Sea Beans

I plied through the swamp, swatting gnats that rallied in front of me. The trail deepened as I walked, decomposing vegetation oozing to the top of my walkers. Grasses swayed gently in the humid June air and Venus flytraps showcased their fairy-white flowers. The little carnivores hid low among the brush, unlike the stately pitcher plants. Deer flies and mosquitoes attacked my calves (I’d forgotten DEET and had worn shorts!), but even as I appreciated the swampiness of it all, I itched to be elsewhere.

“Gwen, come over here! Take a look at this.” My husband Matt pointed to swamp marigolds, rising like miniature suns from a cluster of rotting logs. “See, aren’t you glad we came here instead of the coast today?” He grabbed his cellphone from his backpack to take pictures.

We were visiting North Carolina near Cape Fear for a week. I suggested this trip after Matt’s forced retirement from his company at 73, letting him choose our daily activities to lift his spirits. The night before, we’d visited a restaurant in Wilmington. My soft-shelled crab and Matt’s smoked catfish were sumptuous. But the rice-sized bits of dark green atop our appetizer — crunchy, salty, sea-inspired — delighted me. I asked the chef their origin.

“I call them sea beans.” His big, closed smile looked like an emoji.

“I’ve never heard of them.” I pictured oceans far away.

“They grow in coastal wetlands around here. Their salty taste comes from the ebb and flow of tides. I forage for them.” He lowered his voice. “I’m going tomorrow to find more,” he whispered conspiratorially. “They’re tough to find.”

It had started in my teens with parents devoted to farming and growing organic vegetables. My love of greens expanded into a passion for my own garden and cultivating wild edible flowers and greens, like nettle and purslane, for everyday eating. I flavored ice water with bee balm and hollyhocks; made salads with violets, chickweed, and jewelweed. Matt enjoyed my cooking but resisted my constant looking for edibles instead of enjoying the moment whenever we went hiking. Now, here we were in a verdant swamp teeming with beautiful flowers and all I could do was think about sea beans.

Matt ruminated during our dinner. He thumbed through videos of herons and pelicans, Spanish moss swaying like scraggly old beards on branches. I journeyed elsewhere. My urgent desire to find sea beans and cultivate them dominated my thoughts during dark chocolate mousse and a hearty dark roast coffee.

“I need to find sea beans,” I spouted out as we nestled against overly plumped pillows in our hotel queen that night. The Squid Game’s first competition produced its first deaths on the TV screen.

“Good god, this is awful!” Matt looked aghast, sipped his scotch.

“I wanna look for sea beans.” I grabbed Wilmington’s local map of public beaches, streets, and tourist venues. Screaming from the TV attested to another desperate gambler dying for a huge stash of survivor money.

“Jesus. Wow.” Matt slurped his drink, let it linger before swallowing.

I took the hotel pen lying on the nightstand, circled beaches, then searched for undeveloped coastal inlets where sea beans might flourish unnoticed. I tasted their saltiness; felt the seed coat’s hardy crunch. On my phone I googled information so I could identify them in the brine of decay and salt water.

“We’re exploring this site tomorrow morning.” I pictured sea beans yawning in the sun, their stalks wallowing in muck and ripe for pulling. I double underlined two stretches of land between two commercial zones along the littoral, rocky ingresses that showed promise.

“What?” Matt said quickly, glancing from the screen. “We got the swamp tomorrow morning, then lunch before our tour of the USS North Carolina. I’ve always wanted to see it. Come on, Gwen. We agreed.” He turned back to the TV. “For God’s sake, let’s relax and enjoy ourselves.”

“Why don’t we switch the day…”

“Nope. We did your thing today — sunbathing — getting roasted! Tomorrow is mine.” He sank into the pillows, the tip of his nose sticking out. “We don’t need to find every edible leaf or seed on the planet, y’know.”

My brain raced. If I didn’t search for sea beans tomorrow, that chef and his staffers —maybe other restaurateurs — would have the lead on me. That would give me one half-day before our return trip to Cleveland. Returning to my routine in Ohio without sea beans didn’t seem fair.

