Sharks of Onslow County

Category: Other Marine Species

Dolphins of Onslow County Waters: Ecology and Shared Shoreline

Dolphins of Onslow County: A Coastal Population

There is often a moment before you see them.

A breath breaks the air first — a soft exhale that sounds almost human — and then a dorsal fin lifts from the channel like a line drawn through moving water. The tide is falling. Gulls hover over the seam where current tightens. Fishermen pause mid-cast because everyone knows the rhythm: if the dolphins are working the edge, the fish are already gathering.

These encounters feel spontaneous, but they are not accidents. The dolphins that surface beside our piers, marsh creeks, and inlets are not anonymous travelers passing through. Many bottlenose dolphins show long-term site fidelity and structured community patterns in estuarine systems, returning to the same places across years (Urian et al., 2009; Wells, 2014). To live on this shoreline is to share space with minds moving just below the surface — residents of the tidal edge.

Who they are: a coastal population

The dolphins most frequently seen along Onslow County’s waters are common bottlenose dolphins (Tursiops truncatus), a species whose “coastal” lives can look very different from “offshore” lives. Across the western North Atlantic, genetic studies show fine-scale population structure that can separate dolphins using nearshore coastal waters from dolphins using inshore estuarine waters (Rosel et al., 2009). More broadly, integrative work continues to support meaningful coastal vs offshore divergence in the region (Costa et al., 2022).

In estuaries, photo-identification research (matching dorsal-fin markings) repeatedly shows that bottlenose dolphins can form discrete social communities with limited spatial overlap — a pattern consistent with long-term residency and local familiarity (Urian et al., 2009). In practical terms, the dolphin a child watches from a dock in spring may be seen again the following winter, and again the next year: not a rumor, but a biological possibility supported by long-term studies of resident dolphins elsewhere on the coast (Wells, 2014).

Photo-identification doesn’t always rely solely on human matching of fin shapes; new tools such as machine learning are being developed to improve accuracy in identifying individual dolphins and whales in the wild. For example, researchers in Hawaii are using advanced algorithms to distinguish individuals from large photo libraries of dorsal fins. As technology improves, methods like photo-ID only get more reliable — which means studies of habitat overlap and seasonal return become more precise over time.

An inside look at how scientists “read” dorsal fin shapes and markings to track the same dolphins over time.

Reading the geometry of the estuary

Dolphins do not simply occupy estuaries; they interpret them.

Tidal channels function as moving architecture. Falling tides compress fish schools toward narrowing exits. Sandbars redirect flow into faster seams. Marsh edges trap prey against shallow gradients. Dolphins exploit these features with precision, repeatedly targeting conditions that make prey capture more efficient (Barros & Wells, 1998; Torres & Read, 2009).

This is one reason dolphins so often appear where the water “looks alive” — at convergence lines, inlet throats, and channel bends. In Florida Bay, for example, foraging tactics are mapped onto habitat features that define where dolphins have spent their time, thus turning behavior into geography (Torres & Read, 2009). What seems like play from shore can be highly strategic predation.

Bottlenose dolphins breaching off Seaview Pier, N. Topsail Beach, North Carolina. The arc of the body and column spray reflect the mechanics of propulsion – force directed through the tail, momentum carried into the air. | Photo credit: Howard Crumpler Photography, 2026

Reader Question:

Why do dolphins seem more active on rainy or overcast days?

Weather, light, and the illusion of play

You may notice that dolphins seem especially active on overcast or rainy days — surfacing more frequently, breaching, or moving in tight arcs through wind-rippled water. It can look like preference, even mood. But dolphins are responding less to cloud cover than to what cloud cover does to the water.

When the sky darkens, baitfish don’t stay arranged the same way. They may bunch together or rise toward the surface. For a predator already working those upper layers, that shift can make hunting more efficient (Benoit-Bird & Au, 2003). Wind and rain can also stir the surface and cloud the water, changing who sees whom first (De Robertis et al., 2003).

There is also a perceptual component. Overcast skies reduce glare, making dorsal fins and splashes easier for human observers to detect. Wind-textured water highlights movement. What appears to be “more play” may sometimes be improved visibility — a reminder that observer experience and animal behavior are not always the same phenomenon.

In short, dolphins are responding to ecological conditions. The weather alters the water; the water alters the fish.

Two bottlenose dolphins break the surface beneath the gray horizon off Surf City, North Carolina. Overcast light and wind-roughened water can change how fish move – and how easily we notice the dolphins following them. | Photo credit: Johnny Provost, Jr., 2025

Communication and social intelligence

Bottlenose dolphins have been studied for decades not just because they are charismatic, but because their social lives depend on constant communication in a shifting, three-dimensional world. One of the strongest findings to emerge from that research is the existence of signature whistles — individually distinctive call types that function as learned identity signals, something very much like the individual name a dolphin goes by within its community (Janik & Sayigh, 2013).

Social learning runs just as deep. Some dolphin foraging habits spread from one animal to another rather than through genetics — passed along socially, a rare pattern among nonhuman species (Krützen et al., 2005). Mothers and calves stay together for years, giving calves time to learn not just how to hunt, but where — which channels to follow, which bends of water hold fish (Wells, 2014).

In some populations elsewhere in the world, dolphins even use tools — carrying marine sponges on their rostrums while foraging or trapping fish inside empty shells — behaviors that are socially learned and culturally transmitted (Krützen et al., 2005).

That learning shapes how dolphins fit into the estuary. In many tidal systems they sit near the top of the local food web, influencing the fish communities beneath them. Yet beyond those protected waters, they are not beyond risk. Large sharks prey on dolphins, placing them within a broader coastal hierarchy where even predators can become prey (Heithaus, 2001). The role shifts with scale. The ecology remains layered.

Two bottlenose dolphins surfacing together off Seaview Pier, N. Topsail Beach, North Carolina. Close positioning and timing are hallmarks of the complex social bonds that define dolphin societies. | Photo credit: Howard Crumpler Photography, 2026

Dolphins are not guardians

Popular culture has assigned dolphins a role they never chose: protector. People repeat a comforting shoreline myth — “If you’re scared of sharks, find the dolphins; they’ll protect you.” But that story is not grounded in how dolphins behave in the wild.

Bottlenose dolphins are powerful predators. They compete, establish dominance hierarchies, and can deliver forceful blows when defending calves or asserting space. Dolphin–shark interactions occur, but they are not “rescue missions” staged for humans; they are ecological encounters shaped by risk, competition, and opportunity (Heithaus, 2001).

Wild dolphins are also capable of injuring people. Research examining human–dolphin interactions show that close approaches — and especially feeding wild dolphins — increase the likelihood of risky contact and harmful outcomes for both dolphins and people (Cunningham-Smith et al., 2006; Vail, 2016). Over time, those interactions leave visible consequences. Long-term data from Sarasota Bay show that dolphins who have learned to associate people with food are more likely to carry injuries linked to boats and fishing gear (Christiansen et al., 2016).

The danger is not that dolphins are “evil.” The danger is assuming they share human intentions.

Swimming near a pod does not create a protective shield. Dolphins are not lifeguards. They are wild animals navigating their own priorities in a shared environment. Respecting that boundary is what allows coexistence.

A bottlenose dolphin pursuing prey near a recreational vessel in a waterway in Surf City, North Carolina. Foraging behavior can bring dolphins into close proximity with boats – not as companions, but as active predators focused on fish. | Video credit: Cynthia Dirosse, 2024

Winter dolphins

A persistent assumption is that dolphins vanish when the water cools. In reality, seasonal distribution can be more nuanced — changing with prey, temperature, and coastal movement patterns rather than following a simple on/off presence.

Along the mid-Atlantic coast, research shows that bottlenose dolphins shift their movements with the seasons, appearing in different areas at different times of year (Torres et al., 2005). Studies focused on estuarine dolphins in southern North Carolina document similar seasonal patterns closer to home (Silva et al., 2020). From shore, those changes can look like disappearance. But winter quiet does not always mean absence. It may simply mean dolphins are working deeper channels or less visible pathways beyond the easy reach of our eyes.

The estuary in winter is quieter, but not empty.

Dorsal fins in winter light off Surf City, North Carolina. Dolphins may appear less active this time of year, but changes in light, water depth, and travel corridors often influence what we notice from shore. | Photo credit: Surf City Parks, Recreation, and Tourism, 2017

Living beside them

Living near dolphins is a privilege — and it places us within the same waters they navigate. Vessel traffic, fishing gear, and repeated close approaches can shape the lives of animals that live for decades and raise calves slowly (Wells, 2014). Studies of dolphins that have been fed or closely approached by people show that these interactions can shift behavior, making dolphins more likely to approach boats and increasing the risk of injury and conflict (Vail, 2016). Distance, in that sense, preserves the patterns people come to watch.

The presence of dolphins is not guaranteed. It is a sign that the system still functions — prey, water quality, shoreline structure, and the complex social knowledge dolphins carry from year to year. As long-lived predators near the top of the food web, they are indicator species, reflecting the condition of the waters they inhabit — estuary, inlet, and nearshore coast alike.

And so when a dorsal fin rises beyond the channel markers, it means more than a moment of spectacle. It means the currents are still working, the fish are still moving, and the layered relationships that shape this shoreline are still holding.

There is always more to learn about dolphins than fits in a single post. For those who’d like to go further, this episode of the All Creatures Podcast offers a thoughtful exploration of their biology and behavior.

References

Barros, N. B., Wells, R. S., & Barros, N. B. (1998). Prey and feeding patterns of resident bottlenose dolphins (Tursiops truncatus) in Sarasota Bay, Florida. Journal of Mammalogy, 79(3), 1045. https://doi.org/10.2307/1383114

Benoit-Bird, K. J., & Au, W. W. (2003). Prey dynamics affect foraging by a pelagic predator (Stenella longirostris) over a range of spatial and temporal scales. Behavioral Ecology and Sociobiology, 53(6), 364-373. https://doi.org/10.1007/s00265-003-0585-4

Christiansen, F., McHugh, K. A., Bejder, L., Siegal, E. M., Lusseau, D., McCabe, E. B., Lovewell, G., & Wells, R. S. (2016). Food provisioning increases the risk of injury in a long-lived marine top predator. Royal Society Open Science, 3(12), 160560. https://doi.org/10.1098/rsos.160560

Costa, A. P., Mcfee, W., Wilcox, L. A., Archer, F. I., & Rosel, P. E. (2022). The common bottlenose dolphin (Tursiops truncatus) ecotypes of the western North Atlantic revisited: An integrative taxonomic investigation supports the presence of distinct species. Zoological Journal of the Linnean Society, 196(4), 1608-1636. https://doi.org/10.1093/zoolinnean/zlac025

Cunningham-Smith, P., Colbert, D. E., Wells, R. S., & Speakman, T. (2006). Evaluation of human interactions with a provisioned wild bottlenose dolphin (<I>Tursiops truncatus</I>) near Sarasota Bay, Florida, and efforts to curtail the interactions. Aquatic Mammals, 32(3), 346-356. https://doi.org/10.1578/am.32.3.2006.346

De Robertis, A., Ryer, C. H., Veloza, A., & Brodeur, R. D. (2003). Differential effects of turbidity on prey consumption of piscivorous and planktivorous fish. Canadian Journal of Fisheries and Aquatic Sciences, 60(12), 1517-1526. https://doi.org/10.1139/f03-123

Heithaus, M. R. (2001). Shark attacks on bottlenose dolphins (TURSIOPS ADUNCUS) in Shark Bay, Western Australia: Attack rate, bite scar frequencies, and attack seasonality. Marine Mammal Science, 17(3), 526-539. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1748-7692.2001.tb01002.x

Janik, V. M., & Sayigh, L. S. (2013). Communication in bottlenose dolphins: 50 years of signature whistle research. Journal of Comparative Physiology A, 199(6), 479-489. https://doi.org/10.1007/s00359-013-0817-7

Kalahele, K. (2023, July 21). You’ve heard of facial recognition for humans, but what about dolphins and whales? Hawaii News Now. https://www.hawaiinewsnow.com/2023/07/21/uh-researchers-develop-new-face-id-technology-identify-dolphins-whales-wild/

Krützen, M., Mann, J., Heithaus, M. R., Connor, R. C., Bejder, L., & Sherwin, W. B. (2005). Cultural transmission of tool use in bottlenose dolphins. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 102(25), 8939-8943. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.0500232102

Rosel, P. E., Hansen, L., & Hohn, A. A. (2009). Restricted dispersal in a continuously distributed marine species: Common bottlenose dolphinsTursiops truncatusin coastal waters of the western North Atlantic. Molecular Ecology, 18(24), 5030-5045. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1365-294x.2009.04413.x

Silva, D. (2020). Abundance and seasonal distribution of the southern North Carolina estuarine system stock (USA) of common bottlenose dolphins (Tursiops truncatus). IWC Journal of Cetacean Research and Management, 21(1), 33-43. https://doi.org/10.47536/jcrm.v21i1.175

Torres, L. G., McLellan, W. A., Meagher, E., & Pabst, D. A. (2023). Seasonal distribution and relative abundance of bottlenose dolphins, Tursiops truncatus, along the US Mid-Atlantic coast. J. Cetacean Res. Manage, 7(2), 153-161. https://doi.org/10.47536/jcrm.v7i2.748

Torres, L. G., & Read, A. J. (2009). Where to catch a fish? The influence of foraging tactics on the ecology of bottlenose dolphins (Tursiops truncatus) in Florida Bay, Florida. Marine Mammal Science, 25(4), 797-815. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1748-7692.2009.00297.x

Urian, K. W., Hofmann, S., Wells, R. S., & Read, A. J. (2009). Fine‐scale population structure of bottlenose dolphins (Tursiops truncatus) in Tampa Bay, Florida. Marine Mammal Science, 25(3), 619-638. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1748-7692.2009.00284.x

Vail, C. S. (2016). An overview of increasing incidents of bottlenose dolphin harassment in the Gulf of Mexico and possible solutions. Frontiers in Marine Science, 3. https://doi.org/10.3389/fmars.2016.00110

Wells, R. S. (2013). Social structure and life history of bottlenose dolphins near Sarasota Bay, Florida: Insights from four decades and five generations. Primatology Monographs, 149-172.

