight team notified Akanabi who sent up their environmental consultant. He snapped a bunch of photos with infrared light cameras which produced a much clearer picture of the spill, then fed the reconnaissance data into a computer. The program crunched the spill data, mixed in environmental conditions such as wind and weather, and simulated the spill’s course and dispersion rate. The conclusion was that the oil was heading toward the Delaware Bay where it would likely be contained and, as a result, wouldn’t reach the Atlantic Ocean. Duh. Although in open ocean waters computer modeling could be extremely helpful in determining the direction of a spill, in this case, the Delaware only went two ways and the odds were staggering that the oil would return to the Bay with the outgoing tide.

“I’d say they got ripped off,” Zenone said. He tossed the aerial map aside and rested his head on his closed fist.

Zenone’s guys had managed to sufficiently confine the oil just short of the Bay before having to abort the mission. At that time, and by some good will of the gods, only the Pennsylvania side of the shoreline had been affected. But the way the wind was bandying the oil about now, the shores on both sides of the Delaware and likely the Bay would be gummed up by morning.

He grabbed the shoreline cleanup manual off the desk and thumbed through the various clean up methods looking for something he might have missed: removal; steam cleaning; high-pressure washing; chemical and hydraulic dispersion. Chemical and hydraulic dispersion . The eight-foot waves would take care of the hydraulic part. He would have preferred a good surface washing, lying down some rip rap and hosing off the beaches. Then they could collect the oil off the rip rap and dispose of it properly. But now the waves were going to wash the oil back into the river where it would sink to the bottom. Chemical dispersants would break it up, but…

Zenone removed his hat and scratched his head, then ran his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t thought about chemical dispersants because the Delaware was a fresh water body and chemicals had a certain degree of toxicity. What if the dispersants could be placed before the storm came, an emulsifier that would break the oil down into smaller pieces and drive it into the water column where it would more easily biodegrade. That and the oncoming wind and large waves would break it up fast. But the chemicals . The heavy oils were less toxic; they tended to sit on the surface of things rather than penetrate them, but they were tough to remove – like picking up gravel with tweezers – and smothered the smaller organisms that lived on the shore. He flipped through the manual looking for guidance. The Coast Guard had some pre-approved areas where emulsifiers could be used – he wasn’t sure without looking where they were – but how the hell were they going to get the stuff in the river before the storm, especially now since he’d recalled all seafaring vessels. He could go out himself maybe…

“Oh my God, I’m losing it.” He closed the book and pushed it aside, wishing again that he had a beer. He checked the cell phone. No new calls. He grabbed the trailer phone and laid down on the small couch. Just until I get the call . He closed his eyes and because of his exhaustion, rapid eye movement began almost at the outset.

Zenone stood on the shore watching large waves crash against it and taking with them, back to the river, the blackness that covered the land. He smiled. The oil was dissipating. Once again, Mother Nature prevailed. The snow clouds cast an eerie orange light, enough for him to see. It was all going great until the waves started dropping things on the beach; a loud thump, followed by a scattering of black, rounded clumps of solid mass.

He walked over to investigate. A large, oiled bird lay on the ground, half-dead and shivering from hypothermia. Zenone touched the animal as it opened its eyes, blinking back the oil, trying to clear its vision. He felt his own eyes sting with tears. Zenone wiped the bird’s eyes with his fingers, then his hands, removing what oil he could, but the task was impossible, like removing water from a well with a slotted spoon. He was so engrossed, he didn’t notice the wall of water behind him. The wave crashed on the shoreline, knocking Zenone to the ground and taking the bird with it. He climbed to his feet and staggered down the beach. Another crashing wave, another thump , followed by another, and another. Zenone looked up to see birds lying everywhere, landing on the beach with each successive wave. He dropped to his knees and crawled to the nearest bird. A glob of oil was stuck in the bird’s esophagus. He reached in and tried to dislodge it. The bird fought him, flapping against both the intrusion and the lack of oxygen. It clamped down hard on Zenone’s fingers and he yelped in surprise and pain.

