One of my jobs over the years was to support other biologists in carrying on their –ahem- ongoing research.

Now I am a practical minded individual, and one who didn’t even achieve any higher education until well into this journey that we cavalierly call, life, and so the purely esoteric and abstruse only holds minimum amusement to me. I am a nuts and bolts type guy who needs to see the practical value in things…..

One of my favorite chores when I was with the University was to blast around in the Laguna Madre in powerful shallow water skiffs in the name of science. The bay is a unique shallow water ecosystem easily affected by a host of environmental factors from natural circulation problems to human alteration. Miles of seagrass stretch over the gin clear waters, and redfish, trout and flounder abound, ambushing juvenile shrimp, mullet and other bait-critters that use the protected nutrient rich Lagoon as breeding and nursery grounds. So it was always an excuse to exercise my own predatory instincts as well, and I’d usually do a bit of fishing coupled with actual work.  I probably know the Laguna Madre as well as most of the guides who work there, and certainly better than the vast majority of the weekend warriors who ply the water in a drunken stupor on hot summer days.

A certain professor, and friend of mine on the main campus had called me and asked if I would take a grad student of his named Onur out to the Arroyo Colorado to collect data on an ongoing algae assessment. The Arroyo Colorado outlet is about twenty-five miles north of here, and the area is the recipient of the worst quality water imaginable. In fact the quality is so bad that the State of Texas has declared the Arroyo itself a “limited use resource”, and suggests that fish caught there shouldn’t even be eaten at all. So this nutrient laden goop, rich in agriculture runoff – nitrates, nitrites and of course Dieldrin and the breakdown products of long ago used DDT, things like DDE’s and other nasty compounds all belch into the bay, causing enhanced algal blooms and other interesting conditions.

Onur was from Pakistan, and my friend asked me to watch out for him. He claimed that Onur was good in the lab….but a menace in the field. This was my first indication that I might be in for a babysitting experience. Nonetheless, I reluctantly agreed to take him to the Arroyo.

The University had a 25 foot long Carolina Skiff with a 135 horsepower motor that was unfortunately inoperative at the time, down with a blown out motor, so I was relegated to using an old army green 18 foot jon-boat with a dinky little 9.9 horsepower engine. We had a lot of distance to traverse, all the way down to the Gaswell flats some twelve miles south and up to Green Island, another several miles north of the mouth of the Arroyo, and I didn’t relish the thought of a slow ride with an inept student. Topping it off, the day looked ominous and overcast.

Launching at Arroyo City, we plowed wide open throttle down the Arroyo as Onur prepared his survey gear, data sheets and remote sensing replacements. Right off the bat, he goes to trim off a tie wrap with a freakin’ knife and half slices off a huge chunk of his index finger. I toss him the tiny first aid kit out of the drybox, tell him to clean it up….put a darn bandaid on it or something….. Jeez. Red blood clashes with the army green paint of the jon-boat dontcha see?

Not wanting to be a busybody, but feeling somewhat responsible (after all I had told my friend I would look out for this guy) I handed him a pair of clippers and suggested that they might be a better choice to trim tie wraps with, especially since we were being tossed about like a beercan on a wave by a three foot wind chop in the mouth of the Arroyo.

With the tiny motor sputtering and occasionally stalling in a fit of temper, we first made the Gaswell flat. It proved to be a fruitless search however as Onur could not find his gear, but he did manage to slice his other hand pretty well on a barnacle encrusted piling of the ancient gas production platform at the back side of the short channel. He was now bleeding in at least two places, and I kindly tossed him the tiny first aid kit from the drybox again, told him to pour some peroxide in the cuts. Flesh eating bacteria is a real threat out here….  Meanwhile, I busied myself with throwing a Kocahoe lure, catching a couple of fat speckled trout, and keeping a wary eye on the menacing black clouds that were marching across the sky, promising a late afternoon thunderstorm.

After about an hour with no results, I mandated a move to the north. The next site was near the Gulf Intracoastal Waterway, the ditch, and Onur couldn’t find that sensor either….That was the least of our problems though as the clouds now conspired to kill us, thunder started crashing, a cold driving rain let loose in torrents of painful stinging droplets and the wind instantly kicked up to about thirty knots. I had anticipated something like this, but on the Laguna there is simply no where to hide, it is a wide open bay, and the closest protection was the west shoreline which was being bombarded by six foot waves that had instantly arisen. The other option was across the open bay to Green Island, Onur’s next sample site, but with the wishy-washy 9.9, it was an iffy proposition at best, so I decided to try and seek refuge between a couple of the fishing shacks that stood on pilings along the ditch. The only one I could find was unfortunately a windward tie up, and so we sat there for a good thirty minutes or so getting the you-know-what beat out of us and the jon-boat as swell after swell pummeled and pounded us against the rickety dock. Finally the tempest started to moderate, and I fired up the little motor, uncleated and headed off towards Green Island.  Onur now lay curled up on the bow of the ratty army green jon-boat, shivering like a wet dog.

Green Island is a mound of old dredge spoil, lush in vegetation, a bird sanctuary maintained by the Audubon Society. Onur’s sample site was in shallow clear water about a hundred yards off of Green Island, water that I knew was perfect habitat for Laguna Madre Landmines, better known as stingrays. I had warned Onur about this, telling him to go over the side slowly when he went in the water, and to shuffle his feet.

Onur put on his wading shoes, grabbed his mask and snorkel and prepared to go over the side, off of the port bow in search of his sample site location . I wasn’t paying particular attention to this guy at the time, although in retrospect – I should’ve been. I was busy rooting through my tackle box for a duplicate chartreuse and pearl Kocahoe to try and entice at least one more fat trout with. I already had three on the string, and one more would perfectly round out a meal of grilled trucha sandwiches and spicy ceviche when I got home.

My search was interrupted by a piercing scream and when I looked up, Onur was thrashing half in and half out of the water. The resulting commotion knocked my tackle box from my lap and lures and hooks scattered all over the place, landing on the deck of the army green jon-boat.

In alarm and some concern I hollered; “DUDE….STINGRAY?”

Onur responded voice highpitched with pain; “NO…..I am STUCK!”

I got up and went forward to assess the situation and found that the pocket of his shorts had snagged on a cleat, and the more he thrashed the more it twisted. This in turn caused his shorts to strangle the sensitive area of anatomy that was about half submerged, as he continued to kick his feet helplessly, causing more testicular-strangulation in an endless cycle of pain.

I fought hard to suppress a fit of laughter.

“Dude, doya want me to cut ya loose?” I asked, reaching for my rigging knife.

“NO….I will extract myself” he replied.

After about two or three minutes of contortions and writhing, he finally freed himself, red faced and entering the water without further incident, he actually found his data collector, the only one of the day.

I called the lab and informed them that we would be in late. All of the festivities and the storm had taken much longer than I had filed a float plan for, and besides, I didn’t want to risk any more mishaps, so as the late afternoon warmed, and the sky cleared, I motored carefully back to Arroyo City, making sure that Onur did not touch anything sharp or dangerous. In fact, I told him to sit in the truck while I loaded the jon-boat on the trailer.

The next day I called up to the main campus and told Hudson never to ask a favor like that again. One is all you get.