February 21, 2026
Winter at the Exposed Marsh

The surface that appears

At low tide in winter the creek mouths behind Topsail Island widen into ground that is usually concealed, and the exposed marsh does not appear emptied so much as translated into another state where water has thinned into channels narrow enough to reveal the structure it normally masks. The flats emerge as a textured plane stitched by the remains of Spartina alterniflora, each stem cluster surrounded by a faint collar of darker mud where drainage lags by seconds, and the surface separates into alternating bands that hold or soften depending on how recently porewater escaped. This firmness reflects sediment consolidation, the gradual compression of mud as water drains between tides, tightening elevated shelves first and leaving adjacent troughs saturated, so the exposed ground becomes a map of load-bearing ridges that anticipates where larger animals will move once the marsh opens (Christiansen et al., 2000; Morris et al., 2002).

Close to the surface, winter resolves into finer evidence that the marsh is neither dormant nor still. Fiddler crab chimneys crumble into damp grains that expose darker sediment beneath a thin crust, while hoofprints from the previous tide hold shallow mirrors rimmed with frost where a faint olive sheen gathers as diatoms trap warmth and moisture (Underwood & Kromkamp, 1999). Beside the prints, spirals of fine sediment rise like coiled handwriting, polychaete casts lifted from below and dried into granular ridges that record upward movement from buried layers. Every centimeter of mud registers exchange between subsurface metabolism and cold air, and the exposed flats behave less like the absence of water than a temporary reorganization of it, one that prepares a surface already structured for the next set of crossings.

Clusters of crab burrow openings mark the marsh surface, each hole a vertical conduit linking oxygen, water, and nutrients to the sediment below. | Photo credit: M. Mitchell, 2026

Where winter concentrates energy

The winter low tide exposes more than terrain, because the withdrawal of water aligns accessibility with abundance in a way that concentrates food at the surface for a brief interval. Spartina rhizomes lie just beneath the crust, their pale ends visible where deer have bitten through the mud, and detached stems gather in wrack lines where microbial films soften fibrous blades into digestible pulp. Small bivalves remain gaping in shallow pools where temperature lingers above the surrounding flats, and worm casts cluster where organic matter has settled densely enough to support continuous feeding below. This alignment functions as a resource pulse, a moment when energy stored in buried plant tissue and invertebrate biomass becomes reachable simultaneously.

Wrack concentrated by winter tides stores organic energy in dense bands, drawing shorebirds to feed where nutrients accumulate along the marsh edge. | Photo credit: American Birding Association

Deer enter the marsh along consolidated ridges that hold their weight, yet the crossings do not run straight through these zones of exposure but instead loop and return around feeding sites where sediment has been churned darker than its surroundings. The mud at these points holds fragments of torn rhizomes pressed into its surface and shredded plant fibers mixed into the crust, while overlapping tracks form shallow basins that later fill with water and preserve the geometry of the feeding circuit. Raccoon prints braid across the same lines, Canada goose droppings mark cropped stems, and dunlin and greater yellowlegs settle repeatedly where the surface softens under pressure, their bills puncturing the crust in arcs that echo the paths carved by hooves. Exposure redistributes energy upward, and movement gathers along the same ridges that consolidation established, tying feeding to structure without separating the two processes.

The skin that reforms

Cross-section of marsh sediment showing deposition, erosion, and consolidation, the shifting layers that form and reform the exposed winter surface. | Graphic credit: G. S. Sylvain, 2011

Between exposures, slack water leaves a thin veneer that dries into a continuous surface film through sediment sealing, a layer fine enough to slow the exchange of gases between air and mud (Christiansen et al., 2000). When intact, the flats dull into a flexible sheet that bends faintly under weight, and breaking it releases a muted sulfur odor that signals redox cycling, the shift between oxygenated and oxygen-poor states driven by microbial respiration in buried sediment (Howarth & Teal, 1979; Mendelssohn et al., 1981). Color reveals the chemistry more reliably than smell. Black veins branch through exposed mud where iron binds sulfide, while pale halos surround Spartina roots where oxygen leaks downward along living tissues.

Each footprint becomes an aperture in this membrane, allowing oxygen to enter and reduced compounds to rise, so the breach brightens temporarily before darkening again as metabolism rebalances. Feeding animals convert chemical gradients into visible patterns, and the flats accumulate a shifting mosaic of sealed and reopened zones that migrate with every tide, ensuring that the next exposure inherits the chemical memory of the previous one.

$Tracks fracture the sealed winter crust, revealing darker sediment where oxygen re-enters and the surface begins to reform. | Photo Credit: M. Gold, 2023$
Tracks fracture the sealed winter crust, revealing darker sediment where oxygen re-enters and the surface begins to reform. | Photo Credit: M. Gold, 2023

The ground below the ground

Beneath the crust, the sediment continues to reorganize through bioturbation, the mixing of mud by infaunal animals whose activity does not cease with falling temperature. Polychaete worms thread galleries through the upper layers, lifting sediment to the surface in tight spirals while their burrows act as ventilation shafts through burrow ventilation, drawing oxygen downward and leaking reduced porewater upward (Kristensen, 2000; Aller, 1982). Small bivalves pump water through siphons that leave paired pinholes scattered across the flats, and amphipods graze biofilms coating the worm casts, linking subsurface feeding to surface texture.

Each round of burrowing lifts buried debris and nutrients toward the surface, making crab tunnels pathways that continually rebuild the marsh from below. | Graphic credit: Wang et al., 2010

Where deer cross and feed, hooves collapse some tunnels while sealing others, producing prints that darken unevenly because subsurface architecture differs from step to step. The feeding circuits therefore overlay hidden engineering that maintains permeability and redistributes nutrients, ensuring that exposure, grazing, and burrowing operate as one continuous process rather than as isolated events separated by layers of mud.

Smell in shallow water

Disturbed sediment releases dissolved compounds that spread through shallow pools as porewater plumes, chemical gradients that extend beyond the visible cloud of suspended mud. Killifish and juvenile mullet navigate these gradients through chemoreception, keeping their snouts close to the surface while pivoting toward intensifying scent (Kneib, 1997; Kristensen, 2000). Their feeding loosens additional sediment and amplifies the plume before particles settle again, creating a moving field of chemical information that overlaps with the physical contours of the flats.

What appears from above as a brief swirl becomes a signal that attracts birds, and dunlin and yellowlegs converge on fresh pits where worms remain exposed. Each crater fills with water and darkens as sulfide seeps upward, and feeding layers stack in sequence so that invertebrate disturbance leads to fish excavation, which leads to avian probing, all anchored to the same exposure that first drew deer into the marsh. Leaning close reveals faint popping as methane and carbon dioxide escape through gas ebullition, ticking upward from saturated sediment while animals feed across the surface. The marsh ventilates audibly, and the sound marks exchange continuing beneath apparent stillness.

As the tide withdraws, exposed mud concentrates scent and invertebrates near the surface, guiding shorebirds to feeding zones written into the sediment. | Photo credit: Ron Watts

Memory in the surface

Winter tides and storms deposit sediment that raises the marsh through vertical accretion, stacking particles in increments small enough to disappear into the surface unless read over time (Morris et al., 2002). Hurricane overwash leaves thin sand sheets that redirect drainage for months, oyster clusters trap suspended grains in their lee (Newell et al., 2005), and worm burrows stabilize some deposits while loosening others (Kirwan & Megonigal, 2013). Feeding compresses ridges and excavation softens troughs, embedding each disturbance into the next layer so that the flats carry a structural memory of their own use.

Returning after weeks reveals crossings shifted, wrack lines buried, and worm casts clustered in new zones, evidence that the marsh does not reset between exposures but accumulates the imprint of repeated winter engineering.

Winters that change

Warmer temperatures extend microbial activity through temperature-driven metabolic acceleration, thinning the interval between sealing and decay and allowing chemical gradients to persist longer at the surface (Bridgham et al., 2006). Rising water levels narrow exposure windows, stronger storms redistribute sediment in thicker pulses, and shifting coastal currents alter nutrient delivery and larval supply, influencing which species occupy the winter flats (Kirwan & Megonigal, 2013). The marsh continues to open, yet the rhythm of exposure recalibrates, and feeding circuits migrate toward higher shelves where consolidation still holds.

Chemical plumes stretch farther in warmer water, grazing concentrates into narrower bands, and the same negotiations between structure and feeding repeat under altered timing, ensuring that winter engineering continues without preserving its previous schedule.

Seasonal temperature outlook showing shifting winter probabilities across the southeastern United States, a regional signal that filters down to marsh-level processes. | NOAA – National Weather Service, 2026

The surface in motion

The creek mouth appears quiet until attention lowers to the scale of sediment. Frost melts along print rims before surrounding crust warms, gas ticks upward through worm tubes, fish pits refill, and diatoms bloom where warmth collects. Each tide writes another layer into a system held in dynamic equilibrium, continuous adjustment that maintains form while never remaining fixed (Morris et al., 2002). Exposure leads to feeding, feeding reshapes structure, and structure governs the next exposure as the marsh opens again.

The same ridges that hold a deer’s weight will soften again when the tide returns, and the feeding circuits traced across them will dissolve into channels that redistribute the next layer of sediment. Worm burrows will reopen where hooves sealed them, chemical plumes will reassemble in newly flooded pools, and the surface will carry forward the imprint of this exposure into the next one. Winter does not suspend the marsh. It recalculates it at a slower tempo, redistributing energy across the same structures that will support spring growth and summer density, so that even in the coldest intervals the creek mouth continues its quiet accounting of exchange, preparing another surface that will open and be read again.