➣➣➣

“Rise and shine,” Lapsley said, squeezing the fingers of Zenone’s hand. Zenone shrieked and Lapsley jumped back, almost dropping the pair of coffees he carried. He set the carrier down, removed his gloves and handed Zenone a cup of the steaming brew.

“What time is it?” Zenone croaked.

“Five forty-five. That would be a.m.,” Lapsley said. “You look like hell.” Lapsley noted the dark, foreboding circles under Zenone’s eyes, but said nothing more

“You’re no prince charming, yourself,” Zenone grumbled. He accepted the coffee and took a big swig. “Goddamn, that’s good.” He took another swig, walked to the table and pulled at the bag Lapsley brought, extracting a whole wheat bagel with cream cheese.

“Hungry?” Lapsley asked.

Zenone nodded and consumed half the bagel in a bite. “Never got dinner.”

Outside, the water looked choppy, but calmer than the night before.

“Chocolate mousse,” Lapsley said.

There was a loud bang at the door and Zenone jumped again spilling coffee on the table. “Damn,” he said and grabbed the bag for some napkins. He spoke through a mouth full of bagel. “Come.”

Hart entered carrying several cups of coffee and a box of donuts which he set on the table. Zenone smiled at the offering.

“If you bring food, you’re always welcome,” Zenone said, shoving bagel in his mouth. He nodded to a seat which Hart took.

“Lap and I were just talking about chocolate mousse.”

Hart raised an eyebrow. “All I brought were Munchkins.”

“And that’ll do.” Zenone routed through the box and popped one in his mouth. “You know, when oil becomes aerated, generally after the second or third day, it starts to look like chocolate mousse.”

“He’s head of engineering for Akanabi Oil. He probably knows that,” Lapsley said.

“You never know,” Zenone replied. “It’s a hell of a state. All whipped.”

“Like you before you got divorced.” Lapsley said. Zenone ignored the slur.

“In the summer, the oil turns into tarry clumps and ends up on the beach,” Hart said.

“Asphaltine,” Lapsley added. Hart nodded and Lapsley smiled. “Sorry. We’re used to dealing with the public.”

“Do you know if any of it has sunk yet?” Hart asked. “The Arabian crude is pretty heavy. It’s probably just a matter of time.”

“We’ll find out today,” Lapsley replied. “Once the water has a chance to settle.”

“I got a helicopter on standby equipped with sonar. If there are globules on the bottom, large or small, we can track it,” Hart said.

“Hey, remember that one spill?” Lapsley asked Zenone. “These big globs of oil were up and down the river like bouncy balls, back and forth with the tide.”

Zenone’s cell phone rang. The command post phone was also blinking. “Damn.”

“It came in around eleven,” Lapsley said, intuiting the source of Zenone’s concern.

“How do you know?”

“Because they called me when you didn’t answer your phone.”

Zenone nodded and sat down, visibly relieved.

“You don’t need me this morning, do you?” Lapsley asked.

“Whaddya got goin’ on?”

“We’re going to take a ride to Chesapeake to the wildlife sanctuary. Want to go?”

A shiver ran down Zenone’s spine and he stared off into space for a moment, looking at something Hart and Lapsley couldn’t see. “Nah. Go ahead.” He waived a hand to dismiss them.

“I’ll check in at Tinicum Marsh on my way back. I haven’t heard from anybody yet. Hopefully the booms held.”

Zenone drew a deep breath let it out slowly. “With a little luck….”

to be continued. . .

read how we got here, here

murky water with low visibility

Posted on October 23, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Forty-Three

