Local marine biologist Amber Kuehn weaves her lifetime of experiences into a single perfect day 

Fifty years in a day with a local marine biologist.

Story by Amber Kuehn

Editor’s note: The Lowcountry’s salt marsh is more than a landscape — it’s a living, breathing ecosystem. In this special feature, local marine biologist Amber Kuehn takes us on a journey through its tides, wildlife and rhythms, weaving a lifetime of experiences into a single perfect day.

I’ve had the privilege of growing up in the heat and humidity of the Lowcountry, a place where gentle breezes displace the heavy, ambient atmosphere — just like a dolphin moving through the salt water, causing my boat to lift unexpectedly as it pushes the May River aside and passes underneath. The Lowcountry air is the same temperature as my breath. I know the breeze is moving around me only because my hair tickles my skin. Relief from the heat comes only when I am covered in beads of sweat or dripping from a dip in the salt water. I have experienced countless natural wonders in the Lowcountry — often on random days and in unexpected moments — since childhood. Some are simple, yet they awaken my spirit, which longs for my attention. If I could gather these fleeting moments into a single perfect day, it would be the best day of my life.

Before I could explore the waterways, I learned to walk barefoot, lightly on the pinecone “stickers” in the maritime forest. I was headed to The Log, a swimming hole named for a massive log that had washed up there. In the late ‘70s few children lived nearby — few residents at all, really — so young explorers wandered freely. Meandering among towering pine trees, I collected cicada molts clinging to their trunks, careful to avoid the sharp stems of saw palmettos. Emerging from the forest, I stepped onto warm sand at the water’s edge.

Beyond the sand: Pluff mud and fiddler crabs

When the tide ebbs and exposes the pluff mud, the fiddler crabs open their burrows, releasing hydrogen sulfide gas — the unmistakable scent that reminds us the bacteria in the mud are doing their job, decomposing organic matter. The fiddlers emerge among the reeds, foraging and mingling. Males wave their oversized claws in a motion resembling a fiddle bow, signaling to females and warning rival males to stay away. As they scurry together across the flats, temporarily exposed to predators, their open burrows allow air to reach the roots of the marsh grass.

I remember barreling down the sandy slope at The Log, feet pounding as I ambushed the fiddler crabs. Their stalked eyes detected my rapid approach, their dainty legs sensed the vibrations in the sand, and they fled — hundreds of them retreating in synchronized formation, claws raised like soldiers, defending their comrades. I froze in awe. “That’s the most fiddlers I’ve ever seen!” Their shadows trailed behind them, creating a second identical regiment. At the time, I didn’t know this was a gift, but my spirit did. Moments of wonder, unexpected and fleeting, often found me when I was alone.

The oyster chorus

I dared not approach the green curtain of the marsh, where oysters stood vertically, guarding the pluff-mud stage. Their razor-sharp, newly formed shell edges gleamed in the sunlight, a clear warning. Without realizing it, the smells and sounds of the ebbing tide became ingrained in me. If someone had asked me to describe it as a child, I might have simply said, it just feels like low tide. As an adult, I discovered the chorus of purpose, the symphony of the marsh at work. As the tide retreats, I listen for the faint clicking of oyster shells closing tightly to conserve moisture on their gills. A thin layer of viscous decay mixed with salt water settles over the fiddler-crab burrows, forming bubbles that pop audibly as gas escapes the pluff mud. Thousands of tiny legs hum as fiddler crabs move through the marsh with the rustling grass.

Then, slack tide stills everything. The rhythm shifts from ebb to flow. The soft “click, plop, hmm” fades as water returns, and the oysters slowly open, slightly separating their shells as the tide brings a primordial soup of larval marine life. The oysters begin filtering the nutrient-rich water, expelling what they cannot consume in a beautiful display — thousands of tiny fountains — before the rising tide cloaks them once again.

The marsh grass and the cycle of life

Marsh grass traps fine silt from the water, forming the pluff-mud flats. Its hollow, bamboo-like stalks stand tall at low tide, stabilized by joints every few inches. Absorbing saltwater through its roots, the grass desalinates, excreting excess salt through its blades. A perennial, marsh grass transforms with the seasons. In spring bright green shoots emerge from the mud, thickening into an emerald field by summer. By fall, golden seed-heavy tips bow toward the water, dropping seeds to continue the cycle. In winter the stalks darken and break apart, but the roots remain, anchoring the mud flat until fresh green blades return in spring.

A boat, a creek and a burst of joy

At 12, I felt invincible navigating my small motorboat on the May River. I sped across the water, feeling free — yet I never saw anything great at that speed. It was only when I idled, wary of sandbars, that the marsh revealed its secrets. In narrow tidal creeks, minnows hiding in the reeds sensed pressure from the water pushed by my boat. They leapt ahead, fleeing an unseen predator. I imagined they were welcoming me. As the creek shallowed, my paddle skimmed the bottom. Just as I turned to leave, shrimp burst from the water like a rainbow over the bow — hundreds of them, some landing on the deck, their tails popping frantically in search of water. Stunned, I felt pure joy. My spirit leapt beside me, still in awe.

Scrambling forward, I returned each shrimp to the water. The last one swam away slowly, slightly injured, but safe. I exhaled, feeling an unexpected calm, as the unseen marsh hens — clapper rails — cackled nervously in the reeds. I had never seen these elusive birds, but their calls, along with the periwinkle snails clinging to the swaying marsh grass and darting marsh wrens, were part of the marsh expression. As I exited the creek, sunlight scattered through thick salt crystals on the green blades. It was a good show.

The marsh as a sanctuary

As the tide floods the mud flats, juvenile fish, blue crabs and shrimp return to the vast, protective acreage of marsh grass to hide from predators. Beaufort County holds more of this precious habitat than anywhere else — over 200,000 acres of Spartina alterniflora (recently reclassified as Sporobolus alterniflorus, though we’ll lovingly ignore that terrible new name).

The final act

As the day ends, the sun sinks into the salt marsh. Golden light stretches across the reeds, and the last direct rays pierce the Spanish moss hanging from the live oaks. Patterns of light dance on the pine straw, shifting with the breeze. The cicadas, no longer hesitant, begin their evening chorus. Tilting my head back, I hear their deafening song fully. Looking forward, the sound flows over my head, slightly muted. Discovering this trick delighted me — another simple moment of unexpected joy. Walking home along the bluff to my great-grandmother’s house, a neighbor “blessed my heart,” wondering why I was bobbing my head back and forth so strangely. Gramma Sue smiled. Her feet are bare. She is beside herself. And together, they are enjoying the performance.