Written by Michele Roldán-Shaw
Photography by David Howard

he edge is where the action is.

That’s the quick rule of thumb I learned while kayaking with Ben Turner, operator of Native Guide Tours in Bluffton. As the two of us glided silently along the shallow waters which fringe the edges of marsh islands in the May River, many things were taking place amongst the muddy shadows and pale yellow spots of light. Creatures were living, dying and looking for love, all against the backdrop of a unique estuary ecosystem that ranks as one of the most pristine on the Eastern seaboard. In some ways, you could think of the entire marsh as the edge, the buffer to the sea, the nursery for countless birds, fish and animals who make their living in or around saltwater.

It was still pretty early in the morning when we set out from the Bluffton Oyster Factory. As we paddled up and down shallow creeks, I peered into the murky water hoping to catch glimpses of flounder, stingray, or a perhaps a small shark, but it seemed like they always saw me before I saw them. There would be a splash and a commotion and I would know I’d just missed whatever it was. There were certain tricks though, as Ben pointed out. For example, the places where tiny creeks empty out into larger ones are excellent spots to see big fish who hang out there waiting for tiny fish to wash down. According to Ben, these are the “refrigerator doors” of the tidal flats. Also, wherever you see shorebirds piling up along the bank, that means that something is about to “go down” at that spot. As for your own waterway stalking techniques, you want to approach something from such an angle that your shadow doesn’t cast itself over your “prey” before you get close enough to see it. Kind of like staying downwind from whatever you’re hunting on land.

“Kayaking out here is definitely going to stimulate the gray matter a little bit,” Ben told me. “The more you get into it, the more you want to learn about what you’re seeing.”

Ben is one of those true Bluffton natives who grew up on the river and drove a motorboat long before he could drive a car. As a kid he could identify most of the birds and creatures by sight but he never really thought much about it. Only later as an adult did it occur to him to actually pick up a book and learn about his familiar wild friends. One thing must surely have led to another because now he can not only tell you what bird is what, he can tell you what that bird likes to eat, where it migrates to in the summer, and where that location fits in to the directional course of the gulf stream. What starts out as an explanation of why the water in the May River has tiny particles floating in it which, according to Ben, look like Metamucil, could easily end up in a discussion of the shape of the Atlantic coastline as it appeared 10,000 years ago. Eagles’ nesting cycles, reproductive habits of oysters, the flushing action of the tides, mating rituals of the fiddler crab, and the consequences of littering are all topics that might emerge from his long, roundabout speeches on the ecology of this river. And indeed, if the parts of any given ecosystem are all so interconnected, how could you possibly try to explain just one without inevitably skipping around to others as well?

Of course, he does have certain favorite dwelling points. For instance, he’s slightly obsessed with marsh hens. Of all the many birds he can point out to you—pelicans, terns, herons, egrets, sandpipers, wood storks, eagles, ospreys, and as many as 30 more according to his own estimate—he always has a special place in his heart for the marsh hen. Also known as the rail, this furtive little bird emerges briefly from its hiding places in the spartina grass in order to peck around in the mud and resembles a chicken, only with a longer beak, before disappearing once more into the reedy shadows. Though they are fairly common, they are nearly impossible to spot unless they graciously allow you to see them, which isn’t often because they are so shy.

Eagles, on the other hand, are few in number yet much more visible if you know where to look. Ben is one of those eagle-watchers around here who’s on a first-name basis with the nesting pairs who live on the May River (Mama and Blackie, Bill and the Bride, etc.) and has spent the last few years informally tracking their comings and goings. Though he isn’t quite as religious about his observations as the Warings (see the eagle story in the July 2006 edition of the Bluffton Breeze) he feels the same reverence for this magnificent raptor. He didn’t see his first South Carolinian eagle until he was in his 40’s, owing to the fact that during the time he was growing up, eagles were on the brink of extinction and virtually non-existent in this state. While he and I were out the other morning, however, we saw two: a beautiful immature eagle perched in a tree, and an adult eagle cutting fast across the sky like she was on a serious mission. “If you see an eagle, you know it’s a good day,” remarked Ben. “After that, all the other is just icing on the cake.”

The first time Ben got in a kayak, he decided it wasn’t for him. No speed, too much effort required to steer, etc. But as he started to delve ever deeper into the whole wildlife observation thing, he found he was actually killing the motor on his boat and just drifting. That’s when he figured he’d revisit the kayak, and he’s never looked back since. At some point during the 90’s he began doing working as a guide, and now he’s got his own outfit that specializes in small, intimate tours far off the beaten path (Hilton Head). Ben will take you out on the May, the Colleton, or the New; he’ll lead you up and down creeks you never even heard of, or he’ll get you into the swampy backwaters of the ACE Basin or the quiet expanses of the Pinckney Island Refuge. If you’re up for it, he’ll even escort you on the 25 mile round-trip to Daufuskie. And all the while he’ll be spouting knowledge of the habitat that surrounds you.