Hart descended into the murky realms of the Delaware River, enjoying the cocoon-like warmth of his wet suit. He had opted for it over the dry suit even though the water was on its way to below freezing. The dry suit would keep him dry, but not warm enough, not in these arctic-like conditions. Ah, but the wet suit, that was a suit of a different color. It sported an insulated neoprene hose which tied onto the outside of the umbilical, ran down the side of his body and attached at the spider, a three-way valve at the waist of his suit. The hose was fed by a hot water machine that had an oil-fired burner and a digital thermostat to control the temperature. Under usual circumstances, water to feed the hose would be drawn from the water body the diver found himself in, but given the petrol load the Delaware was carrying, Hart directed the hot water machine be fed with water from a local fire hydrant and transported via garden hose. The hose was threaded around the interior of Hart’s wet suit and one hundred degree water escaped through the little holes poked in it, entering in myriad locations and keeping his whole body warm. The hose could even blow warm water through the cuff and into Hart’s smaller gloves making the large, bulky, but warmer three-finger gloves unnecessary. Hart closed his eyes, allowing himself to bask for a few moments in the warmth before proceeding down the ladder into the water.

The Delaware river, a murky water with low visibility on a good day, was even worse today because of the impending storm. Hart reached a level that he assumed would be the bottom of the ship’s hull, but without touching it he couldn’t distinguish metal from water. He dropped another few feet, holding fast to the traveling line, but the scenery didn’t change.

“Great. Now what?”

“What’s up, Boss?” Smith’s voice crackled through Hart’s umbilical flooding the inner chamber of his helmet with sound.

“I can’t see a damn thing. What are they puttin’ in this water anyway?”

“Lots of industry around here. Ships going up and down the channel churnin’ up the bottom. The Army Corps always dredging it to keep the depth right. Then there’s the farming,” Smith mused. “I’d say you got some sediment, some debris…”

“It was a rhetorical question, Smithy.”

“…and, I’d leave it at that. You don’t want to be thinking too hard about what you’re swimming in unless you want to puke in your helmet.” Smith cracked up at that, and Hart joined him, his body quivering with silent laughter.

“Smithy. Help me here. I can’t see the ship. It’s no where in sight, far as I can tell.” Hart flicked his headlamp on and off, looking to bounce the light off of something. He wrapped the tow rope around his leg before reaching his hands out in front of him, groping vainly in the darkness. “I got nothin’.”

“The traveling rope should be about three feet in front of the Ryujin . So if you’re facing in the right direction, you could jump…”

Before Smith could finish his sentence Hart jumped, using the traveling rope for leverage, and after a forward propulsion in slow motion, his helmet came to rest against the hull of the Ryujin with a resounding thump.

“What was that?” Smith asked.

“My brains getting rattled.” Hart moved his hands along, feeling for the bilge keel, the fin-like projections from either side of the hull that helped stabilize a ship in rough seas. He cast his light directly on the hull and found he could see somewhat better. Hart’s thin gloves allowed for greater movement, but also meant he’d be more prone to cuts and scraps against jagged metal. He proceeded with caution moving down and around the bottom of the hull, alert for sharp metallic pieces of the ship’s frame.

After several dim minutes, Hart’s glove snagged on a sharp object. He trained the light in its direction and found a hole, about fifteen inches wide and half as long. He reached his hand in, feeling the emptiness of the space where the oil used to be and shuddered. The boulder, or whatever it was, had ripped a hole right on a seam of the hull, a faulty one at that. Hart’s eye followed the rip in the hull until it dissolved into blackness. He pulled out an underwater tape measure and after ascertaining the width, proceeded down the length of the hull looking for the end of the rainbow. Eight and a half feet later, the gaping stopped. Now it made sense. Hart had been wondering how in the hell so much oil had come out of what he was thinking probably looked like a small gash in the bottom, given both the pilot and captain’s descriptions of impact. With a small hole and entrainment, most of the oil would have stayed put while the ship was moving. But this was no small hole. The impact had given way to a split seam on the hull. With a hole this size, no matter how fast the ship had been going, the oil was coming out. Zenone was right: time to retire the single-hulled vessels. The expense to the company was nothing compared to what it was doing to this river. He’d talk to Bicky about it as soon as he got back. Bicky would have other ideas, but he’d never been on Site for a major oil spill either….

“Hey, Boss.” Smith’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Time to come home. Coast Guard just issued a squall warning. They want all ships and other non-necessary personnel out of the water, pronto.”

