Slug Magic

It's back to the beach today. No stretching of the imagination required this time. 

If you read my Boneyard entry you might remember this:

My friendship with slugs started right there.
I know, I know . . . you gardeners out there hate them. I disliked them as well. About 20 years ago I did some gardening and while I don't specifically recall battling slugs, I do remember curiously pouring salt on one to see what would happen. Watching him squirm, in presumable anguish, was so awful I had to rinse him off with water. I don't know whether he survived, but I never repeated that form of slug control. 

Tomato hornworms were another story.
I collected them off my precious tomato plants, put them in a mason jar with the lid secured, set them in the sun and hung around to watch them convulse to death and explode.
I recently had the opportunity to save a sphinx moth.

In beautiful, poetic reversal he was trapped in a mason jar, from which I freed him. At the time I didn't know it was the moth that evolves from a hornworm - and I'm not entirely sure I would have picked honeysuckle and mixed sugar water nectar for him if I had. I am grateful to have made the tiniest dent in my vast, negative hornworm karma and will humbly accept any further assignments the Universe sees fit to send me.

But back to slugs. My morning rambles through the Boneyard have given me opportunity to observe and develop a quiet admiration for slugs. There were enormous numbers of them making their slimy way (did you know slugs produce TWO kinds of slime?) among the rocks, plants and sand. At times there were so many I had to gauge every step to avoid squishing them. If there was a mishap, I'd quickly apologize out loud, "Oh no! Sorry, dude." and then look around in hope no one heard me.  One morning I noticed a particularly large slug draped across a low growing plant I've come to know as beach pea (Lathyrus japonicus) I was intrigued and stopped to watch his progress. It turned out he wasn't going anywhere. He was eating breakfast. I knelt there on the ground for twenty minutes or so, watching him eat the delicate purple blossoms. When I leaned in close enough I could actually hear the crunch. Like a kid eating frosting off a cupcake, he ate only the blossoms, leaving all the green stuff behind.

This weekend I found myself wondering about the lifespan of slugs and how much longer I'd get to hang with them. I noticed the blossoms were mostly gone from the beach pea and, in general, Boneyard plants seemed to have peaked and were on the wane. Were the slugs still around? What would they be eating now? Do they bitch amongst themselves when they are reduced to eating the green stuff? Do they hibernate during winter or do they die? I have a lot to learn about slugs. But in the midst of my wandering wonderings I saw one fine specimen heading towards a blossomless clump of beach pea. There were no blossoms remotely near him and, feeling generous, I managed to find a handful of purple slug crack and returned - terrifying him into total retreat. I wonder what it was like for him to squinch up his optical tentacles and shrink up, expecting to die and then, when he didn't, open up to see a mountain of his favorite food.

By this time the sun was rising over the east hills of Seaside and, as it hit the Boneyard, generated what seemed to be a clear signal for all slugs to return to their hideouts. I stood by one huge fallen log and, without moving, counted 37 slugs all gliding determinedly towards it as if some invisible tractor beam was pulling them in. . . . Must. Return. To. Log. . . . Must. Return. To. Log. . . . I was bummed I didn't have my camera and made a mental note to bring it next time.

Yesterday morning I was quite late getting out to the Boneyard and didn't expect to see any slugs at all.         I poked around a bit and was finally rewarded with this beauty:

AND I spied one last clump of beach pea blossoms.

In exchange for a little purpley sweetness, slug teaches me to keep moving, be content with slow progress, have patience, leave a trail, take things slowly and know when to retreat.
That's a pretty fair trade, buddy. 

Thank you.