One of the things I asked of Ben was to recall the most fascinating or unusual thing he had seen out in the marsh. He replied that he had once witnessed a “dolphin funeral,” several adults determinedly pushing the corpse of a juvenile dolphin against the current. He didn’t follow because he didn’t want to disturb them, but the mysterious scene made an impression on him. After describing this curious incident, he went on to discuss the oft-observed feeding technique of the dolphins, unique to this area, in which they actually push the fish up onto the bank and emerge from the water themselves in order to eat. I had heard about it, but as yet had never witnessed it.

“Some days you go out here and you just don’t see much of anything,” said Ben. “You really have to spend a lot of time on the water if you want to witness some dramatic moments.” A little later, I looked down at the water and saw a tiny baby puffer fish. Approximately the size of a doughnut hole, he was wriggling wildly as though in his blown up state he just was not capable of swimming in a straight line. Though I never saw a shark, a sting ray, or a dolphin funeral, the sight of that delightful little puffer fish just about made my week. I left the river that day a happy person, even though I had no idea of the wonders awaiting me in round two.

That evening I got a call from Ben. He had been thinking about the question I asked him regarding the most unusual thing he’d seen on the river when he realized that he had neglected to mention the obvious response: the remains of an old dug-out canoe he found about four years ago. He said he would take me there if I promised not to reveal its exact location in my article because he didn’t want to run the risk of someone vandalizing it or attempting to extract it without the proper tools and techniques. I readily agreed to this condition.

On Labor Day we put in at the Buckingham landing and paddled to the site. The tide was still a little too high for the canoe to be exposed, so we idled leisurely about for awhile speculating on the possible history of the canoe and pausing every now and then to identify a bird. After an archeologist from the state looked at the remains and confirmed that it was indeed a historic dugout canoe, Ben was given the opportunity as discoverer to name the artifact. And so it came to be called Ben’s Boat, and although there was never enough funding in the state’s coffers to carry out the necessary studies which would determine its exact age and origin, the find continues to excite him even to this day. “I passed by it probably a hundred times without ever noticing it,” he said. “But on that particular day, the light must have been hitting it just right during that little window of time when it’s exposed, and I saw it and thought, that ain’t no ordinary piece of wood.”

As we stared at the deteriorated bit of canoe jutting out from the squishy bank, I asked Ben if he knew any tricks to get out of pluff mud once you’d sunk down in it and become trapped.

“There’s a secret knowledge of the marsh that is only gained through experience and foolishness,” he replied. “If you get stuck once, after that you know that the trick to getting out is not getting stuck in the first place. Snow shoes work pretty well.”

Eventually we moved on from the dugout, but the excitement was only just beginning. As we turned up into a smaller creek, we came upon a pod of dolphins. Suddenly and with very little warning, they started thrashing around in the shallows about 15 or 20 yards in front of us and did their famous fish-herding trick before hurling themselves onto the bank in full view of us. In the space of about several seconds, during which their entire bodies were exposed, I was utterly taken aback to see the bright pink color on the underside of their bellies. Of course, I couldn’t get my camera out in time, but that image, that up-close encounter, National Geographic style, will be forever ingrained in my mind. After that we spent the next hour or two just chasing them around as they worked the banks of the creeks; Ben predicting where they would hit next and me fumbling around with my camera hoping to get the perfect shot. But nothing could equal the raw power and prime viewing conditions of that first time. Even if I didn’t get a photo of the year, I felt lucky just to have witnessed this phenomenon so close at hand. Even Ben said I had seen an extraordinary amount of dolphin action for just one day, not to mention the fact that we’d amazingly spotted about five of his beloved marsh hens.

“I grew up seeing all these things, but never realizing how unique they were,” said Ben. “It’s like, oh, you mean not all dolphins do that? Jacques Cousteau actually came here just to study these dolphins. Now I could watch them over and over and never get tired of it, and the kayak allows me to do that.”

By the time we reached the All Joy landing, the wind had picked up and thunderclaps could be heard off in the distance. We hauled the boats up onto the shore and walked back to my truck, which was parked at Ben’s house only a short distance away. My shoulders were tired but my mind was satisfied. I think I could have any number of adventures all over the world, but I will definitely always remember that trip (part I and part II) on the May River. And that’s my testimonial about Native Guide Tours by Ben Turner. For more information or to book a tour, call 757-5411.