Deer cross the marsh to reach winter feeding exposed by the tide, moving along corridors that appear only when the surface opens. | Photo credit: L. W. Hamilton, 2025

References

Aller, R. C. (1982). The effects of Macrobenthos on chemical properties of marine sediment and overlying water. Topics in Geobiology, 53-102. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4757-1317-6_2

Bridgham, S. D., Megonigal, J. P., Keller, J. K., Bliss, N. B., & Trettin, C. (2006). The carbon balance of North American wetlands. Wetlands, 26(4), 889-916. https://doi.org/10.1672/0277-5212(2006)26[889:tcbona]2.0.co;2

Christiansen, T., Wiberg, P., & Milligan, T. (2000). Flow and sediment transport on a tidal salt marsh surface. Estuarine, Coastal and Shelf Science, 50(3), 315-331. https://doi.org/10.1006/ecss.2000.0548

Howarth, R. W., & Teal, J. M. (1979). Sulfate reduction in a New England salt marsh1. Limnology and Oceanography, 24(6), 999-1013. https://doi.org/10.4319/lo.1979.24.6.0999

Kirwan, M. L., & Megonigal, J. P. (2013). Tidal wetland stability in the face of human impacts and sea-level rise. Nature, 504(7478), 53-60. https://doi.org/10.1038/nature12856

Kneib, R. T. (1997). The role of tidal marshes in the ecology of estuarine nekton. Oceanography And Marine Biology, 35(35), 159-216. https://doi.org/10.1201/b12590-5

Kristensen, E. (2000). Organic matter diagenesis at the oxic/anoxic interface in coastal marine sediments, with emphasis on the role of burrowing animals. Hydrobiologia, 426(1), 1-24. https://doi.org/10.1023/a:1003980226194

Mendelssohn, I. A., McKee, K. L., & Patrick, W. H. (1981). Oxygen deficiency in Spartina alterniflora roots: Metabolic adaptation to anoxia. Science, 214(4519), 439-441. https://doi.org/10.1126/science.214.4519.439

Morris, J. T., Sundareshwar, P. V., Nietch, C. T., Kjerfve, B., & Cahoon, D. R. (2002). Responses of coastal wetlands to rising sea level. Ecology, 83(10), 2869. https://doi.org/10.2307/3072022

Newell, R. I., Fisher, T. R., Holyoke, R. R., & Cornwell, J. C. (2005). Influence of eastern oysters on nitrogen and phosphorus regeneration in Chesapeake Bay, USA. NATO Science Series IV: Earth and Environmental Series, 282, 93-120. https://doi.org/10.1007/1-4020-3030-4_6

Underwood, G., & Kromkamp, J. (1999). Primary production by phytoplankton and Microphytobenthos in estuaries. Advances in Ecological Research, 29, 93-153. https://doi.org/10.1016/s0065-2504(08)60192-0

February 7, 2026
The Life of a Barnacle
A microscopic epic of drift, decision, and devotion

On a winter walk along a pier in Surf City, the boards are bleached pale by sun and salt. Wind threads through the pilings. Gulls cry over gray water. At your feet, on a beam that has known decades of tides, something clings.

It is no bigger than a fingernail—chalky white, ridged like a tiny volcano. Along this coast, it is often an ivory barnacle—Amphibalanus eburneus—one of the small architects that quietly carpet pilings, docks, and seawalls from Topsail Sound to the Cape Fear. You could scrape it away with the edge of a shell. You probably have, absentmindedly, a hundred times.

But this barnacle is not debris. It is a biography written in calcium.

It began as a drifting dot—an invisible life in a moving sea. It crossed currents. It tasted the chemistry of places. And then, once, it chose.

The choice was final.

Barnacles are among the few animals on Earth that get exactly one chance to decide where they will live. No revisions. No migrations. No second homes. The place where a barnacle settles becomes the place where it will eat, grow, reproduce, and die. Its entire life collapses into a single coordinate on the map of the shore.

To understand a barnacle is to understand what it means to commit.

Ivory barnacles cling to a rock | Photo credit: Ken-ichi Ueda

Drift

A barnacle’s life begins in motion.

After fertilization, barnacle embryos hatch into nauplius larvae—tiny, triangular forms equipped with beating appendages and a simple eye (Anderson, 1994). They rise into the plankton, where they may drift for days to weeks, feeding and growing as tides and currents carry them outward (Chen et al., 2014).

The first larval stage of a barnacle, called a nauplius, is free-swimming and distinguished by a set of “horns.” | Photo credit: Robert Bachand

They are not aimless. Even at this scale, nauplii respond to light, salinity, and gravity. They migrate vertically through the water column, riding layers of current like conveyor belts. Their world is vast and borderless—and lethal.

Most barnacles die here.

Nauplii are eaten by copepods, jellyfish, fish larvae, and filter-feeding invertebrates. Each pulse of water is a gauntlet. Survival depends on number: millions released so that a few may reach shore.

After several molts, the nauplius enters its final larval form: the cyprid.

A late larval barnacle stage, the cyprid, has a bivalved shell of chitin and glands in its first antennae that are used to cement itself permanently to a hard substrate. | Photo credit: Robert Bachand

This is no longer a feeding animal. It is a vessel of stored energy, built for a single task—finding a place to live (Aldred & Clare, 2008).

The cyprid does not eat.

A clock begins.

Much of what we know about this hidden stage comes from decades of work on a close coastal relative, the striped barnacle – Amphibalanus amphitrite—a warm-water barnacle that clings to pilings and boat hulls worldwide, and whose larvae have become a window into how barnacles read the sea.

The striped barnacle (Amphibalanus amphitrite) is a globally distributed, non-native barnacle species that can spread via biofouling. In North Carolina waters it may occur outside its historical native range, but it isn’t widely recognized as a documented invasive species causing major ecological disruption. | Photo Credit: South Australia Marine Lab

The Narrow Window

Now the barnacle is no longer drifting blindly. It swims with intent. The cyprid probes surfaces with specialized antennules, “tasting” the chemistry of rock, wood, shell, and steel. It detects microbial biofilms—thin living skins that signal a surface has been stable long enough to support life (Qian et al., 2007). It senses the presence of other barnacles. It avoids surfaces that feel wrong.

This sensory world evolved in seas that were chemically simpler.

Today, cyprids swim through waters laced with heavy metals, hydrocarbons, microplastics, antifouling compounds, and nutrient-driven microbial shifts. These pollutants alter biofilms, mask settlement cues, and interfere with larval sensory systems. What once read clearly as “home” now arrives as static.

In degraded waters, cyprids often hesitate. They probe and retreat. They circle without committing.

But the clock does not pause.

Depending on species and temperature, a cyprid has only days to a few weeks before its stored energy is exhausted (Aldred & Clare, 2008). Each hour of searching burns fuel. When reserves fall too low, three futures unfold.

Some larvae simply die in the plankton and sink.

Some make a desperate choice—cementing themselves to marginal or unstable surfaces.

Others respond to distorted cues and settle where survival is unlikely.

This is not a failure of instinct. It is a mismatch between ancient sensory logic and a changed sea.

Long before we notice a shoreline growing quieter, its future has already thinned in the plankton.

Adverse intergenerational effects of microplastics might drastically reduce larval recruitment and threaten long-term zooplankton sustainability. | Photo credit: Yu & Chan, 2020.

The Choice

When the answer is yes, the barnacle performs one of the most irreversible acts in the animal kingdom.

It flips upside down.

Using its antennules, the cyprid secretes a permanent biological cement and glues its head to the surface (Kamino, 2016). This adhesive—among the strongest natural glues known—binds underwater to stone, metal, and polymer. Once cured, it cannot be undone.

There is no “testing.” No trial period.

This is the end of motion.

Within hours, the cyprid undergoes a radical metamorphosis. Its eyes degenerate. Its swimming limbs are restructured into feathery feeding appendages called cirri. Its body reorganizes around a new axis—rooted instead of free (Høeg & Møller, 2006).

The barnacle becomes architecture.

Many do not survive even this. Newly settled juveniles are grazed by small fish and invertebrates. Waves scrape them away before cement fully cures. The shoreline is littered with choices that did not last.

Those that remain begin to build something larger than themselves.

A Life Built Around the Tide

Most animals grow by addition. Barnacles grow by reinvention.

Shell plates rise around soft tissue, forming a fortress against wave impact, desiccation, and predation. Inside, muscles and organs reorganize to support a life of rhythmic feeding.

When submerged, the barnacle opens its opercular plates and unfurls its cirri—six pairs of jointed limbs that sweep the water in steady arcs. Each beat captures phytoplankton, detritus, and microcrustaceans (Southward, 2008).

An ivory barnacle (Amphibalanus eburneus) unfurls its cirri that sweep the water to feed. | © Peter J. Bryant

Metabolism slows. Heat and salt concentrate. Time folds inward. Some intertidal barnacles endure body temperatures exceeding 40°C (104°F) and prolonged oxygen deprivation (Harley, 2008). They wait for the sea to return.

Each tide is both a threat and nourishment.

Anatomy of a barnacle. | Photo Credit: AnimalFact.com

Time in Shell

Barnacles record time the way trees do.

Their shells grow in increments, forming visible growth bands that reflect seasonal cycles and environmental stress (Crisp, 1989). Storms leave signatures. Cold winters slow deposition. Productive summers thicken walls.

A barnacle on a piling may live five, ten, even twenty years (Southward, 2008). It will experience thousands of tides, hundreds of storms, and uncountable shifts in salinity and temperature—without ever moving.

Where foraminifera archive ancient seas in sediment, barnacles archive living shorelines in calcium.

They are clocks that cannot leave.

Looking at the head of the barnacle, where it attaches, growth rings can be seen. These concentric rings that represent cyclic growth periods are called ecdysal lines (also known as cuticular slips) and are associated with barnacle molting. | Photo credit: © Michael Ready Photography

Threshold Organisms

Barnacles occupy one of the most punishing habitats on Earth: the intertidal zone.

Here, organisms must withstand:
- Wave forces exceeding hurricane winds
- Repeated drying and rehydration
- Rapid temperature swings
- Salinity changes from rain and evaporation
- Intense ultraviolet exposure
Few animals can survive here. Barnacles not only survive—they structure the place.

Every barnacle on this shore is the consequence of a single larval decision made weeks earlier in open water.

They stabilize surfaces. They retain moisture. They create crevices for algae, worms, snails, and juvenile crustaceans. They shape temperature gradients and water flow. They turn bare rock into habitat.

When settlement falters—when larvae cannot read the shore or run out of time—the architecture of the coast changes.

Bare rock expands. Algal communities shift. Grazers lose shelter. Predators lose prey. The intertidal simplifies.

A piling with fewer barnacles is not merely cleaner. It is quieter. Biologically poorer and less layered.

The Lesson in Shell

Return now to that single barnacle on the pier.

It has no eyes. It has never seen the ocean. It will never know the gull overhead or the human who pauses above it. And yet it has shaped its entire existence around this exact sliver of coast.

It did not choose perfectly.

Some barnacles settle too high and starve. Some attach where sand scours them away. Some cement themselves beside competitors that outgrow and smother them.

There is no guarantee.

Only the act of choosing.

In a world that prizes movement, flexibility, and endless revision, the barnacle offers a quieter philosophy:

At some point, life must become a place.

To belong is not to drift forever. It is to accept exposure. To endure storms. To open when the tide allows. To grow, layer by layer, into the shape of your ground.

Every barnacle on this coast is a monument to a single irreversible decision.

And the sea is full of them.

Bay barnacle, Amphibalanus improvisus, on a rock in the New River | Photo credit: Alina Michele, iNaturalist, 2022

References

Aldred, N., & Clare, A. S. (2008). The adhesive strategies of cyprids and development of barnacle-resistant marine coatings. Biofouling, 24(5), 351-363. https://doi.org/10.1080/08927010802256117

Anderson, D. T. (1994). Barnacles: Structure, function, development and evolution (1st ed.). Springer Dordrecht.

Chen, Z., Zhang, H., Wang, H., Matsumura, K., Wong, Y. H., Ravasi, T., & Qian, P. (2014). Quantitative Proteomics study of larval settlement in the barnacle balanus Amphitrite. PLoS ONE, 9(2), e88744. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0088744

Crisp, D. J. (1989). Tidally deposited bands in shells of barnacles and molluscs. Origin, Evolution, and Modern Aspects of Biomineralization in Plants and Animals, 103-124. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4757-6114-6_8

Harley, C. D. (2008). Tidal dynamics, topographic orientation, and temperature-mediated mass mortalities on rocky shores. Marine Ecology Progress Series, 371, 37-46. https://doi.org/10.3354/meps07711

Høeg, J. T., & Møller, O. S. (2006). When similar beginnings lead to different ends: Constraints and diversity in cirripede larval development. Invertebrate Reproduction & Development, 49(3), 125-142. https://doi.org/10.1080/07924259.2006.9652204

Kamino, K. (2016). Barnacle underwater attachment. Biological Adhesives, 153-176. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-46082-6_7

Qian, P., Lau, S. C., Dahms, H., Dobretsov, S., & Harder, T. (2007). Marine Biofilms as mediators of colonization by marine Macroorganisms: Implications for antifouling and aquaculture. Marine Biotechnology, 9(4), 399-410. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10126-007-9001-9

Southward, A. J. (2008). Barnacles: Keys and notes for the identification of British species. Field Studies Council. Yu, S., & Chan, B. K. (2020). Intergenerational microplastics impact the intertidal barnacle Amphibalanus Amphitrite during the planktonic larval and benthic adult stages. Environmental Pollution, 267, 115560. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.envpol.2020.115560
January 17, 2026
The Hidden City in the Grass

How seagrasses and marsh grasses—and the animals within them—build the marshes of Onslow County

In Onslow County’s estuarine marshes, the best time to understand how the landscape works is when the water pulls back. As tides drain from creeks and shallow flats, patterns begin to emerge—where water lingers, where it moves easily, and where it hesitates. These patterns are not random. They reflect the combined influence of plants, animals, and sediments continually reshaping the boundary between land and sea.