A woman’s desperate face appeared on the screen.

I felt her pain.

* * *

We finished the swamp trail and drove into Wilmington for lunch. My Starbucks was lukewarm but I guzzled it when we parked and tossed the cup into the back seat of our rental. Had the chef from the night before foraged for the coveted sea beans while I got eaten in the swamp? Matt oohed and aahed about our hike. We found a highly rated but weatherbeaten bistro abutting the pier, where he further extolled the fen’s native flora and the densely mineralized soil that nurtured it.

“Yes. It’s a great place.” Had Matt stared at my face, he would’ve noticed my forced smile, my begrudging attitude about time lost in a site bereft of sea beans — even as I’d searched every possible location in the muck where sea water could somehow, miraculously, runnel its way into the swamp.

Our table sat on a veranda overlooking a tributary into the bay. I drummed my fingers, followed the coastline with my eyes beyond the commercial zone to sandy hillocks. Not the environment for my coveted treasure.

“Look at the osprey! Right there — its nest is at the top of that pole.” An aerie of grasses and mud balanced atop a sun-bleached pole. Matt beamed as he pointed upward.

In the water below, thin stalks of pastel yellow and green grasses swayed. I pouted without meaning to, seeing no sea beans around the pole.

“What are you looking at?” Matt questioned.

“Nothing really,’’ I lied. “Thought I saw a snake.”

Matt loves snakes and believes he has experienced a spirituality of place wherever he discovers one. No matter how often we visited Yellowstone and were awed by the sighting of a wolf, herds of bison, and myriad bears frolicking in springtime meadows, whenever talk turned to our western travels he invariably recounted the rattlesnake we’d encountered in the park or the coral snake that slithered past us in Arizona. Now he leaned forward from his chair for a better view of my pretend sighting. His attention focused, I studied the salad a woman two tables from us had ordered to see if sea beans graced the top. Then I checked out her partner’s shrimp and grits.

“Would you like a taste?” The overly burned 30-something laughed at my over-concentration of his steamy grits and large grilled shrimp.

I’d lifted my butt out of the chair to catch a glimpse of the herbs decorating his meal. I feigned a laugh, said his choice looked great, and sank back into my seat.

Phew. Not one crunchy little bean.

After lunch, a red ferry shipped us across the Cape to the battleship. I took a cursory glance around the wooden piling near the ramp, followed the sloshing water along its edge. No sea beans. Matt held out his hand for me. His jowls relaxed under a half-smile, and his blue eyes twinkled. This was his time, his joy; he relished the prospect of touring the vessel while a well-schooled volunteer detailed the ship’s history and its arrival in Wilmington. I must report our docent was a cheery white-haired man with a beard you’d expect from a ship’s captain, close to Matt’s age. Well, they laughed and chortled and reaffirmed each other’s amazement at the lodgings and breadth of naval engineering required for building and maintaining such a machine. I listened attentively and asked questions with an iota of enthusiasm, even as I scratched and bloodied an array of fiery bites on my calves. I made a mental note to spray on some DEET before I searched for sea beans. Maybe on an after-dinner walk along a section of coast I’d double-underlined on our visitor map, which Matt hadn’t noticed?

Back on land, we wandered a myriad of local shops for mementoes. Matt took my hand, eased against me in a suggestive way.

“Hey. I’ve a great idea. After dinner let’s go back to the hotel. We’ll have time before Squid Game to have a little fun.” He raised an eyebrow, bent forward and kissed me. A man happy with his day, spirited by nautical details and the would-be ship captain’s camaraderie; why, he was feeling quite randy!

What about my sea beans! an alarm screamed in my head. Didn’t he realize I had only tonight and tomorrow morning before the hotel forced us out? Maybe we should stay another night, but dammit! Our kennel was booked and that’s why we’d chosen these days to be in Wilmington.

I placed one hand softly along his jowl. “You know, this is special for us both — but we can play around all we want in Cleveland. You’re a retired man now. Let’s make the most of our time left to see more of the coastline, look for ospreys and pelicans. We need this — both of us.” I kissed him, lingered as I smiled into his eyes.

