Texas Monthly – August 2019

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alligator who casually comes and
goes, its presence betrayed only by
its head, the distance between the
tip of its armored snout and two
bulging eyes disconcertingly long.
On the subject of Sea Rim’s na-
tive alligators, the park’s litera-
ture provides abundant advice,
much of which seems fairly ob-
vious: “Absolutely do not feed
or annoy the alligators.” “Do not
throw objects in water for your dog
to retrieve.” “If an alligator goes
after a fish you have caught... let
the alligator have the fish.” I’ve al-
ways known that the prehistoric-
looking, seemingly sluggish crea-
tures can outrun a human. I didn’t
know that they could do so only
up to about thirty feet; apparent-
ly, their tiny legs finally wear out.
“Retreat uphill where possible.”
My advice? Trip your buddy and
run like hell.
Nah, don’t do that. Even if she
accidentally locks both of you out
of the cabin on your second night
(one of those confounding push-
and-twist locks that you can’t tell
is locked on the outside until it’s
too late). The sun has gone on its
merry way, and so have the park
staff. Calls to various locksmiths
go mostly unanswered or politely
declined. “I really don’t want to
come out there,” says one poten-
tial rescuer. He suggests that we
continue to call around or perhaps
break a window. Then he final-
ly takes pity on us and agrees to
head our way. An hour and a half
and $150 cash later, we are back in
the sweet confines of our plywood
walls. We send our hero off to re-
sume his evening, and we settle in
with a deck of playing cards and a
bottle of red wine.

Sea Rim’s short strand of coast-
line is the main draw for most.
Alas, we drive over there on a
morning of frisky winds and lead-
en sky. We park and amble down
a boardwalk through golden-
green grasses interrupted by the
occasional saucy clump of Indian

blanket, over dunes laced with
emerald-green sea purslane, and
onto a beach colored in varying
shades of dull. It fronts a rela-
tively shallow part of the Gulf of
Mexico, whose swirling currents
carry sundry detritus, Sargassum
seaweed (unsightly but benefi-
cial, it comes ashore between
April and August), and silt from
the Sabine and Neches river del-
tas. We set up our Family Dollar
beach chairs on the dark, hard-

packed sand amid the flotsam and
jetsam—a blue rubber glove, the
crook handle of an outmatched
umbrella—pour some sangria,
and gaze out at surf that looks like
frothy chocolate milk. We last all
of thirty minutes before deciding
to return to the gentle calm of the
marsh side, just long enough for
me to gather up a few little light-
ning whelks, a couple of delicate
angel wings, and about 179 shark
eyes. Then we leave the beach to

Because Sea Rim is at the remote fringes of the Texas coast (and
one cruise through the refineries is enough), you’ll likely want to get
to the park and stay there. So fill your gas tank and load up on food
(and mosquito repellent) on the way. But do venture next door to the
McFaddin National Wildlife Refuge (1). Just west of Sea Rim, where
Highway 87 peters out, it’s a no-frills spot. If you’re not engaged in
angling or seasonal waterfowl hunting (fish and ducks might quibble
with “refuge”), there’s not much to do but drive among its 58,861 acres
and sightsee, but you’re likely to spot alligators, the resident mottled
ducks, and, depending on the time of year, migrating birds. (Incidentally,
avoid the two-mile “cattle walk” trail at Texas Point National Wildlife
Refuge, which promises “panoramic views of the coastal marsh” but is
too overgrown to navigate comfortably. “Many marsh inhabitants are
more likely heard than seen,” says the refuge’s informational literature.
Indeed.) Another worthwhile attraction is the Sabine Woods Bird
Sanctuary (2), between Sabine Pass and Sea Rim, a tucked-away,
thirty-acre oak motte you’ll know you’ve reached when you spot an un-
usual number of Subarus and Sprinter vans parked alongside 87. It’s an
oasis of birdwatching, a wonderland of neotropical migrants—warblers,
tanagers, vireos—traveling the Central Flyway. It’s also fun to watch the
watchers, suited up in safari hats, cargo pants, and ventilated shirts and
excitedly whispering things like “Oh, it’s a yellow-billed cuckoo!”

1 2

Desperately Seeking Refuge


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26 TEXAS MONTHLY


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