Of Subpoenas And Oysters

It appears I have developed a bit of a reputation among attorneys as the "go to" person on the "deliberately missing."

With so many criminal and civil suits these days, a lot of people are getting served.
Many of those people  do not want to be found. So they move around. They don't answer doors. They change names. They hide.
No problem. I can usually find them.
However, I choose not to be shot or assaulted  in the course of serving said subpoenas, so the task can be challenging and occasionally requires back-up.

That is my work for today: the finding of three people, and then the serving of one subpoena. I also have yesterday's cases to write up, photos to process.

But first, a story to tell.
It starts  just like your day did. I woke up this morning.
That much we have in common.
What we most likely do not share is the environment I live in and the activity I engaged in during this morning's walk.

It was negative low tide, meaning, no water anywhere.
The bay was completely exposed to mud flats.
There is a wooden board walk between my house and the beach that takes you through preserved wetlands you can't mess with. As I emerged from the cover of the trees, I stepped off the wooden boardwalk planks... careful not to slip and fall off the slick wood... which I have done too many times.

I had the the big dog, Zen, on the leash.
The little one, Bubba, was running free.
Bubba barked and I looked left. The oyster harvesters were out again. They were still working the oyster bed way down the left side of the beach. They were far enough away that faces couldn't be made out. We all had hoods on, it was drizzling, the sky quite thick with clouds.

I started my walk  away from the direction of the harvesters, wished the poor little oysters -- which I hypocritically eat alive, barbecued or steamed -- would not be harvested in such quantities.

To my right was a spit of beach surrounded by water on both sides.
That's the way I walked, my back to the harvesters. I  tucked all traces of my blond hair under my hood.
Usually I am the only one on this beach, I could go through three seasons without encountering a soul except maybe a neighbor. This however, was summertime. And oysters were being harvested behind me. I was not alone.

Because of the low tide the entire bay was exposed. I saw something familiar and big up ahead, the same thing that caught my eye earlier in the week. But the tide was not low enough for me to approach it before. This time, I took Zen, the big dog with me. Bubba followed as we tentatively approached what was something yellow and green covered in mud. 

One has to be careful in the mud flats.
We had one dog, Karma, sink up to the neck just as the tide was coming and the sun was setting.
She almost drowned were it not for the assist of my heroic husband, who was a Marine, a soldier for 14 years. Despite a dislocated shoulder at the time of said dog sinking, he somehow shimmied out on a branch and pulled the dog out of the mud and saved her life.

At one point he fell in the mud during the rescue and held the dog's head above water so she could breathe while the tide came in. Then he pulled her out of the mud and dragged them both to shore. He was too weak to carry her. They were both mud covered and exhausted as they crawled through the wooded path, then lay on a road  I found, where I could park my Trailblazer and get them both home and clean.

And just a couple months ago,  two little boys across the bay took advantage of the low tide to play. I was walking the beach with friends when we heard their yells and cries  for help.  The kids were out too far and sinking fast in mud.

While I pondered my next move, knowing I would sink on my way to them, my husband, again the hero, dashed from out of nowhere carrying a door above his head he figured he'd use as some kind of support device to rescue the kids. Meantime, the kids'  parents and others heard their cries. They were closer, rescued the boys, who learned a lesson.

It was  the same lesson I learned when I was young once at a summer camp. I  sank in a quagmire on a a sandbar by the ocean that was more like quicksand. I recall my brother and his friends of his pulling me out. It was then I learned ground is not always solid. It can fall out from beneath you or devour you alive.

So suffice to say, I approach all things at a low tide with trepidation.
And this very morning, I saw the yellow and green thing in the mud and decided to approach it, cautiously.
My shoes were sinking deeper into the mud, the tide still out. No cell phone, no knife, nothing in my pockets. Dumb move, I thought. Fortunately the green and yellow thing were close enough to get to without sinking.

They were two plastic bags filled with oysters left from a harvest past. Because they were in the waters, they were still alive.

Unlike the red bags of the guys who harvested to the left of me, these bags were a different color. The bags were tied in a knot, instead of sealed with the familiar metal clip real harvesters used.  They were also not tagged with the name of the oyster company doing the work, which is mandated by the state laws and the department of Health during a legitimate harvest,

There were dozens of oysters locked in these rogue bags. I figured they could have been there for weeks before I discovered them.

I  squattted down and studied the the oysters in the bag. One bag had small to mediums, the other was full the big old guys. Grampa Oysters. They were all crunched together, in a plastic netted prison, contained, confined.
A thousand little oysters voices shouted "free me" in my head.

So I thought about it for maybe five seconds.
Then I decide I would liberate the oysters from their plastic prisons.

The Oyster Liberation Front

Without a knife, I looked around the beach for something sharp and decided on a huge, jazzed oyster shell half, left by birds who feast on the shellfish at such low tides.
The crows gathered on trees around me and watched, as did my dogs, as I sawed at one bag, then another. I opened both, and freed every single imprisoned oyster. At one point I cut my hand on the oyster shell and watched the blood drip on the shells of the oysters I was liberating.
I kept cutting until they were all free.

I then turned handfuls of oysters cup side down, and moved them  further towards the inner bay. I saw bubbles come from them, which I decided was oyster- speak for "thank you".

I felt really good about myself, the adrenalin rush a mid to high, until I heard the words "Hey!"
I looked up and saw all the oyster harvesters, way down the other side of the beach looking at me. They had stopped working and stood mesmerized. One was pointing at me.

Adrenalin reach a max at that point. First thought was to double-check the color of their bags. All red. The ones I sawed open were green and yellow. Clearly not theirs. With that reassurance I knew all I had to do was make it back to the house,  hidden by the walkway through wetlands. Waiting in the house was the same heroic husband I described earlier. He'd pick it up from there if things got sticky.

The drama, however, ends here.

They made no moves towards me. They just watched me and the dogs walk towards them. They watched me turn  left as I disappeared off the beach on the wooden boardwalk through the wetlands and woods that lead to our back sliding glass door.

As I removed my muddy shoes, wiped the dogs paws, I confessed to my sin... or rescue... to my husband. He said considered it a rescue, which was reassuring.

I felt pretty certain however,  the word would spread there is a mad oyster liberator about.
So if that alleged rumor reaches you,  just know it's true.
That mad oyster liberator... would be me.