Like the microscopic shells of foraminifera preserved in sediment, marsh and seagrass communities record environmental conditions. But unlike the past locked in mud, these systems are alive, constantly negotiated by plants, grazers, predators, and microbes.

From permanently submerged seagrass beds to the highest marsh edge, each elevation zone in Onslow County is maintained not just by vegetation, but by species that actively regulate growth, chemistry, and water flow.

Subtidal shallows: seagrass beds maintained by grazers

In the shallow, light-penetrated waters of the New River Estuary and protected soundside areas, seagrass beds form underwater meadows that stabilize sediments and provide nursery habitat for fish and invertebrates. Species present or expected in Onslow County waters include eelgrass (Zostera marina), shoalgrass (Halodule wrightii), and widgeongrass (Ruppia maritima) (Mallin, 2000; Orth, 1984).

Seagrass blades rapidly accumulate epiphytic algae and microbial films. Without constant grazing, this layer can block light and suppress photosynthesis. Amphipods, isopods, and small gastropods act as continuous maintenance crews, grazing epiphytes and preventing them from overwhelming the plants themselves (Orth & van Montfrans, 1984; Valentine & Duffy, 2006).

Experimental studies show that when these grazers are removed, seagrass condition declines even under favorable light conditions, demonstrating that plant survival depends as much on animal activity as on physical environment (Duffy et al., 2015). Beneath the canopy, burrowing worms and bivalves recycle nutrients and oxygenate sediments, preventing organic matter from accumulating around roots (Orth, 1984).

In this zone, seagrass persists because grazers keep blades clean and sediments breathable—a cooperative system built on constant biological upkeep.

Gammarus mucronatus, a common amphipod grazer on eelgrass | Photo credit: E. A. Lazo-Wasem, Yale Peabody Museum, 2013.

The low marsh edge: cordgrass shaped by snails and crabs

At the daily-flooded edge of the marsh, smooth cordgrass (Spartina alterniflora) dominates. This narrow fringe marks the boundary between open water and marsh interior, where erosion pressure is highest and stability matters most.

Left: Healthy smooth cordgrass (Spartina alterniflora) line the estuary edge in Surf City, NC. | Photo credit: A. Mitchell, 2022. Right: Salt marsh die-off from grazing stress by marsh periwinkle snails and reduced predation by crabs, such as blue crabs, can create bare mudflats. | Photo credit: By Esuglia at English Wikipedia, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=65794096

Cordgrass growth here is tightly regulated by the marsh periwinkle snail (Littoraria irrorata). These snails climb grass stems to avoid inundation and graze directly on living tissue, often intensifying damage by facilitating fungal infection. At high densities, periwinkle grazing can dramatically reduce cordgrass height and biomass, effectively mowing the marsh edge (Silliman & Zieman, 2001).

Marsh periwinkle snails (Littoraria irrorata) are a common sight on cordgrass (Spartina alterniflora) in North Carolina | Photo credit: North Carolina Aquarium at Roanoke Island, 2018.

Unchecked grazing can destabilize the marsh platform—but periwinkles themselves are regulated by crabs, including blue crabs (Callinectes sapidus), fiddler crabs (Genus Uca), purple marsh crabs (Sesarma reticulatum), hermit crabs and other burrowing species. Crabs prey on snails, limiting grazing pressure and indirectly protecting cordgrass (Silliman et al., 2005).

Crabs also function as ecosystem engineers. Their burrows aerate sediments, relieve sulfide stress around plant roots, and improve tidal water movement through compacted soils (Bertness, 1985; Thomas & Blum, 2010). Where crabs are abundant, cordgrass grows taller and denser; where they are lost, marsh die-off can occur rapidly.

This zone persists through a trophic cascade: grass builds land, snails limit grass, and crabs keep the system in balance.

Mid-marsh: mussels and detritus processors reinforce the platform

Just upslope, where flooding becomes less frequent, plant communities shift toward mixtures that often include saltmeadow cordgrass (Spartina patens). Here, the ribbed mussel (Geukensia demissa) emerges as a key stabilizing force.

Saltmeadow cordgrass (Spartina patens) is an important marsh stabilizer that has higher productivity when it grows near ribbed mussel aggregations | Photo credit: Kristie Gianopulos

Ribbed mussels form dense clusters at the base of marsh vegetation, binding sediments with byssal threads and physically reinforcing marsh soils against erosion (Bertness, 1984). As filter-feeders, they concentrate nutrients by removing organic matter from tidal waters and depositing nitrogen-rich biodeposits directly into marsh sediments (Jordan & Valiela, 1982).

Ribbed mussels (Geukensia demissa) at the base of marsh vegetation | Photo credit: R. Bachand

Grasses growing near mussel aggregations exhibit higher productivity than those without mussels, demonstrating a strong facilitative relationship between animals and plants (Bertness, 1984). As vegetation senesces, detritivorous worms, insects, and microbial decomposers break down dead plant material, converting standing biomass into detritus that fuels food webs throughout the estuary (Mann, 1988).

The mid-marsh functions as a processing zone, reinforcing marsh structure while converting plant matter into usable energy.

High marsh: microbes that manage chemical stress

In the high marsh, dominated by black needlerush (Juncus roemerianus) and saltmeadow cordgrass (Spartina patens), flooding is limited to spring tides and storms. Prolonged exposure to air creates harsh soil conditions, including elevated salinity and sulfide accumulation.

Black needlerush grass (Juncus roemerianus) dominates the high marsh | Photo credit: ©Andy Newman

Here, microbial communities play a central role. Sulfate-reducing and sulfur-oxidizing bacteria regulate sulfide concentrations that would otherwise become toxic to plant roots, while microbial decomposition controls nutrient availability under fluctuating oxygen conditions (Howarth & Giblin, 1983).

Beneath the marsh surface, soil microbes regulate decomposition, carbon exchange, and chemical stress. Changes in salinity and flooding reshape microbial communities, influencing how marsh soils process organic matter and support vegetation across tidal elevations. | Image credit: Zhang et al., 2023.

Small soil invertebrates maintain pore spaces that allow brief pulses of oxygenated water to penetrate during flooding. Unlike the visibly engineered low marsh, the high marsh is stabilized largely through biogeochemical regulation rather than grazing or predation.

This zone endures because microbes quietly buffer plants against chemical extremes.

From microbes in the soil to grasses at the surface, biological interactions drive marsh formation. Microbial processes govern decomposition and organic matter buildup, helping determine whether marsh platforms gain elevation, remain stable, or collapse | Image credit: Abbot, Quirk & Fultz, 2022.

The marsh–upland transition: keeping the boundary intact

At the uppermost margin of the marsh, tidal influence becomes intermittent and environmental stress shifts from salinity to erosion and freshwater input. Burrowing invertebrates increase soil permeability, allowing stormwater and tidal surges to infiltrate rather than scour the surface (Thomas & Blum, 2010).

A profile illustration . depicting the recommended transition of plant types from the edge of the salt marsh to the upland buffer. | Image credit: Massachusetts Office of Coastal Zone Management

Vegetation root networks stabilize soils exposed to drying and wave action, while animal burrows act as pressure-release pathways during extreme events. When these biological processes are disrupted—by shoreline hardening or vegetation removal—the marsh edge often collapses abruptly rather than adjusting gradually.

This boundary holds only as long as water can move through it.

Black, organic-rich peat exposed after storms marks the remains of an ancient salt marsh once buried beneath barrier sands. Its reappearance along North Topsail Beach records long-term shoreline change and marsh migration. Photo credit: Bill Tresnan, 2024.

A marsh built by interactions

Across all elevations in Onslow County marshes, the pattern is consistent:

Plants define the zones—but animals and microbes determine whether those zones endure.

Conceptual diagram of revised juvenile blue crab ontogenetic habitat shifts. Arrows depict transitions between habitats with increases in size. Arrow widths denote abundance contributions of individuals between habitats. | Image credit: Hyman et al., 2023

From grazers that keep seagrass blades clean, to crabs that hold the marsh edge together, to microbes that manage invisible chemical stress, the marsh is sustained by small organisms with outsized influence. Together, these interactions determine not just what lives in the marsh, but whether the marsh itself endures.

Purple marsh crabs (Sesarma reticulatum) moving together along the marsh edge on South Topsail Island, North Carolina. Their collective movement and feeding activity illustrate how small organisms play outsized roles in maintaining marsh structure. Photo credit: A. Mitchell, 2025.

References

Abbott, K. M., Quirk, T., & Fultz, L. M. (2022). Soil microbial community development across a 32-year coastal wetland restoration time series and the relative importance of environmental factors. Science of The Total Environment, 821, 153359. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.scitotenv.2022.153359

Bertness, M. D. (1984). Ribbed mussels and Spartina Alterniflora production in a New England salt marsh. Ecology, 65(6), 1794-1807. https://doi.org/10.2307/1937776

Bertness, M. D. (1985). Fiddler crab regulation of Spartina alterniflora production on a New England salt marsh. Ecology, 66(3), 1042-1055. https://doi.org/10.2307/1940564

Duffy, J. E., Reynolds, P. L., Boström, C., Coyer, J. A., Cusson, M., Donadi, S., Douglass, J. G., Eklöf, J. S., Engelen, A. H., Eriksson, B. K., Fredriksen, S., Gamfeldt, L., Gustafsson, C., Hoarau, G., Hori, M., Hovel, K., Iken, K., Lefcheck, J. S., Moksnes, P., … Stachowicz, J. J. (2015). Biodiversity mediates top–down control in eelgrass ecosystems: A global comparative‐experimental approach. Ecology Letters, 18(7), 696-705. https://doi.org/10.1111/ele.12448

Howarth, R. W., & Giblin, A. (1983). Sulfate reduction in the salt marshes at Sapelo island, Georgia. Limnology and Oceanography, 28(1), 70-82. https://doi.org/10.4319/lo.1983.28.1.0070

Hyman, A. C., Chiu, G. S., Seebo, M. S., Smith, A., Saluta, G. G., Knick, K. E., & Lipcius, R. N. (2023). Model-based evaluation of critical nursery habitats for juvenile blue crabs through ontogeny: Abundance and survival in seagrass, salt marsh, and unstructured bottom. https://doi.org/10.1101/2023.07.20.549877

Jordan, T. E., & Valiela, I. (1982). A nitrogen budget of the ribbed mussel, Geukensia demissa, and its significance in nitrogen flow in a New England salt marsh. Limnology and Oceanography, 27(1), 75-90. https://doi.org/10.4319/lo.1982.27.1.0075

Mallin, M. A., Burkholder, J. M., Cahoon, L. B., & Posey, M. H. (2000). North and South Carolina coasts. Marine Pollution Bulletin, 41(1-6), 56-75. https://doi.org/10.1016/s0025-326x(00)00102-8

Mann, K. H. (1988). Production and use of detritus in various freshwater, estuarine, and coastal marine ecosystems. Limnology and Oceanography, 33(4part2), 910-930. https://doi.org/10.4319/lo.1988.33.4part2.0910

Orth, R. J., Heck, K. L., & Van Montfrans, J. (1984). Faunal communities in seagrass beds: A review of the influence of plant structure and prey characteristics on predator: Prey relationships. Estuaries, 7(4), 339. https://doi.org/10.2307/1351618

Orth, R. J., & Van Montfrans, J. (1984). Epiphyte-seagrass relationships with an emphasis on the role of micrograzing: A review. Aquatic Botany, 18(1-2), 43-69. https://doi.org/10.1016/0304-3770(84)90080-9

Silliman, B. R., Van de Koppel, J., Bertness, M. D., Stanton, L. E., & Mendelssohn, I. A. (2005). Drought, snails, and large-scale die-off of southern U.S. salt marshes. Science, 310(5755), 1803-1806. https://doi.org/10.1126/science.1118229

Silliman, B. R., & Zieman, J. C. (2001). Top-down control of Spartina alterniflora production by periwinkle grazing in a Virginia salt marsh. Ecology, 82(10), 2830. https://doi.org/10.2307/2679964

Thomas, C., & Blum, L. (2010). Importance of the fiddler crab Uca pugnax to salt marsh soil organic matter accumulation. Marine Ecology Progress Series, 414, 167-177. https://doi.org/10.3354/meps08708

Valentine, J. F., & Duffy, J. E. (n.d.). The central role of grazing in seagrass ecology. Seagrasses: Biology, Ecology and Conservation, 463-501. https://doi.org/10.1007/1-4020-2983-7_20

Zhang, G., Bai, J., Jia, J., Wang, W., Wang, D., Zhao, Q., Wang, C., & Chen, G. (2023). Soil microbial communities regulate the threshold effect of salinity stress on SOM decomposition in coastal salt marshes. Fundamental Research, 3(6), 868-879. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.fmre.2023.02.024

January 10, 2026
Foraminifera: The Marsh’s Memory Keepers

What microscopic shells along Topsail and Surf City tell us about ancient seas, living marshes, and the future coastline

On a winter walk along the marsh edge in Topsail or Surf City, the landscape feels quiet. Cordgrass has faded to straw, tidal creeks run clear, and storm tides have pulled back layers of sediment that were hidden just months ago. Winter slows the marsh, but it also reveals it. Along exposed creek banks and tidal flats, the smallest residents of these ecosystems leave behind subtle traces — grains, spirals, and pin-sized shells that most people would mistake for sand.

