I saw them scattered across the wet sand at low tide.
Dozens of tiny, golden, jelly-filled packets.
At first, I thought someone had dropped a lifetime supply of miniature cough drops.
Then I touched one.
Naturally.
Because when a sensible person discovers an unidentified gelatinous object on a mudflat, he photographs it and keeps walking.
A naturalist pokes it.
It moved beneath my finger like a water balloon designed for a mouse.
I could even roll it across the sand.
Well.
That eliminated cough drops.
They were salps.
Tiny, harmless marine animals that normally drift through open water, filtering microscopic phytoplankton from the sea.
They aren’t jellyfish.
They don’t sting.
They aren’t eggs.
And they aren’t some new line of biodegradable laundry pods—although they certainly look like something you might toss into a washing machine if your socks smelled particularly nautical.
Each salp is essentially a tiny living water pump.
It draws water through one end, filters out microscopic food, and pushes the water through the other. That action also propels it forward.
Eat and travel at the same time.
Honestly, that is efficiency.
Humans require a restaurant, a vehicle, gasoline, reservations, and usually an argument about where to park.
A salp just pumps water through its body and goes.
They can also reproduce with astonishing speed. Some live independently, while others form long chains of genetically identical individuals.
Imagine attending a family reunion where every relative looks exactly like you.
No name tags required.
Apparently, currents and tides had carried these little ocean travelers into the Narrow River. Then the water withdrew and left them scattered across the mudflat like tiny parcels awaiting delivery.
Unfortunately, the tide forgot the forwarding address.
The low morning light passed through their translucent bodies, turning them amber and gold. Against the blue-gray sand, they looked like jewels.
Squishy jewels.
Very squishy jewels.
That is one of the things I love about walking the river at low tide.
The water pulls away and reveals an entirely different world. Burrows appear. Shells emerge. Tracks cross the mud. And sometimes the river leaves behind dozens of mysterious jelly packets simply to see whether I am curious enough to stop.
I was.
Of course.
I came hoping to photograph an Eagle.
Maybe an Osprey.
Instead, I spent part of my morning rolling a salp across the sand.
You just never know what the Narrow River will give you.
But I have learned something important.
Never be so focused on what you are looking for that you overlook the tiny, gelatinous thing you actually find.
Even if you have to poke it first.
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