I was guilty of manipulation and being selfish. I needed to make the most of it. Sea beans awaited me somewhere, and I had precious little time before Matt tired and longed for his scotch and the horrors of Squid Game.

I prolonged our dinner, insisting on two strong drinks for each of us. I broke tradition (and my doctor’s orders to reduce my sugar intake) and indulged in my second dinner dessert this trip. We’d waited for a table to free up, and slow service chomped away time. I checked my phone often.

Matt talked about building a gazebo in our backyard. “What about a greenhouse?” I counterd. “Just think — homegrown tomatoes and greens during the winter months, using our compost?”

“That’s a great idea, Gwen. Maybe grow some Venus flytraps, too!” His joyous chuckling was endearing. I imagined us surrounded by snow, savoring home-grown tomatoes and kale and peppers — and now, sea beans. Sea beans alive and beaming toward the sun, enriched with my own special roux of compost and brine as they reached for the sky.

Matt mused about how he’d design the greenhouse and what materials he’d purchase. He continued his imaginings when dinner finally ended and we headed to the car. He never hesitated when I asked for the keys. I drove to a double-underlined area of my map while he jabbered on and I listened, interjecting that we had enough time before Squid Game for a short walk. He nodded, unattuned to my conniving.

Several cars parked along the sand-drenched berm. A family of four meandered along a four-foot-high wooden walkway through a marsh abutting the open bay. Gulls swooped low over the water, and several landed on a crumbling concrete lot abutting an abandoned fishery. Grasses vacillated in the gentle surf of the low tide.

“There ya go!” I pointed over our heads. A trio of pelicans made for the lot. Matt headed toward them as he took out his phone for a picture.

I casually strolled to the walkway, looking at the sky and scenery as if I had no purpose. A round trip on the promenade would allow me to search for plants along both sides. If I found sea beans, I could climb over the rails and uproot these crunchy delights. If the walkway’s floor proved too high to bend down and pull the vegetation, I’d have to drop into layers of muck to pluck their roots and accompanying matter. Crap. I had no bag or container to hold them. I’d also replaced my swamp-encrusted Skechers with sandals after our earlier trek.

Too busy with intrigue, I wasn’t prepared.

In the open water, a sailboat and several motorboats lazed like tired fishermen in the indolent wind. Fish and salt and decay muddled into a faint elixir of the very beans I sought. I looked back, saw Matt waving (or beckoning?) and moved on. Gentle lapping, more like secret whispers, lay beneath the calls of gulls and shouts from kids playing somewhere. A good time to study my surroundings without interruption.

The family of four was heading back along the walkway when I spotted bright green stalks clustered near a support beam just over the side of the rail I held. I kept from leaping up and down lest the family became inquisitive. I stared at the water, studied the clouds as mom, dad, and dawdling kids passed by me. I checked for Matt. Maybe he’d found a water snake or whelk to keep him busy. I didn’t see him.

A police car drove slowly along the stretch of defunct marine and auto shops. A quick look around but I saw no No Trespassing sign or warning to protect the flora and fauna. I waited until the police car turned at a light. Then I hightailed it over the rail. Its weathered wood scraped my calves and reopened my scabbed bites.

I lowered myself down, holding on with one hand to the rail. I bent at the waist and reached for the plant. I stretched, twisted my body, tried to woo the spritely sea beans closer. The rails were thick, more than two by fours, and I couldn’t grasp one of the lower rails for balance. There must be a way. I paused, considered my options.

A dark shadow flitted along the somnolent water. I startled. Too late I recognized a gull’s reflection. Twisting, I let go the rail and belly smacked into the mire.

Oh God. Decomposing things seeped into my nose and ears. Boggy reeds slapped against my legs and arms and thick gunk oozed around my toes. I raised my head, saw the two kids who’d been with their parents agape at my visage. Their mother gestured to someone I could not see. I took a step, but my foot sank into glop too deep for purchase. A rising fug suffused the air and settled within me.

I slogged toward the walkway. Feet rumbled along its wooden planks.