These are the remains of foraminifera, key marsh indicators, and they carry a record far older than the marsh itself (Murray, 2006; Scott et al., 2001).

What Are Foraminifera?

Foraminifera, often called forams, are single-celled marine organisms — not animals, but protists — that live in oceans, estuaries, and salt marshes around the world (Murray, 2006). Despite their microscopic size, most foraminifera build protective shells, known as tests, made either from calcium carbonate or from tiny grains of sediment cemented together (Scott et al., 2001; Debenay & Guillou, 2002).

Different species occupy very specific zones within a marsh. Some live high in the intertidal, others closer to open water. Their distribution reflects precise environmental conditions such as salinity, tidal elevation, oxygen availability, and sediment type (Edwards et al., 2004; Culver & Horton, 2005). Because of this tight ecological coupling, foraminifera respond quickly when conditions change (Debenay & Guillou, 2002).

Peneropolis proteus is the one of three most dominant species of fossil foraminifera in the Onslow Bay area, occurring in about 15% of samples (Schnitker, 1971).

Why Winter Reveals the Record

In summer, marsh surfaces are busy and obscured. Dense vegetation, algae, burrowing organisms, and constant sediment mixing make it difficult to see what lies beneath. In winter, vegetation thins, biological activity slows, and storm tides rework creek edges and tidal flats. Fine sediments are redistributed, exposing layers that formed years, decades, or even centuries earlier (Scott et al., 2001; Gehrels, 1994).

Winter does not create this record — it simply makes it visible (Murray, 2006).

Size, Stability, and Ancient Seas

Some fossil foraminifera grew to the size of coins, while most living forms today are no larger than grains of sand (Murray, 2006). This contrast reflects the environments they evolved within. In ancient shallow seas, conditions were often warm, stable, and chemically consistent for long periods of time. Temperature, salinity, and carbonate availability changed slowly, allowing foraminifera to grow over many years, build thick and complex shells, and, in some cases, form partnerships with symbiotic algae — similar to the relationship between corals and the algae that live within their tissues — which provided an additional energy source through photosynthesis (Hallock, 1981; Murray, 2006). These systems favored persistence and size.

Over time, coastlines shifted and sea levels changed, giving rise to the highly dynamic estuaries and marshes we see today. In these modern environments, conditions can fluctuate over hours or seasons. Salinity rises and falls, oxygen levels vary, sediments are rearranged, and water chemistry responds quickly to storms and freshwater input (Debenay & Guillou, 2002; Culver & Horton, 2005). Under such variability, smaller foraminifera that grow rapidly and tolerate change are more likely to survive. Because foraminifera respond directly to these environmental conditions, even subtle shifts can reorganize their communities, altering shell size, composition, and diversity in ways that can persist in sediments long after the initial change has occurred (Edwards et al., 2004; Kemp et al., 2013).

Tiny Shells, Deep Time: How Marshes Remember

Foraminifera are among the most powerful tools scientists use to reconstruct ancient coastal ecosystems because the conditions they live in are permanently recorded in their shells. Individual species occupy narrow ecological ranges defined by salinity, tidal elevation, oxygen availability, temperature, and sediment type. Because of this specificity, the particular mix of foraminifera preserved in a layer of marsh sediment reflects the environmental conditions present when that layer formed.

When scientists extract sediment cores from marshes, they are not looking for isolated snapshots in time, but for transitions. As layers accumulate, changes in species composition, shifts between calcium-based shells and sediment-built shells, and variations in diversity reveal how marsh conditions evolved. These biological signals can indicate changes in flooding frequency, sediment stability, freshwater influence, and tidal reach — often aligning with known shifts in sea level or shoreline position.

What makes foraminifera especially valuable is that they record change continuously. Each generation reflects the conditions it experienced, leaving behind a layered biological archive that links past marshes to present ones — comparable to how sedimentary layers exposed in the Grand Canyon record changing environments over deep time.This continuity allows scientists to distinguish gradual environmental adjustment from more abrupt change and to assess whether modern conditions resemble states marshes have previously endured — or represent departures from historical patterns.

Quinqueloculina seminula (left) and Plancopsilina confusa (right) are the top three most dominant species of fossil foraminifera in the Onslow Bay area, each occurring in about 20% of samples (Schnitker, 1971).

What Lives in a Handful of Marsh Sand

If you scoop a small handful of sand or mud from a North Carolina marsh and let it dry, it looks ordinary—grains, bits of plant matter, flecks of shell. Where sediment cores reveal depth at the scale of decades and centuries, living marsh surfaces show that same pattern compressed into just a few centimeters. But research from the Outer Banks suggests that even this unremarkable material holds a surprisingly rich living community.

Foraminifera under biological microscope with sand.

In a detailed study of marsh sediments along the North Carolina coast, scientists examined not just which foraminifera were present, but which ones were alive at the time of sampling. What they found was not a thin layer of life resting at the surface, but a vertically structured community extending down into the sediment itself (Culver, 2005).

Some foraminifera lived right at the surface, where tides regularly wash over the marsh. Others occupied sediments a centimeter or more below, in darker, less oxygenated layers. In total, more than twenty species were documented living within marsh sediments, their distributions shaped by subtle differences in tidal flooding, salinity, and marsh elevation (Culver, 2005).

Not all species were equally widespread. A few, including Jadammina macrescens and Tiphotrocha comprimata, appeared across multiple sites and depths, suggesting a tolerance for changing marsh conditions. Many others were more selective, occurring only in certain zones or at particular depths. This means that even small changes in where you stand—closer to a tidal creek or higher on the marsh platform—can correspond to a different microscopic community beneath your feet (Culver, 2005).

Upper image: Jadammina macrescens under microscope.| Image credit: Parker, G. G., Phleger, et al. 1953. Cushman Found.Foram.Research Spec.Pub. (n.2): 15, pl.3,f.8.
Lower image: Tiphotrocha comprimata under microscope | Image credit: Hesemann, M., The Foraminifera.eu Database (2026). Accessed at http://www.foraminifera.eu.
https://doi.org/10.13140/RG.2.2.22727.11680/1.

As these organisms die, their shells remain. Layer by layer, those shells become part of the sediment, preserving a record of where tides reached, how often flooding occurred, and how stable the marsh surface was at that moment in time (Scott et al., 2001). What begins as a living community quietly becomes part of the marsh’s long-term record.

Although the Outer Banks are not identical to the marshes behind Topsail and Surf City, the pattern holds across North Carolina’s coast: foraminifera respond to local conditions at very small scales. Their presence, abundance, and depth within the sediment shift from place to place, reflecting the marsh’s relationship with water, salt, and time (Edwards et al., 2004; Culver & Horton, 2005).

Cibicidoides bradyi (horizontal scale bar = 200μm, vertical scale bar = 400μm) occur in less than 20 m at about 1% of samples in the Onslow County area (Schnitker, 1971).

For someone walking the marsh in winter, this means that the sand exposed along a creek bank carries more than the imprint of the last storm. It carries traces of countless tides before it—each one leaving behind shells small enough to escape notice, yet durable enough to remember.

What Changes in Foraminifera Mean for the Ecosystem

An example of how shifts in reef communities reflect shifts in foraminiferal communities below (Prazeres, Martínez-Colón & Hallock, 2020).

Foraminifera do not exist in isolation. They are part of the marsh food web, contributing to the transfer of energy and nutrients from microscopic primary producers to larger organisms (Murray, 2006). Many small invertebrates consume foraminifera directly, while others rely on the microbial communities and organic matter associated with their shells (Debenay & Guillou, 2002). In turn, these invertebrates support fish, crabs, and birds that depend on marsh productivity (Scott et al., 2001).

When foraminiferal communities shift, the effects can ripple outward. A decline in diversity or a move toward stress-tolerant species often reflects changes in sediment stability, oxygen availability, or salinity — conditions that also influence marsh plants, benthic invertebrates, and juvenile fish habitat (Culver & Horton, 2005; Edwards et al., 2004). In this way, changes in foraminifera can foreshadow broader ecological adjustments, even when the marsh surface still appears healthy (Debenay & Guillou, 2002).

Because foraminifera respond quickly to environmental change, they often register these shifts before larger organisms do. Their shells capture early signals of altered flooding patterns, reduced sediment input, or changing water chemistry (Gehrels, 1994; Kemp et al., 2013). What follows may be changes in plant community structure, altered nutrient cycling, or shifts in the species that use marshes as nursery grounds. Foraminifera do not cause these changes, but they reveal when the system’s internal balance begins to shift (Scott et al., 2001).

Reading Change in Living Marshes

Salt marshes are dynamic systems by nature. They grow, erode, migrate, and rebuild as sediment moves and sea level changes (Kemp et al., 2013). The challenge for scientists is distinguishing normal variability from directional change — shifts that push marshes beyond the conditions they have historically been able to tolerate. Foraminifera are especially useful in making that distinction because they respond quickly and directly to their surroundings (Debenay & Guillou, 2002).

When marsh conditions move outside typical ranges — whether through altered hydrology, changes in sediment supply, or shifts in salinity — foraminiferal communities reorganize. Species diversity may decline, stress-tolerant forms can become dominant, and assemblages tied to specific tidal elevations may disappear (Culver & Horton, 2005). These changes often occur before larger, more visible signs of stress appear, such as widespread plant die-off or shoreline erosion (Edwards et al., 2004). In this sense, foraminifera act as early responders, recording change while the marsh still appears intact at the surface (Scott et al., 2001).

Along the marshes behind Topsail and Surf City, this sensitivity gives foraminifera particular importance. They help establish local baselines for what healthy marsh conditions look like, provide context for interpreting present-day shifts, and preserve a record of the conditions that supported marsh stability in the past (Culver & Horton, 2005; Kemp et al., 2013). By linking modern observations to sedimentary records, foraminifera allow scientists to ask not only what is changing, but how quickly change is occurring and whether it remains within the range marshes have previously endured. Understanding marsh resilience in this way is not abstract or theoretical — it is grounded in the specific history and behavior of this coastline.

Salt marsh in Surf City, NC. | Photo credit: Mitchell (2026)

Closing

Standing at the marsh edge in winter, it is easy to miss the smallest details. Yet beneath the quiet surface, microscopic shells record centuries of change — how water moved, how shorelines shifted, and how marshes adapted (Murray, 2006). Foraminifera remind us that long before satellites or tide gauges, coastlines were already keeping their own records. All we have to do is learn how to read them.

References

Culver, S. J. (2005). Infaunal marsh foraminifera from the Outer Banks, North Carolina, U.S.A. The Journal of Foraminiferal Research, 35(2), 148-170. https://doi.org/10.2113/35.2.148

Debenay, J., & Guillou, J. (2002). Ecological transitions indicated by foraminiferal assemblages in paralic environments. Estuaries, 25(6), 1107-1120. https://doi.org/10.1007/bf02692208

Edwards, R., Wright, A., & Van de Plassche, O. (2004). Surface distributions of salt-marsh foraminifera from Connecticut, USA: Modern analogues for high-resolution sea level studies. Marine Micropaleontology, 51(1-2), 1-21. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.marmicro.2003.08.002

Gehrels, W. R., & Kemp, A. C. (2021). Salt marsh sediments as recorders of Holocene relative sea-level change. Salt Marshes, 225-256. https://doi.org/10.1017/9781316888933.011

Hallock, P. (1981). Algal symbiosis: A mathematical analysis. Marine Biology, 62(4), 249-255. https://doi.org/10.1007/bf00397691

Kemp, A. C., Horton, B. P., Vane, C. H., Berhhardt, C. E., Corbett, D. R., Engelhart, S. E., Anisfeld, S. C., Parnell, A. C., & Cahill, N. (2013). Sea-level change during the last 2500 years in New Jersey, USA. Quaternary Science Reviews, 81(2013), 90-104. https://www.whoi.edu/cms/files/Kemp2013QSR_170144.pdf

Murray, J. W. (2006). Ecology and applications of benthic foraminifera. Cambridge University Press.

