On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, a regular procession of pickup trucks backs down the Swan Island boat ramp, past the raw sewage warning signs, to deposit small boats into the water. The ramp slants down into one corner of the Swan Island Basin, the body of water that separates Swan Island (really, a peninsula) from the mainland.
I’m here because the area is part of the Portland Harbor Superfund site. Everyone else is here to fish.
Most of the boaters have fishing gear with them, and a few people are fishing from narrow strips of sandy beach to the north and south of the ramp, as well. They are less than half a city block away from signs reading “Fish from these waters may be poisonous to eat,” and “Warning! Sewage Spill. Avoid water contact.” (Keep in mind, the sewage warning is seasonal, but the fish warning is year-round, and relates to the decades-long buildup of industrial toxins in the river, a totally different issue from the human waste problem.)
The whole place has a nasty, lingering stench that clashes strangely with the sparkling sun and the gently lapping water.
I’m intrigued by a small boat that’s floating near the beach — it looks like the aquatic version of a homeless person’s shopping cart. It’s fortified with plywood and covered with tarps. A small lopsided raft tied to its side is piled with junk: recycling bins, bottles, scrap wood.
Beyond that is a broken down dock and about the foulest-looking drainpipe you could ever hope to see.
The main sewage outlet, though, appears to be on the other side of the boat ramp, about three yards from where an old man is fishing. His grandchildren are playing nearby.
Heading north, I pass them and continue up the beach until I reach a toxic roadblock. Something opalescent and bright orange is oozing out of the sand here and draining into the water.
Out in the channel a ridiculously small tugboat is parked in the middle of a floating island of scrap wood. Its captain is aboard, poking around as if for something worth towing. His black lab watches him.
On my way back, Grandpa offers me a seat on his blue plastic bucket. I can see he’s fishing with worms, and using a sort of homemade looking getup. I ask him what he’s catching. He doesn’t speak English; gestures to his granddaughter, who is pouring water from the channel into a big black plastic tub. The tub turns out to have live fish in it, four big ones. They have small whiskers, so I take them to be catfish. I ask her to hold one up for me, so I can take a picture.
I ask her if she’s going to eat them. She laughs and shrugs, as if she’s embarrassed.