“Hey, you okay?” The woman bent over the rail, trying to extend her short frame enough for me to reach her short arm which looked two feet higher than my reach, especially as I sank with each attempt to hurl my body up.

“Gwen, what the hell happened?” Matt stared in disbelief. He climbed over the rail, stooped and stretched a long arm to mine. He pulled me, turned me around. Like a crab escaping a hot pot, I wriggled, lifted one leg, steadied my one knee. Matt pulled me to a standing position. Covered with rotting reeds and stagnant water, I felt utterly foolish.

“Yuck.” The little boy cringed against his sister.

“She’s okay. Thanks for signaling me.” Matt’s smile at the woman disappeared when he turned my way. “What were you doing?” He didn’t know how to clean me off and I didn’t either. We had no towels, no snot rags, no soiled clothes in the car. His confusion and irritation didn’t stop him from picking slimy clumps of sea bits off my arms and hair. “You didn’t faint or get vertigo, did you?”

I shuddered at what might be crawling on me.

I’d had two bouts of vertigo years before, and I heard the concern in his tone. So tempted I was to say yes, yes! The dizziness carried me — no, pulled me over the rail and into the waters! But that wouldn’t work. The rail was too high.

“Really, what happened? And how are we going to get this muck off you before we get into the rental car?”

The police cruiser was parked near the abandoned parking lot. Whether the cop saw me go in or the family of four had mentioned my plunge was unclear, but the bratty little boy and his mother had just finished pointing toward us when the officer hefted his pants and headed our way. The cop’s demeanor was pleasant enough; he asked if my tumble was deliberate (maybe I was drunk), questioned Matt about where he’d been when I went down, and left me with the only excuse I could use to disguise my gross manipulation of Matt and my selfish focus on finding sea beans.

“My husband loves snakes and I thought I saw a sea snake. I couldn’t see it well enough so I climbed over the rail. My vertigo just came so fast and I fell. I’m so embarrassed.”

I recalled the circles of hell in Dante’s Inferno.

“Geez, that’s tough. Glad you’re okay. That family said there might be something wrong with you. Wow. I think my dad had vertigo — couldn’t do ladders.” The cop was obviously nice and easily conned. Matt asked about the abandoned fishery, and the cop said he’d grown up in the area. While they enjoyed their conversation, mosquitoes gathered to feast on my wet legs. Whatever vile waterborne microbial I’d encountered in the muck was making me itch everywhere.

Matt’s hand wrapped around my upper arm as we walked with his newfound police buddy back to the car. I walked sloppily and held the rail as if to signal my vertigo wasn’t over. Officer Dave, as he informed us, wished us a better day tomorrow and retrieved napkins leftover from his lunch at Wendy’s. I blew my clogged nose and placed two napkins on the car seat under my butt.

I began to shiver. Matt kept the AC off in our rental car and opened a window to relieve the stink. It felt like creepy crawlies infested my body, skittered along my scalp. When we reached the hotel, he urged me to the shower. He’d handle sanitizing the car, asking hotel management for a rag from housekeeping.

* * *

Several more people met their demise on Squid Game. I lay against the pillows in my clean body and hair that night, cuddling up to an aloof husband. He asked me if I really had a vertigo attack, because this one happened so suddenly and I recovered fast — and without my medication.

“Of course. I guess it wasn’t a full-on attack like usual. Who knows, maybe my belly smack knocked those little crystals in my ear right back into place!” My attempt at jocularity elicited no more than a nod.

I nuzzled against his legs, shut my eyes. Sea beans swayed like sirens in the gentle push-pull of water, luring me with their beauty, their crunch and sea-borne taste. I had one more underlined site to visit before returning the rental car tomorrow and flying home.

“How bout we get up early tomorrow and take one more trail along the coast? One last look at this pretty city?” I hated playing Matt again. I also wanted those sea beans.

“Ugh, no.” Matt straightened his back.

“Why not?” Here it was. He was going to let me have it. He knew the real story behind my fall off the walkway. A good sport I had not been the entire day. I braced myself.