Schnitker, D. (1971). Distribution of Foraminifera on the North Carolina Continental Shelf. Tulane Studies in Geology and Paleontology, 8(4), 169-215. https://journals.tulane.edu/tsgp/article/view/560

Scott, D. B., Medioli, F. S., & Schafer, C. T. (2001). Monitoring in coastal environments using foraminifera and Thecamoebian indicators. Cambridge University Press.

January 3, 2026
Threshold Species at the Year’s Turn

Winter birds and hidden skates in a changing coastal system

Late December along the coast does not announce itself loudly. The holidays have passed, the shoreline empties, and the light—almost imperceptibly—begins to return. The winter solstice marks the shortest day of the year, but its ecological counterpart is quieter. The water does not reset. It settles.

This is the moment when the coastal ecosystem stops negotiating with the season and begins to accept it. That acceptance is visible, if you know where to look—above the waterline in the form of a small diving duck, and below the surface in the stillness of a benthic predator that does not announce its presence at all.

In our region, ecologists recognize certain animals as threshold species: species whose presence, or subtle change in behavior, signals that the system has crossed a seasonal threshold in energy, behavior, and stability — moving from late year into what comes next.

Above the Water: When Winter Is No Longer a Question

Male (left) and female (right) Bufflehead ducks enjoying a winter swim | Photo credit: Judy Gallagher, iNaturalist

By late December, one species begins to appear with quiet regularity across protected sounds and estuaries: the Bufflehead (Bucephala albeola).

Buffleheads are not early winter arrivals. They do not surge in during the first cold fronts of autumn, nor do they linger indecisively during seasonal transition. Instead, their presence reflects commitment. By the time buffleheads settle into coastal waters, water temperatures have stabilized at winter lows, turbulence has eased in protected areas, and benthic prey communities—particularly small crustaceans and mollusks—have shifted into predictable winter distributions (Eadie et al., 2000; Goudie et al., 1994).

Ecologically, buffleheads are specialists. They forage by diving, relying on clear water and reliable prey patches. Their winter distribution is shaped not by calendar dates but by energy economics: cold water increases metabolic demands, and winter habitats must reliably repay that cost (Eadie & Kehoe, 2022). Where buffleheads remain, the system has crossed a threshold from fluctuation to stability.

In this way, they function less as migrants and more as indicators. Their presence signals that the coastal year has finished rearranging itself. Winter has arrived—not dramatically, but decisively.

Below the Water: When Stillness Makes Life Visible

Clearnose skate in winter waters | Photo credit: NOAA Fisheries

Below the surface, the signal is subtler.

Skates do not arrive in winter with the clarity of birds overhead. Species such as the Clearnose skate (Rostroraja eglanteria) are present along the southeastern U.S. coast throughout much of the year. What changes in late December is not their location, but their visibility.

As water temperatures drop, skates reduce activity, conserving energy through decreased movement and prolonged periods of resting on the seafloor (Di Santo & Bennett, 2011). This metabolic slowdown coincides with seasonal increases in water clarity driven by reduced biological productivity, lower sediment resuspension, and diminished boat traffic (Cloern et al., 2014). The result is a paradox: winter reveals what summer conceals.

In these conditions, skates become easier to observe—not because they have increased in number, but because the system itself has slowed enough to make persistence visible. Their flattened bodies blend seamlessly into sandy or muddy substrates, a strategy optimized for ambush predation and energy conservation rather than movement (Carrier et al., 2012).

If buffleheads announce that winter has settled, skates confirm it. They represent endurance over motion, patience over migration.

The Ecological Hinge Between Years

Neither of these species marks a beginning. Neither signals renewal or arrival in the way spring migrants do. Instead, they occupy the hinge between years—the moment when the ecosystem accepts the constraints of winter and reorganizes around them.

Late December is not biologically empty. It is a period of recalibration. Energy budgets tighten. Movements become deliberate. Survival depends less on abundance than on efficiency.

Above the water, buffleheads gather where the math works. Below it, skates persist by minimizing expenditure altogether. One is easily seen, the other almost never. Together, they reveal the same truth: the system has crossed a line.

After the Turn

January will bring its own changes. Cold will deepen, or ease. Migratory patterns will sharpen. New signals will emerge. But the moment just after the solstice—just after the holidays—is different. It is when the coast pauses, holds, and commits.

The year does not turn loudly here.
It settles, and then it holds.

References

Carrier, J. C., Musick, J. A., & Heithaus, M. R. (2012). Biology of sharks and their relatives (2nd ed.). CRC Press. https://doi.org/10.1201/b11867

Cloern, J. E., Foster, S. Q., & Kleckner, A. E. (2014). Phytoplankton primary production in the world’s estuarine–coastal ecosystems. Biogeosciences, 11(9), 2477–2501. https://doi.org/10.5194/bg-11-2477-2014

Di Santo, V., & Bennett, W. A. (2011). Is post-feeding thermotaxis advantageous in elasmobranch fishes? Journal of Fish Biology, 78(7), 1950–1965. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1095-8649.2011.02976.x

Eadie, J. M., & Kehoe, F. P. (2022). Energetics and foraging ecology of diving ducks. In P. G. Rodewald (Ed.), The birds of North America. Cornell Lab of Ornithology.
https://doi.org/10.2173/bna

Eadie, J. M., Savard, J. P. L., & Mallory, M. L. (2000). Barrow’s Goldeneye (Bucephala islandica) and Bufflehead (Bucephala albeola). In A. Poole & F. Gill (Eds.), The birds of North America. Cornell Lab of Ornithology. https://doi.org/10.2173/bna.548

Goudie, R. I., Brault, S., Conant, B., Kondratyev, A. V., Petersen, M. R., & Vermeer, K. (1994). The status of sea ducks in the North Pacific Rim: Toward their conservation. Transactions of the North American Wildlife and Natural Resources Conference, 59, 27–49. https://pubs.usgs.gov/publication/70187692

December 27, 2025
5 Marine Myths Under the Mistletoe: Folklore and Real Creatures in North Carolina’s Waters
Winter Stories Along the Water’s Edge

Winter settles softly over Onslow County. The marshes turn the color of worn rope, the New River flows like cold steel between its banks, and the wind carries the sharp scent of salt and pine. December is the quiet season — the estuary’s heartbeat slows, nights stretch longer than tides, and the imagination grows louder than the surf.

This is also when stories rise like mist from the water. Coastal families have passed down tales of mysterious shapes in winter surf, glowing wakes following skiffs, and ghostly sounds echoing across moonlit water. These legends don’t appear in ship logs or lighthouse reports — they survive instead in memories, dockside conversations, and the long tradition of storytelling that has shaped coastal community identity for generations (Cecelski, 2001; Carmichael, 2018).

Yet behind every winter myth lies a real creature — moving, feeding, navigating the season’s challenges. The line between wonder and wildlife is thin along North Carolina’s coast. These are the marine myths under the mistletoe — stories rooted in an enchanted and scientifically alive winter sea.

Mermaids of the Winter Shoals

The shimmering ghosts of the inlet

The Legend

Stories collected from coastal residents sometimes describe pale forms just beyond the surf — long shapes rising from green water, a head here, an arm-like movement there, then gone. In fog or dusk, when horizon and water dissolve into the same dull light, figures appear closer to humans than animals.

The Science — Manatees and Mirage Tricks

Although uncommon, West Indian manatees (Trichechus manatus) occasionally visit North Carolina waters during warmer periods or anomalous Gulf Stream intrusions (Deutsche et al., 2003). Through Fata Morgana, a mirage formed when warm water meets cold air, large mammals in the water can look elongated or upright — a trick that has sparked mermaid sightings worldwide (Pinney, 2018).

Reduced daylight, fatigue at sea, and the human brain’s pattern-seeking instincts complete the illusion.

A legend, yes — but one that begins with a real, gentle giant in cold coastal waters.

A pair of manatees resemble mermaids swimming in the water

The Kraken of Cape Lookout

Monsters in the storm-worn deep

The Legend

When Atlantic gales hammered the coast, some fishermen believed immense tentacled beasts rose from deeper waters and brushed their vessels — massive, silent shapes that existed more in feeling than sight. Winter storms made the ocean seem alive with things too large to name.

The Science — Giant Squid and Deep-Sea Drifters

Off Cape Lookout, the continental shelf plunges sharply into canyon habitats that host large cephalopods. Giant squid (Architeuthis dux), while rarely seen alive, have been recorded washing ashore along the U.S. East Coast and retrieved from research and commercial nets in the broader Northwest Atlantic (Guerra et al., 2011; Roper et al., 2015; Roper & Boss, 1982).

Winter nor’easters can dislodge deep-sea life, delivering strange shapes to shoals or leaving long white arms tangled in wrack.

What was once interpreted as a monster was instead a rarely seen animal from the dark beneath winter waves.

A deceased giant squid (Architeuthis dux) on Golden Mile Beach in Britannia Bay, South Africa | Image credit: Adéle Grosse

The Ghost Lights of Bogue Banks

Blue sparks swirling under December stars

The Legend

Local night fishermen describe glowing water that erupts into blue light when a net drops or a school passes below — a phenomenon that feels supernatural under a new moon in the stillness.

The Science — Bioluminescent Dinoflagellates

The glow comes from dinoflagellates, such as Noctiluca scintillans, which emit bright light when disturbed. Warmer months, calmer seas and reduced sediment can make these flashes stand out like underwater meteors (Haddock, Moline & Case., 2010; Johnson & Allen, 2005).

A natural process — but dazzling enough to inspire talk of spirits beneath the tide.

U.S. Navy photo of bioluminescence | Image Credit: Specialist 3rd Class Devin M. Langer

The Siren of the Shoals

Voices carried by cold seas

The Legend

Some boaters recall hearing a sound — a long moan or rising wail — seeming unmistakably like a human voice drifting over calm winter water. One sound can feel like a warning. Another, like grief.

The Science — Migrating Whales and Phantom Songs

Every winter, North Atlantic right whales (Eubalaena glacialis) migrate through waters off North Carolina, including Onslow Bay (Keller et al., 2012). Their massive bodies, seen at dusk, can resemble the curves of a human torso rising unexpectedly from the deep.

But the haunting songs that travel tens of kilometers belong to humpback whales (Megaptera novaeangliae) farther offshore (Dunlop, Cato & Noad, 2008; Handel, Todd & Zoidis, 2012). Sound refracts through cold, dense winter water — bending, echoing, transforming — until a distant whale becomes a mysterious voice in the marsh.

A ghost in the story.
A whale in the science.
A song carried home by the sea.

A breaching humpback whale

The Marsh Giant

A slow breath in frozen reeds

The Legend

In winter stillness, some describe hearing something large moving in marsh grass — heavy, careful steps that push aside reeds, a dark back slipping between creek holes. Too cold for gators, they say — so what else could it be?

The Science — North Carolina’s Cold-Tolerant Alligators

The American alligator (Alligator mississippiensis) reaches its northernmost range in coastal North Carolina. Even in winter, they can surface and move during brief warm spells — and they maintain openings in ice by pushing upward with their snouts (Brisban, Standora & Vargo, 1982).

Slow movement in a hushed marsh can feel enormous.
The “giant” is real — scaled and silent in the cold.

Alligator in Onslow County, NC | Photo credit: G. Newman

Where Myth and Marsh Converge

Winter strips the coast to its bones. Sound travels farther. Shapes blur quicker. The familiar becomes unfamiliar beneath cold air and low light.

And so legends rise.

Behind them:
- a manatee distorted by mirage
- a giant squid arm pushed ashore by storms
- living lanterns beneath December water
- whale voices refracted through the sea
- an alligator surfacing to breathe through ice
Folklore and biology share the same tides — wonder and curiosity driving us to explain what the winter coast reveals only in glimpses.

Even in the quietest months, the estuary is alive with mystery that create marine myths under the mistletoe.

Learn more about winter estuary ecology here.

References

Brisbin, I. L., Standora, E. A., & Vargo, M. J. (1982). Body temperatures and behavior of American alligators during cold winter weather. American Midland Naturalist, 107(2), 209. https://doi.org/10.2307/2425371

Carmichael, S. (2018). Mysterious tales of coastal North Carolina. Arcadia Publishing.

Cecelski, D. S. (2001). The waterman’s song: Slavery and freedom in maritime North Carolina.