“I can’t see a damn thing anyway, got so much oil on my face-plate,” Hart said. “I’m on my way up.”

to be continued. . .

click here to see what led to this state of affairs

the coming storm

Posted on October 9, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Forty-Two

Zenone stood outside the command post, watching the river and contemplating the next move. He nodded at the clean up crew’s progress, somewhat satisfied with the speed at which the raking and shoveling at the shoreline was making a difference. He could actually see the beach in some spots whereas hours ago, there was nothing to see but brown crude. As clean up crews went, this was a savvy bunch. They got to work immediately after receiving the basic safety instructions and didn’t appear inclined to loaf. Perhaps there was hope for recovery of this shoreline. Zenone had been with the Coast Guard for twenty-two years, fourteen of which he’d been specializing in oil spill removal. In his experience, it would take years for a spill of this magnitude to lose its effect on the ecosystem and likely decades before all the oil was gone from the shorelines, if ever. But right here it wasn’t so bad. On a sensitivity scale of one to ten, the mixed sand and gravel beaches were about a five. This beach, and likely most of the beaches along the Delaware from Marcus Hook to just north of Slaughter Beach, Delaware – roughly eighty-five miles of shoreline – would recover with time using the cleanup strategies he was employing. What may not recover, however, was Tinicum Marsh.

Zenone pushed the thought back into his grey matter and coughed. He sucked in the persistent post-nasal drip that the foul smell of too much oil in the ambient air caused him and spit on the ground. He cleared his throat and swallowed. His saliva felt viscous and unnatural. He coughed and spat again.

His cell phone rang and he grabbed it off the belt at his hip, still coughing.

“Zenone.” He looked in the direction of the vacuum boat idling on the water, a small barge about twenty-five feet long that could carry four to five people. It was powered by a single-diesel engine, had a storage tank below deck and an oil skimmer above and was capable of removing thirty tons of heavy oil per hour if it could catch it. Zenone could see the Captain of the tug standing at the stern, cell phone to his ear, waiting for the signal. “Go ahead,” Zenone said into the phone, snapped it shut and replaced it on his hip.

The Captain flashed a thumbs up and the vacuum boat circumvented a thick mass of the slick, trailing a boom. The plan was to circle out and encapsulate as much of the oil as possible in the boom, like outstretched arms slowly pulling together, then swing back in, leaving the boom on the water in a V-formation. The booms were made of tough, non-corrosive plastic, rectangularly-shaped with a bulbous center mounted to a rubber skirt that rose above and below the boom and which entrained the oil, working as a dam to stop it from rushing over or under the barrier. This worked effectively enough in calm waters, but when the winds got rough and the waves picked up, increasing the water’s velocity, there was not a boom made that could stop the oil. When the boom was in place, the vacuum boat turned around and set the skimmers on the oil, munching, crunching and sucking it up using two hydraulic-driven pumps. The pressurized system funneled the oil through a tube and then to a gravity separator. Once decanted, the remaining water was pumped off and dumped back into the river. The oil was disposed of in a two thousand gallon holding tank to be dealt with later either by pumping it off back on shore, or to a small portable hundred foot barge that would intercept it and take it to shore so the vacuum boat could keep skimming.

Zenone checked his watch and then the sky, hoping the weather would hold. He had another ten vacuum boats working the entire stretch of the river, some provided by the Coast Guard, some by EPA, and some by Akanabi Oil. If he could get another ten …

His attention was drawn by the grunting and puffing of two muckers trying to stuff an oil-laden absorbent boom into a disposal bag. The third man grabbed a fresh boom off one of the trucks and headed toward the water. Zenone decided to take back what he said about them being savvy – absorbent booms weren’t to be used until the final stages of the cleanup since other methods, like vacuum extractions, worked better on large quantities of oil – until he looked at the flatbed. The hard, non-corrosive plastic booms were suspiciously absent, and in their place were the sorbent ones. Damn Akanabi Oil. More like Psycho Oil . He barked at the nearest mucker.

