He didn’t get far.Oil.It was coming ashore. Not in quantities large enough for Jack to see birds floundering and beaches blackened. But to the south, toward Truman Annex, disaster relief was under way. Cleanup crews were moving into position, ready to rake and scrub the shoreline, workers on the frontline wearing protective hazmat suits. Coast Guard vessels and volunteer shrimp boats tended to the offshore booms and skimmers. Helicopters—both media and relief teams—buzzed overhead to assess the impact.Jack stopped at the police barricade.“Beach is closed,” the cop told him.“How bad is it?”“Not as bad as it will be. Much worse on Ballast Key.”Ballast was privately owned, the real “southernmost point” in the continental United States.Onlookers continued to gather at the barricade, some squeezing in beside him, others pushing forward from behind. Oil was the star, and anyone with a smartphone was the paparazzi. An old woman beside Jack was holding back tears. “Never thought I’d live to see this,”