“What?” He half turned, his eyes still on the TV. Two Korean combatants, sweaty and unkempt, glared at each other.

“Why not take one last hike along the coast?” I reiterated.

“Oh. Look, Gwen. You made a mess of the car. I cleaned some of it out but there’s lots of mud and it smells real bad. We can’t return it to the rental place like that. They’ll charge us.” He paused for events on the TV. “I’m going to finish scouring it tomorrow. Plus, Dave — the policeman? — mentioned a small naval museum off the barrier road before the swamp. I thought I’d take a jaunt to it. It’s not your thing. You can relax, sleep in, get ready for our trip back.”

Tension between two main characters on the TV. I was excluded from our last morning in Cape Fear.

I was resentful and dissatisfied. Slightly repentant.

Okay, I’d played my husband to get what I wanted. It hadn’t worked. With as much grace as I could muster, since I had begun our vacation with intentions to let him choose our activities and regain a sense of identity and control, I ceded our last morning to his wishes. I stayed in bed, tried to reconcile my desire for but inability to find sea beans, and leisurely ate my breakfast. Our time in this luscious locale had inspired a project for my husband in his first year of forced retirement. Our greenhouse would nurture all sorts of growth and be a source of joy for the next year — for both of us.

With a bit of begrudging, I packed and cleaned up our hotel room.

The highway to the airport parallelled the road to the swamp. I immediately felt the sting and itch of every fiery welt rubbing against my capris. Tall thick trees with leafy branches intertwined above the road, giving a mystical, spiritual beauty to our drive. Matt said we should plan a trip here next year. I agreed. Maybe a year would lessen my pain at not finding my coveted sea beans. Maybe Matt’s greenhouse would keep me busy and satisfied with all the other naturally growing edibles I so enjoyed. And maybe I could learn to be more giving in his times of need.

We talked a lot on the plane about plants and how big the greenhouse should be, what space I needed for my special array of wild greens and flowers. He asked me twice if I was feeling dizzy; joked that he didn’t want me tumbling into the airplane loo because of vertigo. One time he burst out chuckling.

“What’s so funny,” I asked.

“Oh, nothing.”

That night we cuddled in bed with Sadie, our retriever. Two more episodes of Squid Game to finish. I enjoyed these last episodes, wished I’d paid more attention while in North Carolina. Matt sipped his scotch, rubbed his overgrown toenails against mine.

“I love you, Gwen, “ he whispered.

* * *

He cooked breakfast while I slept the next morning. He brought me scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee in bed. Crunchy rice-sized bits of vegetation adorned the eggs.

“Oh my god! Where’d you find these?” I ate a small bit of egg with two beans on it. I tasted, felt, smelled ocean breezes and fish. “Did you find the ones …”

“You fell over the railing for?” He placed a forkful of egg into his mouth. “No. I didn’t think we needed two examples of overreaching for that petty clump.”

“Where did you find these? I looked every place we visited.” I rolled a bean in my mouth, savoring its saltiness.

“ I know. You left your map in the back seat of the car, and I realized we’d only visited one of the underlined areas. The other was near Officer Dave’s naval museum. I caught on to your machinations, Gwen — we’ve been married 40 years. I know it’s hard for you to let go, especially when it comes to edible plants.” Matt ate a forkful of eggs. “It’s not the worst focus, I think.” I heard crunching in his mouth.

“Did you pick off the tops?” I lifted a bean, shifted it in the sunlight through our window. Fresh. Perfect.

“Would that have worked for you?”

“No, Matt. We need roots and the surrounding matter with all their nutrients and brine.”

Then I saw them. Short stalks rising over the rim of a Starbuck’s coffee cup. I looked at the sea beans, my sea beans, soaking in wonderful, salty muck.

“Didn’t do a tumble, didn’t suffer vertigo or questions from a kindly policeman when I pulled them. My backpack worked well, kept the cup upright on our flight.” Matt’s hand gestured toward the little green passengers he’d transported for my sake.

I kissed him first before staring into his blue eyes.

“I love you.”

“Must be the sea beans,” he offered.