“Where the hell are the large plastic booms?” Zenone barked.

“I don’t know. This is all they sent us,” the man replied, then scampered off to join his comrades, leaving Zenone staring after him.

“Hey, Jim. Bring more diapers,” called a young, college-age woman, to her colleague walking toward the supply truck. The man nodded and grabbed another bale. She got down on her hands and knees and pressed absorbent pads – cloth diapers on steroids – into the sand. The pads soaked up small bits of oil, a time consuming process. She reminded Zenone of his own daughter and smiled at her fastidiousness: her little section of the beach was virtually spotless.

Zenone cast an appraising glance upward. The clouds looked more threatening than they had at daybreak, and so thick as to appear seamless. He knew a storm was coming, barely hours away. He felt it in the right wrist, the one he’d broken as a kid. It was the best weather detector he’d encountered to date. He flipped his cell phone open and dialed the number for NOAA anyway. After two rings, someone answered the phone.

“Yeah, who’s this?” Zenone asked. “Hey. It’s Zenone. I need a weather report for the whole tri-state area. Call me back the minute you got it, alright?” He flipped the phone shut.

A horn beeped and Zenone turned to see Lapsley pull up to the command post with a passenger. Zenone met them halfway.

“Hey, Chief. This is David Hartos,” Lapsley said. “Akanabi’s head engineer. He’s your contact.”

“Good to meet you,” Hart said. “Whatever Akanabi can do, please let me know.”

Hart reached out a hand and Zenone gave him a death grip that made him flinch. Zenone smiled, but covered it with a hand to his mouth and a little fake cough. He liked to put them in their place right off, so there wouldn’t be any difficulties with chain-of-command later.

“How about you check on those booms. They sent absorbent instead of plastic. And maybe find some more vacuum boats. If we could get ‘em out before the storm comes we might get somewhere. But if you really want to help, you can tell them to retire all their Goddamn single-hulled ships. They’re a menace.” Zenone grimaced and turned to Lapsley. “Where’s my helicopter?”

“Coming.”

“So’s spring.”

“Really, you’ll learn to love this guy,” Lapsley said, turning to Hart. “He’s got a tough exterior, but a heart like gold.” Lapsley turned back to Zenone, eyes glistening with humor. Zenone smiled mechanically, but his eyes reflected a hidden mirth.

“NOAA’s sending one,” Lapsley said. Everything the Coast Guard’s got was already deployed. Apparently there’s a big storm brewing down off the coast of North Carolina, heading this way, and bringing some high winds with it. Came up really fast. A few fishing boats needed to be rescued.” Zenone sighed and nodded his head absently.

“Did you notify all the local water intakes…”

“Yes.”

“…cause you know, if they don’t shut ‘em down, they’re gonna be local oil intakes…”

“ Yes ,” Lapsley said again. “It was the first thing I did this morning. Now would you chill. You’re giving me the shakes.” Lapsley smiled and Hart snickered. Storm clouds hovered like doom on the horizon.

“Alright, let’s go in.” Zenone turned to Hart. “I want to show you something that perhaps you can explain to me.”

Hart nodded and followed Zenone into the command post.

➣➣➣

Zenone poured a cup of coffee, a thick, viscous substance that looked itself like petroleum, handed it to Lapsley, then turned to Hart to see if he wanted a cup. Hart shook his head no. He’d had more than enough cups of bad coffee today.

“What? D’you pull this from the river?” Lapsley said, and took a sip anyway.

Zenone walked to the drafting table and handed Hart Akanabi’s SPCC Plan.

Hart scanned the cover and raised his eyebrows. “Is it deficient?”

“You bet it is.”

Hart opened it. Blank pages. He flipped through a couple pages at a time, but the blankness remained.

“Did you prepare that plan?” Zenone asked.

“No. And I’m not sure who did, or rather, who was supposed to,” Hart said. “Did you get this from the ship’s Captain?”

Zenone nodded. Hart rubbed his forehead.

“You know there’s a fine. Up to $32,500 for failure to have a spill plan. And another one for failure to implement it. Not to mention the fines for all the oil in the water. They accrue daily.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Just so we’re straight.”

