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“I understand how they earned that moniker,” Drayton sniffed as he sat down.
Theodosia took them out, slowly putt-putting past the docks, then into Charleston Harbor. Off to their left they could see other boats, port lights glowing red, starboard lights green, crisscrossing the harbor. There were larger vessels as well. One was an enormous freighter that was probably on its way up the Cooper River, where it would dock close to where the big cruise ships came in.
A stiff breeze off the Atlantic whipped up a chop on the dark water as they crossed the mouth of the Ashley River, taking their time, being cautious. A full moon, iced in silver, rode low in the inky sky.
“Like a ripe wheel of Camembert,” Drayton observed.
Some fifteen minutes later they were nearing James Island. As they drew closer to shore, Theodosia saw the dark outline of the Plum Island Wastewater Treatment Plant and made a course correction. Then they were motoring up a small waterway that wove in and out among a scatter of small islands.
“Are we even in the vicinity?” Drayton asked. He sounded nervous as he sat stiffly on his seat.
“Getting close,” Theodosia said. She was thankful for the moonlight that dappled the water and helped guide her way.
“How do you know which one is Little Clam Island?”
“I looked it up on a maritime map. Also, Holly told me it was the only one that had a dock. So we need to keep a sharp lookout.”
They motored past bald cypress and tupelo gum trees, listening to night sounds. Low chirps from insects, the croak of tree frogs, rustling in the grass on nearby islands as the shiny eyes of foxes and nutria peered out at them.
“This is a trifle unnerving,” Drayton said. “Like a jungle cruise through uncharted territory. There’s an end-of-the-world quality that...”
“Shh,” Theodosia cautioned. “We’re getting close. In fact...” She powered down and steered the boat in the direction of a small rickety dock that stuck out into the water. “We’re here. Welcome to Little Clam Island.”
“How awful.” Drayton wrinkled his nose as the front of the boat bumped against the dock. “Ah, and there’s that telltale smell.”
“Pluff mud. Anybody who lives in the low country should be used to it by now.”
“I try not to be.”
Theodosia scrambled out onto the dock and wound a line around a half-rotted post. “I hope this dock is sturdier than this post.”
“It’s not going to collapse on us, is it?”
“Just... walk carefully,” she advised.
They tiptoed down the dock, then stepped off into... what else? Pluff mud. Not quite solid, not exactly bog, pluff mud was decaying spartina moss that was oozy, viscous, and rich with nutrients. In fact, it used to be spread on cotton fields to help bolster depleted soil.
Drayton lifted a boot, tried to scrape off a greasy hunk of mud, then gave up. “Definitely not dry land,” he huffed.
“C’mon,” Theodosia said. She’d spotted a faint path that led through stands of broom grass, pumpkin ash, and pond pine. “Let’s go.”
They crept along, swatting at bugs, pushing through nettles and cinnamon ferns that were overgrown and running rampant.
A few plinks and plunks sounded from nearby standing water. There were soft rustles at ground level from bushes they passed. And an occasional sound like air being released from a tire.
“Please tell me that’s not a hissing seven-foot alligator ready to pounce,” Drayton said.
“That’s not an alligator,” Theodosia said.
“You’re sure?”
“I don’t know, maybe a turtle.”
“A snapper?”
“Don’t knock snapping turtles, they make for good cooter soup.” Theodosia reached back, grabbed Drayton’s sleeve, and tugged him forward. “Come on, we can’t chicken out now.”
“Are you kidding? I’m so chicken I’ve got cornbread stuffing oozing out of my jacket sleeves.”
