I want you to use your hushed voice when you read this. That quiet voice you use when whispering to your spouse in church, or during a wedding.  I want you to lean in real close, like you can barely hear me, because I’m writing this in the still quiet of morning.

That’s when most Jubilees happen.

That’s when this Jubilee happened.

The call came at 5:45 a.m.

“Karen, Jubilee,” the voice whispered.

I popped out of bed like my water had just broke.

It had been a week to the day since I first learned of a Jubilee.  An artist told me about it over dinner at The Colony House.

“Nobody knows when they’ll happen or even why they happen,” she said. “But some of the old seers know when they are going to happen. They say the air turns silky. And it blows from the east.”

Or the north, others claim.

“Promise you’ll call me,” I said. “If you see one.”

I made everyone promise me that. The artist. The ladies at book club. The writers group that meets here on Tuesdays.

“Have you ever seen a Jubilee?” I asked the woman at Wal-Mart.

“Only once,” she said.

“What was it like?” I asked.

“It was 3 a.m. My husband called me. I went down to the bay. Shrimp were jumping  so high they were slapping me in the face.”

“Have you seen a Jubilee?” I asked the writer.

“Lived here 15 years and I’ve never seen one,” he said.

“And you?” I asked the Librarian. “Have you seen one?”

“No,” she said. “You have to be on the call list.”

“How do I get on the call list?”  I asked my friend Joe. 

“Well, you have to know someone who lives along the bay and they have to be willing to call. There are people who’ve lived here all their lives and never seen one.”

“I have to see one,” I said. “I have to get on the call list.”

“Who is this?” I said, searching for my contact case.

“It’s Donna, from book club,” she replied. “Hurry and get on down here. It’s a Jubilee.”

 Joe had told me they only last an hour or two. Donna had waited nearly an hour already, unsure as to whether she ought to wake the writer-in-resident or not.  I’ve been woken at 2 a.m. for fires, for murders, for car wrecks, and for babies puking.  Please. If you know of one of God’s great mysteries is unfolding at 2 a.m., please, please call.

 I wrote her address on the palm of my hand. Put the contacts in, shorts on, grabbed a ball cap and ran out the door.  I called Tim on my way. It was 4 a.m. his time.

“Tim, there’s a Jubilee,” I whispered.

“Oh, wow!” he whispered back.

I burst into tears, and ran the red light, afraid I’d miss it. This phenomenon of nature.

 Donna was waiting for me at the front door.  She offered me a cup of coffee, slipped on her shoes, and off we went. Her husband, Leon, had been up an hour, gigging for Flounder.

 There are only two places in the world that Jubilees happen – Mobile Bay, which the Spaniards named The Bay of the Holy Spirit, and Tokyo Bay.   Only you can’t eat the fish out of Tokyo Bay because of the mercury levels.

It used to be that the community would ring the bells whenever there was a Jubilee. People would come with their buckets and coolers, gigs and nets, and gather more fish than they ever imagined.  Leon took in 50 Flounder during one Jubilee but decided that was just too much for one man to clean. He stopped at 30 this time round.

Scientist have figured out the mechanics of the Jubilee.  The oxygen levels in the bay drop, so all the bottom fish rise to the surface seeking air. They are literally being suffocated to death.  Flounder. Shrimp. Crab. Eel.   They head for shallow waters, or beach themselves desperate for air.  What the experts haven’t figured out is what causes the oxygen levels to drop and why sometimes the only fish to surface are shrimp or sometimes only flounder or sometimes only crab.

 Jane and Frank had crab traps out at Point Clear. They’d planned to shell the crabs on Thursday, in anticipation of company over the weekend. But when they got to the traps on the Jubilee morning all the crabs were dead.  Dozens and dozens of crustaceans all lifeless, like sailors in a submarine that failed and sunk to the airless deep.  

 Frank had his net out, and was trying to scoop up what shrimp he could.  But this was a Flounder Jubilee. “Get your gig,” Donna said. “Leon and Mr. Pate are catching them down there.” She pointed to shallow waters three piers down.

I understand it now. Why the elders of the Umatilla Tribes always thank the Salmon for its sacrifice. Why they always speak of the fish in a voice of reverence and respect.

Do not repeat this story without knowing that what when you get the honor of being part of a Jubilee, you also carry the burden of respecting the sacrifice.

 

Swirls of Fish seeking air

Heading for Shallow water

The fish lay on their sides, trying to get air into their gills

 

Frank gigs a big 'un

The eel swam between my legs, the flounder make a flapping noise

We ate the flounder  at a feast for friends on Friday night.

 

Karen: I'm preaching on John 21 on Sunday. I wonder if Jubilee ever happens/happened in the Sea of Galilee? All those fish on the table... little lives given by God just like ours. How easy it is to assume our lives are sacred, theirs not. But how can life be divided? The Umatilla have it right. Thankfulness. Reverence. Respect. Humility. Thankfulness. Life. R.