“We’re straight.” Hart stood and offered Zenone his hand.

Zenone took it, but this time Hart was ready for him. He squeezed back with equal force, forcing a smile out of Zenone.

“It’s been a pleasure, but I’ve got a dive to get ready for.”

Lapsley rose. “I’ll drive you back.”

“Inspection?” Zenone asked.

“The Ryujin, ” Hart replied. I’ll let you know what I find. And for what it matters, I wholeheartedly agree with you about the single hulls.” This time Zenone smiled for real.

to be continued. . .

to read the back story, jump here

back to the sea

Posted on September 13, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Forty-One

It was Frank Charlton, the manifold operator, who had first seen it and what he saw made his stomach tuck and roll like a Hollywood stunt man. The sun had poked a ray or two over the horizon, visible through the few breaks that existed in the rack of cumulo-stratus clouds now marching in formation across the sky. They were just getting ready to dock at the Akanabi refinery at Marcus Hook. Charlton had come out for a breath of crisp January air in the hopes it would rouse him, but caught of whiff of something thick and pungent instead. He stuck a head over the side of the ship, then ran to the stern with full knowledge of what was happening, but a need to see it first hand.

He peered down into the churning, black water below. The diffused light from the overcast sky laid a grey pallor over the water, but didn’t hide what Frank had feared. A thick trailing line of oil stretching from the stern of the Ryujin to as far south as the eye could see. He resisted the urge to vomit and, stumbling over himself, ran to the Captain’s quarters and knocked.

“Captain. Beg your pardon, sir, but we have a problem.”

The door flew open and there was Captain Reed, looking like he’d been up all night. His clothes, however, were freshly starched and pressed.

“What is it?”

“The Ryujin is leaking oil, sir. Off the stern.”

Reed’s eyes grew large. He pushed past Charlton and raced to the stern with Charlton on his heels. Sure enough, an unctuous trail of oil stretched from the stern to infinity.

“What in God’s name…?” Reed ran to the front of the ship, looking occasionally over the side as he ran, but saw nothing. He ran back to the stern and looked again, just to be sure. He rubbed his face with his hands.

“But last night…. Oh, my God. Where the hell did it come from?” Reed stopped and stared out over the black waters and the even blacker oil shimmering in the pale morning light.

“Radio the Coast Guard. No…I’ll do it,” Reed said.

Charlton nodded. “Shall I inform Pilot Anderson, sir?”

“Yes. I mean no. I’ll do that as well. Make sure the crew’s ready for landing. We’re here. We may as well dock. Get some divers down there and see what’s going on.” Reed shook his head at the river, as if she had something to do with it, raised his fist and slammed it hard on the railing. Charlton flinched, knowing that it had hurt; Reed’s face did not change.

“Go,” Reed said to Charlton without turning. Charlton scampered off to relay orders and spread the news. Reed gripped the railing with both hands and stared at the growing menace.

➣➣➣

Reed went back to his cabin, pulled out the maritime safety manual and placed it on his desk. He didn’t need to look at it. He knew what it said. He’d read it a dozen or more times just in case, but had never needed to use it. In the event of a maritime spill from a vessel, the vessel officer was to notify the National Response Center which is staffed by the Coast Guard. NRC would adopt an incident as opposed to unified command system and the Coast Guard would assign an On-Scene Coordinator, or OSC, who would be charged with overall responsibility for the incident as well as notifying the Environmental Protection Agency, the Pennsylvania Department of Environmental Protection, the state and local fire hazmats, and the County Emergency Management Association. That, times three, he thought, because the spill occurred in a tristate area and certainly Delaware and New Jersey would want to have a say in what goes. Not to mention the various and sundry agencies with interest: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service; the PA Game Commission; the PA Boat Commission; the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. At least only one person would be in charge and that person, the OSC, would come from the Coast Guard.

