One Fish's Adventure 



By C.R. Edgerton 



Winter's approach- 

 ing. I can feel 

 the water cooling 

 around me. Now and then, I 

 have an urge to swim quickly 

 toward the rising sun. There's 

 a big ocean out there, they 

 say. 



I'm a menhaden. One of the 

 most common fish in the sound. 

 Coastal folks spend a lot of time 

 trying to catch me and my family 

 We're small, but tasty and abun- 

 dant, they say. They think they 

 know about me and my kind. 



But few people are aware of the 

 magnificent journey I've taken dur- 

 ing the first few months of my life. 



I don't remember my earlier 

 days. In my estuarine school, our 

 teacher explained some things. 

 "Your life did not begin here," the 

 teacher said. "You were born in the 

 warm and salty waters of the great 

 Gulf Stream. As you traveled north 

 you grew slowly. When you reached 

 the coast of North Carolina, you 

 were thrust toward the beach with 

 great fury. Some days you traveled 

 three or four miles.' ' 



"Wow," I thought. "That's not 

 bad for a fish only a quarter of an 

 inch long!" 



The teacher explained that it 

 took us about 60 days to reach the 

 beach. "The water is shallow at 

 the barrier islands," she said. "Cur- 

 rents running along the shore in a 

 southward motion created a con- 

 veyor belt of water, carrying you 

 and millions of your kin toward the 

 inlets called Oregon, Ocracoke, and 

 Hatteras. 



"You are the ones who squeezed 

 through the inlets and into the 



sound. Millions of your relatives 

 didn't make it. They were carried 

 farther south by the conveyor belt. 

 But you became an involuntary 

 participant in a unique process. As 

 cold winter winds blew across the 

 sounds toward the Outer Banks, 

 the surface waters tilted eastward, 

 stopping at the western shores of 

 the barrier islands. It was much 

 like tilting a bowl of water to one 

 side.' ' 



I learned we were gradually car- 

 ried westward as gravity pulled the 

 sound's bottom waters toward the 



the estuary became cooler. "You'll 

 feel an urge," she said. "You'll 

 want to swim back toward the inlet 

 and into the open ocean. You'll 

 want to go back to the warm, salty 

 waters of the Gulf Stream. And 

 you'll want to make a family of 

 your own. 



"But don't be hasty. It's a long 

 way to the sea, about 50 miles. 

 And currents will not help you this 

 time. You'll have to swim the entire 

 distance.' ' 



The trip would not be easy 

 Before reaching the open sea, we 



mainland. I like to think my swim- 

 ming ability helped some here, but 

 the teacher said no. "You were too 

 small to swim that far in only a 

 couple of months," she said. 



But I wasn't destined to be tiny 

 all my life. By February or March I 

 reached the estuary, a place 

 described by the teacher as safe 

 and calm and perfect for the 

 growth and development of little 

 fish. In just a few months, I grew 

 about four inches, a respectable 

 and boastful size. 



Before the teacher left, each of 

 us were told to expect some 

 unusual changes as the waters in 



would have to avoid what the 

 teacher called natural predators: 

 men with nets and fishing rods, 

 and the bluefish that choke the in- 

 lets, waiting to gobble up as many 

 small fish as possible. 



The urge is stronger now I know 

 I must soon leave this safe place. 

 When I leave, I'll remember the 

 words of the teacher: "When you 

 have conquered the obstacles, you 

 will reach the open sea. From 

 there you will again become part 

 of a migration process that has in- 

 volved your family for millions of 

 years.' ' ■ 