Deutsch, C. J., Reid, J. P., Bonde, R. K., Easton, D. E., Kochman, H. I., & O’Shea, T. J. (2003). Seasonal Movements, Migratory Behavior, and Site Fidelity of West Indian Manatees along the Atlantic Coast of the United States. Journal of Wildlife Management, 67(1), 1-77. https://www.jstor.org/stable/3830830

Dunlop, R. A., Cato, D. H., & Noad, M. J. (2008). Non‐song acoustic communication in migrating humpback whales (Megaptera novaeangliae). Marine Mammal Science, 24(3), 613-629. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1748-7692.2008.00208.x

Guerra, Á., González, Á. F., Pascual, S., & Dawe, E. G. (2011). The giant squid Architeuthis: An emblematic invertebrate that can represent concern for the conservation of marine biodiversity. Biological Conservation, 144(7), 1989-1997. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.biocon.2011.04.021

Haddock, S. H., Moline, M. A., & Case, J. F. (2010). Bioluminescence in the Sea. Annual Review of Marine Science, 2(2010), 443-493. https://www.annualreviews.org/content/journals/10.1146/annurev-marine-120308-081028

Handel, S., Todd, S. K., & Zoidis, A. M. (2012). Hierarchical and rhythmic organization in the songs of humpback whales (Megaptera novaeangliae). Bioacoustics, 21(2), 141-156. https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/09524622.2012.668324

Johnson, W. S., & Allen, D. M. (2005). Zooplankton of the Atlantic and Gulf coasts: A guide to their identification and ecology. JHU Press.

Keller, C., Garrison, L., Baumstark, R., Ward-Geiger, L., & Hines, E. (2012). Application of a habitat model to define calving habitat of the North Atlantic right whale in the southeastern United States. Endangered Species Research, 18(1), 73-87. https://doi.org/10.3354/esr00413

Pinney, C. (2018). The waterless sea: A curious history of mirages. Reaktion Books.

Roper, C. F., & Boss, K. J. (1982, April). The Giant Squid. Scientific American, a division of Nature America, Inc, 246(4), 96-105. https://www.jstor.org/stable/24966572

Roper, C. F., Judkins, H., Voss, N. A., Shea, E., Dawe, E., Ingrao, D., Rothman, P. L., & Roper, I. H. (2015). A compilation of recent records of the giant Squid, Architeuthis dux (Steenstrup, 1857) (Cephalopoda) from the western North Atlantic Ocean, Newfoundland to the Gulf of Mexico. American Malacological Bulletin, 33(1), 78-88. https://doi.org/10.4003/006.033.0116
December 19, 2025
The 12 Days of Estuary Christmas | New River Estuary

In the season of chilly tides and twinkling pier lights, the New River estuary doesn’t quiet down — it parties in its own salty way. So grab your cocoa, bundle up, and join us for a winter countdown of festive fins, feathers, and the ecological magic beneath the misty surface.

(Sing along if you dare — apologies in advance.)

Day 12: Twelve Dolphins Dancing

Bottlenose dolphins along the mid-Atlantic coast shift into cooperative foraging teams in the cooler months — synchronized movements that feel almost choreographed (Torres & Read, 2009). Their leaping, circling, and flipper-flicking tactics help herd fish just like dancers driving the story across a winter stage.

Cue underwater Nutcracker ballet.

Day 11: Eleven Stripers Schooling

Atlantic striped bass move into estuarine channels when the water cools, fueling popular winter fisheries (Boyd, 2011).

Cold water? Hot bite.

Day 10: Ten Blue Crabs Burrowing

Blue crabs overwinter right here — burrowed into sediment, metabolism slowed, waiting for spring, or when water temperatures rise above 9℃ (Glandon, Kilborn & Miller, 2019).

The ultimate cozy blanket fort.

Day 9: Nine Oysters Filtering

Oysters continue filtering water through the winter, though more slowly — still improving water quality and boosting biodiversity (Grabowski & Peterson, 2007).

Nature’s tiny elves never clock out.

Day 8: Eight Croakers Drumming

Atlantic croaker remain common in NC coastal waters during cooler months, shifting to deeper estuarine areas (Miller et al., 2003).

Rumble, rumble — underwater holiday percussion.

Day 7: Seven Specks Still Striking

Speckled seatrout stay active in winter, especially in deeper holes and marsh channels where prey concentrates and water temperatures remain above 7℃ (Ellis, Buckle & Hightower, 2017).

Even cold-blooded fish love a good holiday snack.

Day 6: Six Sharks Snow-Birding

Juvenile coastal sharks like sandbars and sharpnose depart estuaries in late fall, migrating offshore and southward (Bangley et al., 2018).

“See you after the thaw!”

Day 5: FIVE… OYS-TER REEFS!

Oyster reefs provide the essential winter housing market — structured refuge for juvenile fish, crustaceans, and invertebrates (Coen et al., 2007).

Deck the reefs with beds and breakfasts..

Day 4: Four Buffleheads Diving

These small sea ducks, buffleheads, arrive from the Arctic and forage in our coastal waters all winter long (Gauthier, 2014).

Feathered travelers escaping the Arctic freeze.

Day 3: Three Terrapins Burrowed

Diamondback terrapins overwinter in marsh sediments, lowering heart rate and waiting out the cold (Harden, Midway & Willard, 2015).

A brumation vacation.

Day 2: Two Menhaden Shoals

Atlantic menhaden form huge winter schools offshore and near inlet mouths, fueling predator energy budgets (Orth, 2023).

The estuary’s holiday punch bowl.

Day 1: And a Red Drum in the Mar-sh-Tree

Red drum remain year-round, feeding in creeks and marsh edges even in winter low-temp slow-motion (Bacheler et al., 2009).

Our coastal Christmas (and state) mascot.

The Estuary Never Sleeps

Even as we wrap gifts and check lists twice, life beneath the cold surface hustles on — feeding, moving, filtering, and keeping the New River ecosystem healthy through the darkest season.

So here’s to the citizens of our winter waters —
May your tides be merry and bright!

References

Bacheler, N., Paramore, L., Buckel, J., & Hightower, J. (2009). Abiotic and biotic factors influence the habitat use of an estuarine fish. Marine Ecology Progress Series, 377, 263-277. https://doi.org/10.3354/meps07805

Bangley, C. W., Paramore, L., Dedman, S., & Rulifson, R. A. (2018). Delineation and mapping of coastal shark habitat within a shallow lagoonal Estuary. PLOS ONE, 13(4), e0195221. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0195221

Boyd, J. B. (2011). Maturation, fecundity, and spawning frequency of the Albemarle/Roanoke striped bass stock (2011. 1510474) [Doctoral dissertation]. ProQuest Dissertations and Theses Global.

Coen, L., Brumbaugh, R., Bushek, D., Grizzle, R., Luckenbach, M., Posey, M., Powers, S., & Tolley, S. (2007). Ecosystem services related to oyster restoration. Marine Ecology Progress Series, 341, 303-307. https://doi.org/10.3354/meps341303

Ellis, T., Buckel, J., & Hightower, J. (2017). Winter severity influences spotted seatrout mortality in a southeast US estuarine system. Marine Ecology Progress Series, 564, 145-161. https://doi.org/10.3354/meps11985

Gauthier, G. (2014, July 14). Bufflehead – Bucephala albeola. Birds of the World – Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Retrieved November 29, 2025, from https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/historic/bna/buffle/2.0/introduction

Glandon, H. L., Kilbourne, K. H., & Miller, T. J. (2019). Winter is (not) coming: Warming temperatures will affect the overwinter behavior and survival of blue crab. PLOS ONE, 14(7), e0219555. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0219555

Grabowski, J. H., & Peterson, C. H. (2007). Restoring oyster reefs to recover ecosystem services. Theoretical Ecology Series, 281-298. https://doi.org/10.1016/s1875-306x(07)80017-7

Harden, L. A., Midway, S. R., & Williard, A. S. (2015). The blood biochemistry of overwintering diamondback terrapins (Malaclemys terrapin). Journal of Experimental Marine Biology and Ecology, 466, 34-41. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jembe.2015.01.017

Mead, J. G., & Potter, C. W. (1995). Recognizing two populations off the bottlenose dolphin (Tursiops Truncatus) of the Atlantic coast of North America-Morphologic and Ecologic Considerations. https://repository.si.edu/server/api/core/bitstreams/9c563919-2b27-4ac4-bba1-92e7d090fd72/content

Orth, D. J. (2023). Fish, fishing and conservation. Blacksburg: Virginia Tech Department of Fish and Wildlife Conservation.Torres, L. G., & Read, A. J. (2009). Where to catch a fish? The influence of foraging tactics on the ecology of bottlenose dolphins (Tursiops truncatus) in Florida Bay, Florida. Marine Mammal Science, 25(4), 797-815. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1748-7692.2009.00297.x

December 13, 2025
The Leftovers: What Happens to Summer’s Prey When the Big Fish Leave?

The Quiet Season Begins

When the red drum, flounder, and summer sharks follow the cooling tides offshore, Onslow County’s estuaries fall quiet. The flashy chases fade, and the splashes that once rippled through the creeks give way to stillness. But the story doesn’t end. Beneath November’s calm water, the estuary begins to rewrite itself.

The absence of its top hunters leaves behind both energy and opportunity — a banquet for the small and the overlooked. The currents no longer echo with the heavy pulse of pursuit. Instead, what remains is a more deliberate rhythm — a slow exchange between detritus, crabs, and the smaller fish that endure the cold months ahead.

Winter in the New River Estuary: The Vacancy in the Food Web

Every migration leaves an ecological vacancy. When red drum and southern flounder depart, they take with them both predatory pressure and nutrient export. The estuary briefly relaxes its guard. Prey fish, shrimp, and crabs experience a momentary release from predation from top predator populations that cause a cascade that momentarily alters predation pressure on lower-level prey (Clark et al., 2003).

In this lull, energy that once fueled apex biomass lingers in the system, stored in crustaceans and schooling fish that escaped the hunt (Baird et al., 1998). The estuary, ever adaptive, redistributes that energy downward. Blue crabs (Callinectes sapidus) and juvenile spot (Leiostomus xanthurus) surge in number, exploiting the leftovers of summer’s feast (Allen et al., 2024). The marsh becomes a recycling ground — energy looping through smaller players instead of flowing outward to the sea.

Late-fall estuarine food web diagram showing energy flow from detritus to shrimp, fish, and mesopredators.

The Winter Guardians

But not all predators have gone. When the warm-water hunters leave, colder visitors arrive. Along the inlets and nearshore waters of Onslow Bay, Atlantic spiny dogfish (Squalus acanthias) drift in with the falling temperatures. They are the quiet inheritors of the season — small sharks with silver eyes and slate-gray backs, moving in disciplined schools just offshore.

Atlantic spiny dogfish (Squalus acanthius) — the “winter guardians” — patrol coastal waters when larger predators have departed, sustaining the rhythm of predation. | Photo credit: Andy Murch

Where the big sharks of summer — sandbars, blacktips, and bulls — have vanished southward or deeper, the dogfish remain. Their bodies are built for cold water, thriving where others slow (Carlson et al., 2014). And while their size may not inspire awe, their purpose is no less vital: they fill the empty seats at the top of the table.

Dogfish are mesopredators, but in winter they act as temporary apex hunters, patrolling the inlet and inner shelf where menhaden, herring, and squid still linger (Carlson et al., 2014). Their presence keeps the ecosystem in motion. They thin out the schools that might otherwise explode in number, preventing imbalance and decay. Like patient custodians, they maintain the continuity of predation, ensuring that energy continues to flow up and down the food web even in the cold months (Prugh et al., 2009).

In their absence, the estuary might collapse inward — prey would overgraze, detritus would pile, and oxygen would vanish from the mud. But the dogfish, efficient and tireless, keep the waters breathing.

Crabs and Killifish Take the Stage

Blue crabs roam the winter marsh, feeding on detritus and benthic invertebrates. Their slow foraging helps recycle nutrients and sustain the estuary’s energy balance through the cold season.

Within the estuary itself, the smaller actors continue their work. By December, the New River’s mudflats and marsh creeks host a quieter cast — mummichogs (Fundulus heteroclitus), sheepshead minnows (Cyprinodon variegatus), and grass shrimp (Palaemonetes pugio). These resident species, often unnoticed, now carry the estuary’s metabolism on their backs.

They thrive on detritus and microbial mats, converting decay into new life (Kneib, 2015). Blue crabs roam like slow-moving janitors, shifting through sediment to feed on worms and organic matter (Kennedy & Cronin, 2007). Each movement releases trapped nutrients, fueling microbial blooms that will later nourish the first plankton of spring.