Reed rubbed his forehead in contemplation and swallowed the thick feeling that was creeping into his throat. He too, originally came from the Coast Guard. That might help. Might . For the first time in his adult life, he felt like he might cry. In hours, the place would be crawling with personnel from dozens of agencies and he’d be in the center of it all. Damn that Anderson. For a moment he felt a stab of regret for his hasty actions the previous night and wished he wouldn’t have been so quick to intervene. Anderson was probably right. The small craft was playing chicken with them, and was not on a suicide mission. Still, the public and the media would want a scape goat and if Reed had anything to say about it, it wasn’t going to be him.

He stood, brushed the imaginary wrinkles from his heavily starched uniform and strode to the door, maritime safety regulations in hand. Time to radio the Coast Guard.

➣➣➣

Within hours roughly three dozen personnel from various agencies were swarming the banks of the Delaware like bees to the hive, loading skimmers onto pollution control vessels; unloading trucks carrying oil containment booms; spill containment berms; sonic bonded sorbent pads; emulsifiers; trash bags; overpack drums and containers for waste disposal; Tyvek suits; black sturdy rubber gloves, yellow rubber boots and shoe coverings; safety glasses and goggles; disposable earplugs; and all manner of oil spill paraphernalia. A vacuum truck sat idly by, its engine running, waiting for its first big drink of the brown, oily stuff.

Federal On-Scene Coordinator and Marine Safety Officer, Frank Zenone stood in the center of the command post, a trailer set up along the banks of the Delaware, scratching his head in sheer bliss. Having banished the itch to another realm, he ran long spindly fingers through his hair, smoothing it back into place before replacing his hat. Zenone had been up long before he got the 5 a.m. call, responding to a small oil spill upriver at the New York/New Jersey border. It had turned out to be a false alarm. He’d arrived at Marcus Hook by boat which took him substantially longer than it would have by car. Although the sun had been up for more than a few hours, the day was as bleak as any night with a cloud cover that threatened to choke the light out of it. That coupled with a threatening wind chiming in from the north and Zenone knew it was going to be a long day. He looked out the window and sighed.

The weather complicated matters, adding its weight to a job the tide had already begun. When the oil spill occurred, the waters of the Delaware River were doing their damned best to get back to the sea, taking with them roughly 350,000 gallons of oil that had managed to escape from the confines of the Ryujin’s holding tanks. Stupid bastards. Hard to blame them for not catching the trail of oil with less then a flicker of moonlight. Still they should’ve been checking every half hour, Christ every ten minutes after scraping bottom like that. Maybe they’d have seen the oily sheen. Rotten luck. He rubbed his hands up and down his face to rouse himself. He could blame them, but he wouldn’t. That wasn’t his job. His job was to get this Goddamn mess under control before the tide and coming storms did more damage.

Zenone sat down at the drafting table and turned his attention to the SPCC Plan he had taken from the Captain of the Ryujin , a bound report, about an inch thick with a nice bond cover and spiral binding. The cover page read Spill Prevention Control and Countermeasures Plan for the Ryujin dated January 2004. So, they’d either created the Plan or updated it just before sailing. Well, that was promising. He turned the page and was shocked at what he saw next: nothing. Now he could blame them. Bastards didn’t even have a plan in case of a spill. He chortled, disgusted, and looked out the window to where another two dozen workers disembarked from a large, converted school bus to join the clean up operation on the beach, a rudderless group. He huffed, rose, and walked out of the trailer, but a ringing phone drug him back.

“Zenone.”

“Yeah, Frank. It’s Lapsley. Charlton’s almost done.” Victor Lapsley, an OSC for the Environmental Protection Agency, had been the first responder on Site, almost an hour ahead of Zenone since he had come by car. As a result, Lapsley had been the Incident Commander on the scene for a brief stint, but was showing no signs of wanting his old job back.

“Who’s Charlton?”

“The manifold operator. I just talked to him. He’s almost finished pumping off the last of what was in the holding tanks.”

“Already? Jesus Christ.”

“What? I thought you’d take that as good news since the hull’s still leaking.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s good. But that operation takes the better part of the day. So if he’s almost done, we got more oil in the water than we originally thought.”

