GULLS AND GULLIBILITY

by Dr. John Todd

In the mid 1980’s I began the first experiment to build and operate the first eco-machine specifically designed to treat high strength cess pool waste for the town of Harwich on Cape Cod. The facility was located at the town “dump”, a term that in those days prevailed over “landfills”, “recycling centers” “waste management”and other names that in the subsequent years replaced the original term.

The dump attracted a variety of local characters. Security was pretty relaxed and dump picking was a common sport. Each day there was a steady stream of “honey wagons” that brought liquid wastes from cesspools throughout the surrounding towns. The fetid and smelly waste was pumped into open and unlined pits for what was euphemistically called wastewater treatment.

One of the honey wagon operators was a larger-than- life character. His name was John Wayne. He wore jeans, cowboy boots and sometimes a western hat. He taught me the steamier sides of waste disposal. It was the kind of education one does not get in school.

John was a real promoter of his business. I was enthralled by the oversized sign on his truck. It said “Faster Than a Seagull on a French Fry,” along with an image of a mean looking and rapacious seagull.

And thus begins my seagull story…

Photo by Travis Leery

It happened here on Cape Cod late one spring. As I often do, I ended my morning ride at the mouth of a certain salt marsh. Over the years I have come to love the place. It has become part of me. When the tides are high and at full force, my wife and I plunge into the current and ride the speeding water well up into the marsh, quite goofy with delight as we are swept along the meandering course of the tidal creek. Even the herons and egrets seem to accept our company. Without a doubt I would include such creek riding on my list of the great pleasures of life.

One day I noticed a sign: “Closed to Shell Fishing by order of the State of Massachusetts.” I guess I was not surprised. Every few years a new house is built at the edge of the marsh and, in recent years, the houses seem to be getting larger and closer. Like faulty anchors, our conservation laws do not seem to be holding. After seeing the sign I was unhappy all day, grumbling to everyone I met: “People do not seem to know their limits until it is too late.” The salt marsh, contaminated with septic tank waste was my proof. Yet all summer we continued to ride the currents up into the marsh. Things were getting back to normal – or so I thought.