While the spiny dogfish patrol the edges of the continental shelf, these smaller species sustain the inner heart of the estuary. Their labor keeps the water alive long after the glamour of migration fades.

Nutrient Loops and Winter Stability

Without large predators, the estuary depends on microbial and detrital loops to keep its energy cycling. Up to 70% of carbon transfer between November and February occurs through benthic detritivory and microbial remineralization rather than direct predation (Friedrichs & Perry, 2001).

This invisible economy sustains the overwintering fish and crustaceans — the leftovers that, in time, will become the first meal of spring’s returning predators. It’s the estuary’s savings account: energy stored as biomass and sediment, ready to be withdrawn when the tides warm again.

When winter quiets the hunt, the estuary turns inward. Instead of predators driving the cycle, nutrients move through the mud itself — microbes and detritivores recycling what’s left behind. This unseen flow keeps the New River alive until spring’s return (adapted from Erler et al., 2020).

A Resilient Feast

By January, the estuary seems dormant to the casual eye, but beneath its glassy surface, life reorganizes with quiet precision. Crabs clean the table. Dogfish patrol the edge. Minnows and shrimp sift through the silt for remnants of summer.

The New River continues to breathe — slower, deeper, deliberate.
When the big fish return with the first warm tides, the table is set once more, and the energy once left behind has been transformed — recycled through countless small mouths and patient currents into the promise of another season’s chase.

References

Allen, D. M., Govoni, J. J., Able, K. W., Buckel, J. A., Hale, E. A., Hilton, E. J., Kellison, G. T., Targett, T. E., Taylor, J. C., & Walsh, H. J. (2024). Long-term dynamics of larval and early juvenile spot (Leiostomus xanthurus) off the U.S. East Coast: Relating ocean origins, estuarine Ingress, and changing environmental conditions. Fishery Bulletin, 122(4), 162-185. https://doi.org/10.7755/fb.122.4.3

Baird, D., Luczkovich, J., & Christian, R. (1998). Assessment of spatial and temporal variability in ecosystem attributes of the St marks national wildlife refuge, Apalachee Bay, Florida. Estuarine, Coastal and Shelf Science, 47(3), 329-349. https://doi.org/10.1006/ecss.1998.0360

Carlson, A. E., Hoffmayer, E. R., Tribuzio, C. A., & Sulikowski, J. A. (2014). The use of satellite tags to redefine movement patterns of spiny dogfish (Squalus acanthias) along the U.S. East Coast: Implications for fisheries management. PLoS ONE, 9(7), e103384. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0103384

Clark, K. L., Ruiz, G. M., & Hines, A. H. (2003). Diel variation in predator abundance, predation risk and prey distribution in shallow-water estuarine habitats. Journal of Experimental Marine Biology and Ecology, 287(1), 37-55. https://doi.org/10.1016/s0022-0981(02)00439-2

Foster, S. Q., & Fulweiler, R. W. (2014). Spatial and historic variability of benthic nitrogen cycling in an anthropogenically impacted Estuary. Frontiers in Marine Science, 1. https://doi.org/10.3389/fmars.2014.00056

Friedrichs, C. T., & Perry, J. E. (2001). Tidal Salt Marsh Morphodynamics: A Synthesis. Journal of Coastal Research, (27), 7-37. https://www.jstor.org/stable/25736162

Kennedy, V. S., & Cronin, L. E. (2007). The blue crab: Callinectes Sapidus. Maryland Sea Grant College University of Maryland.

Kneib, R. T. (1986). The role of Fundulus heteroclitus in salt marsh trophic dynamics. American Zoologist, 26(1), 259-269. https://doi.org/10.1093/icb/26.1.259

Prugh, L. R., Stoner, C. J., Epps, C. W., Bean, W. T., Ripple, W. J., Laliberte, A. S., & Brashares, J. S. (2009). The rise of the Mesopredator. BioScience, 59(9), 779-791. https://doi.org/10.1525/bio.2009.59.9.9

November 29, 2025
Thanksgiving Tides: New River Inlet Fish Migration in Fall

A Different Kind of Thanksgiving Journey

Each November, when highways fill with travelers heading home for Thanksgiving, the waters of Onslow County’s New River Estuary host a quieter kind of migration. Beneath the surface, schools of silvery menhaden, golden spot, croaker, and even small sharks begin the New River Inlet fish migration, drawn by instincts older than any holiday tradition. The tides quicken. Water cools. Marsh grasses brown and whisper in the wind. And with every falling tide, the river seems to breathe outward, carrying its pilgrims toward the sea.

The Gate Between River and Sea

New River Inlet is not simply a passage between Sneads Ferry and North Topsail Beach—it is a living threshold.

The New River winds toward its inlet, where marsh channels, sandbars, and tidal creeks converge into a single hydrodynamic corridor — the living gateway between Onslow County’s estuary and the open Atlantic.

As autumn advances, the estuary’s chemistry shifts: cooler water holds more oxygen, salinity rises with lower rainfall, and winds begin steering surface currents southward. These changes open a corridor that hundreds of thousands of fish follow instinctively from the creeks to the ocean shelf.

For species like spot (Leiostomus xanthurus) and Atlantic croaker (Micropogonias undulatus), this downstream journey completes the first half of a circular life cycle. After spending spring and summer feeding in the calm nurseries of the estuary, they now join the coastal current to overwinter in deeper, warmer water—traveling the same path their parents once took (Odell et al., 2017).

This path is more than instinct. It follows the physical architecture of the river itself—the deep, tidally flushed channels that connect Stones Bay and the main river to the inlet’s thalweg. When autumn winds push water seaward, these channels become a hydrodynamic migration corridor, a natural conveyor that funnels fish from the upper river toward the mouth (Odell et al., 2017).

The inlet becomes a moving parade: ripples flashing silver, gulls diving, and every outgoing tide pulling another wave of life toward the horizon.

Menhaden: The Silver Procession

A vast school of Atlantic menhaden (Brevoortia tyrannus) moves as one body near the surface — a living current of silver that links the New River Estuary to the open Atlantic each fall.

Among the first to leave are Atlantic menhaden (Brevoortia tyrannus), the shimmering filter-feeders that fuel much of the coastal food web. Juveniles spend the warmer months feeding in the upper river, turning sunlight and plankton into pure energy. When the water dips below 18 °C, they form tight schools and funnel through the inlet, their bodies reflecting the low winter sun like coins scattered across the tide.

Studies of otolith chemistry show that these migrants come from multiple estuarine nurseries along the Atlantic seaboard, each contributing recruits to the coast-wide population (Anstead et al., 2016). Their exodus through the New River Inlet is not just a local event—it’s part of a continental rhythm that keeps the Atlantic alive.

Beyond the inlet, menhaden rarely swim straight into the deep. Instead, they travel through the nearshore transition zone, staying within roughly 10 kilometers of the coast, guided by southward longshore currents driven by seasonal winds (Lozano et al., 2013). Here they join massive coastal schools that drift toward Cape Fear and beyond, remaining within waters of 12–18 °C—their preferred thermal band. Each year, these moving rivers of fish carry the New River’s energy down the Atlantic coast like a living current of light.

Spot and Croaker: The Drummers of the Migration

Spot (Leiostomus xanthurus) and Atlantic croaker (Micropogonias undulatus) — schooling estuarine “drummers” whose late-fall migration carries the New River’s summer energy seaward through New River Inlet.

Close behind move the “drums”—spot (Leiostomus xanthurus) and Atlantic croaker (Micropogonias undulatus)—so named for the sound they make vibrating muscles against their swim bladders. By late autumn, they too feel the pull of the current. Their bodies, now heavy from a summer of estuarine abundance, drift downstream in schools that seem to hum with the low percussion of their name.

In coastal surveys, researchers have traced these migrations from estuarine creeks to the continental shelf, where the fish spend the winter in relative warmth before returning north in spring (Odell et al., 2017). In ecological terms, it’s an energy transfer: the nutrients once locked in the mud and detritus of the New River now exported to the open sea.

Once through the inlet, spot and croaker follow two primary routes—some hugging the coast within the surf zone, others settling on the inner continental shelf at 15–35 meters depth. They drift southward along the Carolina Coastal Current, a steady, wind-driven flow that connects Onslow Bay to warmer waters off South Carolina and Georgia. Beneath the surface, these fish form vast, undulating layers—millions of tiny drummers keeping rhythm with the season.

Juvenile Sharks: The Shadow Pilgrims

Juvenile coastal sharks glide over a sandy inlet floor — quiet travelers of the New River system, following ancient tidal cues that guide them from sheltered estuaries to the open Atlantic.

Following the smaller fish come the quiet shadows—juvenile coastal sharks moving through the inlet on their own pilgrimage. Tagging studies across North Carolina reveal that blacktip, sandbar, and bull sharks use shallow estuarine margins as summer nurseries before shifting offshore in late fall when the water cools (Bangley et al., 2018; Rulifson & Bangley, 2015).

In the turbid water at the inlet’s mouth, these young predators trace invisible highways along sandbars and channels, following the scent of prey schools that have already departed. Many continue to ride the same southward current as the drum and menhaden but at greater depth—sometimes reaching the outer continental shelf (30–80 meters) where the water remains above 18 °C. For a few short weeks, river and sea mingle in one shared migration—prey, predator, and current moving together through the same watery passage.

The Importance of the Journey

The departure is not random. Temperature, daylight, and shifting prey availability synchronize this movement. When shrimp and plankton thin in the creeks, the fish follow the energy gradient seaward. In doing so, they maintain the seasonal connectivity that defines an estuary’s health: nutrients exported from the marsh become the foundation of offshore food webs, feeding mackerel, tuna, and seabirds far beyond the New River’s mouth (Lozano et al., 2013).

Alongshore winds along the North Carolina coast generate offshore surface flow through Ekman transport. This movement is balanced by deeper onshore currents and localized upwelling, circulating nutrients and carrying estuarine water and organisms seaward. Adapted from Job Dronkers (2025), Coastal Wiki.

This corridor of movement also depends on the forces of wind and tide. During late fall, northwest winds push surface waters offshore through Ekman transport, enhancing the ebb flow that draws fish outward. Each tide functions as a breath of the estuary—an exhalation of life—carrying energy from the marshes to the sea (Odell et al., 2017).

This is the river’s gift to the ocean—the annual offering that ensures what leaves the estuary returns as new life months later.

A Thanksgiving of Currents

North Topsail Beach at sunset | Photo Credit: David Ogorman

If seen from above, the late-autumn water resembles a conveyor of light: streaks of silver menhaden, bronze drum, and dark shark fins blending into the green-blue inlet plume. Each species is a pilgrim, carried by tides instead of highways, guided by magnetic fields instead of maps. Their departure is as old as the coastline itself—a Thanksgiving procession written in currents and instincts rather than calendars. For those standing on the dunes at North Topsail Beach, the scene feels both ancient and immediate: the hush of wind, the roll of the tide, and somewhere beneath, the silent travelers heading home.

References

Anstead, K. A., Schaffler, J. J., & Jones, C. M. (2016). Coast-wide nursery contribution of new recruits to the population of Atlantic menhaden. Transactions of the American Fisheries Society, 145(3), 627–636. https://doi.org/10.1080/00028487.2016.1150345

Bangley, C. W., Paramore, L., Dedman, S., & Rulifson, R. A. (2018). Delineation and mapping of coastal shark habitat within a shallow lagoonal estuary. PLOS ONE, 13(4), e0195221. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0195221

Lozano, C. J., Houde, E. D., & Severin, K. P. (2013). Factors contributing to variability in larval ingress of Atlantic menhaden (Brevoortia tyrannus) to Chesapeake Bay. Estuarine, Coastal and Shelf Science, 118, 1–10. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ecss.2012.12.018

Odell, J., Adams, D. H., Boutin, B., Collier, W., Deary, A., Havel, L. N., Johnson, J. A. Jr., Midway, S. R., Murray, J., Smith, K., Wilke, K. M., & Yuen, M. W. (2017). Atlantic Sciaenid habitats: A review of utilization, threats, and recommendations for conservation, management, and research (Habitat Management Series No. 14). Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission. https://asmfc.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/12/HMS14_AtlanticSciaenidHabitats_Winter2017.pdf

Rulifson, R. A., & Bangley, C. W. (2015). Quantifying estuarine habitat use by multiple coastal shark species (NOAA Technical Report). NOAA Institutional Repository. https://repository.library.noaa.gov/view/noaa/46115

November 21, 2025