“Nah. Akanabi got the lead out,” Lapsley said and immediately chuckled to himself. “Hey, I think there’s a pun in there.”

Zenone rolled his eyes, a gesture Lapsley apparently could feel rather than hear through the phone because he cleared his throat and continued.

“Anyway, last I saw, Akanabi had the Ryujin docked and hooked up to every available hose. They wanted the stuff out as fast as possible.

“So how much is in the water?” Zenone asked.

“Well, I think our original estimates are right. About 350,000 gallons, give or take.”

“You talk to the Captain?” Zenone coughed. The winds were picking up and the smell of oil seemed much stronger now as it meandered through his olfactory system. He could feel it inching up his nostrils into his nasal cavity and twitched his nose to ease the sensation. It didn’t work. He sneezed. Oil vapors went flying.

“Bless you,” Lapsley said. “Yeah. Reed. Also to Akanabi’s Chief Engineer. Guy named Hart. Captain seemed a little jumpy.”

“What did he say?”

“Some story about a motor boat soon after they left the Bay and the river pilot overreacting. Pilot swung out of the channel. Wasn’t using his radar. I don’t know, somethin’s weird. I’m sure the Pilot will have another story.”

Zenone coughed. “Alright, whatever. When you’re done, come on down. I’m heading out now to give two dozen clean up workers my safety spiel.”

“See you in an hour.” Lapsley hung up.

Zenone held the phone, listening to the dial tone. Out of the channel, huh ? He put the phone in its cradle, sneezed again, and headed out to greet the clean up crew.

➣➣➣

Half an hour later, after a quick synopsis of how to use the cleanup equipment followed by an even quicker recitation of the safety hazards associated with oil spill cleanups, including references to slips, trips, falls, poisonous snakes and poison ivy, Akanabi’s muckers, the untrained labor hired by the company to don Tyvek suits, rubber boots, safety goggles and gloves and do hand-to-hand combat with the enemy, were mired ankle-deep in a miasma of pure crude. They hung together in groups of two’s and three’s, working at the shore line, shoveling clumps of oil into buckets and bags and disposing of it into the dozens of overpack waste disposal drums standing by. The larger clumps were fairly easy to retrieve, but as they got down to the finer stuff it became more elusive, like trying to catch a minnow with your bare hands, and with the pre-formed plastic gloves, such minutia was impossible to be gathered. What couldn’t be bagged was raked into the gravelly sand to be dealt with later by Mother Nature herself either through erosion, weather or eventual degradation. Within half an hour, each of the muckers were covered, literally, from head to toe in oil. The Tyvek helped, keeping them from getting soaked through to the skin, as did the gloves and boots, but working as they were, surrounded by thick blobs of oil, and sometimes standing in ankle-deep water, the ubiquitous crude seeped into their eyes and ears and up their noses. And that was the worst part because you couldn’t get away from the smell, not even by holding your breath. Some of the more industrious muckers waded out into waist-deep water in pairs, stretching a five hundred foot sorbent boom across the surface and corralling the oil back to shore to a central location where the vacuum truck could suck it out with a hose. The boom was made of oleophilic, or oil loving material, a high quality polypropylene with great absorbent qualities and generally used for the last stages of a cleanup. The problem with using the absorbent booms for large doses of oil was that saturation ultimately rendered them ineffective. As a result, the muckers were going through booms like kids through candy, disposing of them after a single use, but keeping the vacuum truck busy.

The vacuum sucked up oil as well as water, but by some miracle of technology, the truck only disposed of the oil, allowing the water to settle out in the bottom of a holding tank and sending it back, sans its oily compounds, to the river where it belonged. Of course, you couldn’t get it all out. Oil was as persistent as it was pervasive and although over time the chemical compounds would break down and disperse, inevitably some portion of the oily substance would remain, infused into the water column, or in pockets on the beach, or on the underside of rocks, forever changing the face of that which it touched.

to be continued. . .

to read what led to this state of affairs jump here