Penguins as Sentinels for Climate Change

Climate change (more commonly referred to as “global warming”) is having dramatic effects on the world’s ecosystems. And nowhere are these changes more in evidence than in the Antarctic, widely considered the last great wilderness on Earth.

Wayne Trivelpiece, of the Antarctic Ecosystem Research Division (NOAA Fisheries Service, La Jolla, California) lectured to Stanford students recently at the Hopkins Marine Station (a Stanford satellite campus) in Pacific Grove, on the effects of climate change on the Antarctic. He talked about how climate change can be monitored by observing penguin populations.

Trivelpiece, a Pew Fellow, has been traveling to Antarctica for the past fifteen years to conduct research. He says that climate change is most severe in the Antarctic, where temperature changes of six degrees have been reported in some areas. While this may not seem like much to the average layperson, it can mean the difference between seawater freezing and not freezing, and has ramifications across the food chain. Trivelpiece describes the area as a (relatively) “simple ecosystem,” where there are few major groups of animals that dominate the area, and just a few steps between primary (Krill) and top predators. He says that the temperatures in the Antarctic have increased more than anywhere else on earth, and has studied how these changes have affected penguin populations.

The Scotia Sea is a cold, stormy area that supports limited tundra vegetation, including mosses, lichen and algae. The Scotia Sea has the highest concentration of Krill in the world, although, with climate change, that is changing dramatically. Animal inhabitants of this harsh region include four species of albatross, the Yellow-billed Pintail Duck, fur seals, Leopard Seals, Weddell Seals, the huge Southern Elephant Seal, the Crabeater Seal, and six species of penguins. The penguins Trivelpiece has been observing are the Chinstrap, named for the narrow black band under their head, the Adelie, named in 1830 after a French explorer’s wife, and the Gentoo, one of the largest of the penguins, which has a life span of 15 to 20 years.

By observing the populations of these three species of penguins, their risings and fallings, and their distribution, Trivelpiece is able to gauge climate change. The three species share the same environmental conditions, the same “suite of predators,” and have similar diets – up to 86% Krill – which make the three species a good focus of study. The reproductive success of Gentoo Penguins, for example, is driven by environmental conditions. When there is a large mass of ice, reproduction is successful. Conditions that are favorable for the thriving of one species of penguin may not be favorable for another. By observing migration patterns, population sizes and other factors, scientists are able to gauge the extent of climate change.

Krill, a tiny shrimp-like crustacean, are the primary food source for ocean animals throughout the world, notably whales, seals and penguins. According to the Antarctic Krill Conservation Project, “Krill are the glue that binds the Antarctic food web, serving as the principal food source for predator species that live there.” According to Wikipedia, Antarctic Krill makes up an estimated biomass of over 500 million tons, about twice that of humans. With increasing ocean temperatures, and overfishing, Krill populations have decreased by as much as 80%. Krill are harvested for food pellets for salmon fisheries throughout the world.

Harvesting of Krill dramatically increased in the 1980s, with the Russians harvesting Krill primarily for fertilizers. Krill are also used in the pharmaceutical industry, and the Norwegians have been extracting Krill in great numbers for the manufacture of Omega fatty acids, especially the Big Red Co. With new technology, Krill are often pumped directly from the nets to the factory, and Krill are fished continuously, 24 hours a day. These massive operations involve bycatch, unsuspecting animals that are killed as a result of indiscriminate fishing practices. Efforts by policymakers to spread out the catch, to allow the Krill rebound, has been met with resistance by the fishing industry, as have most restrictions on the industry.

In the 19th Century, according to Trivelpiece, whales and other mammals were hunted nearly to extinction, which meant an increase in the Krill populations. With global warming and more recent overfishing, the primary source of food for penguins and other animals is in serious question.

Romance & Art: Berlin, 1999

I met A while she was studying BMC (Body-Mind Centering) in Amherst. She had a show of small paintings at a gallery there, and, well, it was love at first sight. We became ‘intimate,’ and spent a lot of time together over the summer.

It was a blissful summer of romance, tennis, skinny-dipping, socializing, long summer nights. Twice a week, friends would gather at Amherst College tennis courts, hit for a couple of hours, then go to a local café and sit outdoors, drinking coffee and talking for hours, or go to dinner.

It was a bit traumatic when A left for Berlin. We held each other and cried at the airport. She had invited me to visit her in Berlin. She and two women friends had arranged a trip to Provence, and I was invited. Somehow, I scraped together the $800 airfare, and journeyed to Europe for the first time. I was in my late 40s.

A was a dancer, and she dragged me to the Berlin International Dance Festival to see Merce Cunningham and others. Actually, I was eager to go, as I loved modern dance, and had seen Merce in New York. We were in her apartment in Neue Koln earlier in the evening. I was dressed in white shorts and a pastel T. She kept reassuring me that I looked fine.

We get to the theatre, and everyone is dressed elegantly in black! I felt pretty ridiculous; it could have been an SNL sketch. On the subway home, she was eyeball-fucking some guy; I had to stand between them. Not a good night.

Die Sauna was a collection of six or so large new sauna rooms, along with a gorgeous tiled shower area, a whirlpool in the form of a Roman bath, a natural foods café with a waterfall, a sleeping room, massage rooms and an outdoor sitting area. For twelve bucks, you could stay the day, and we did. Germans are not as hung up about nudity as Americans. It took me a little while to get used to seeing men and women walking casually around naked. Pretty soon, I was feeling very European.

Oh, I forgot to mention the Schwimmhalle (swimming pool). It dated from about 1910, and featured a huge ceiling with clerestory windows, a massive tile mosaic, tiled pool, and Greek columns. Right out of Rome. I had never seen anything like it. One of the sauna rooms had a huge iron vat where fresh herbs were brewing, and another had full-spectrum lights that rotated gently through the spectrum while you sprawled out on the hot wood steps.

I embarrassed A as I gawked and photographed just about everything in sight. I didn’t care. I was an American in Berlin.

One afternoon, I set out on my own while A worked at the natural foods store. I was told that most of the art galleries were in East Berlin, so I took the U-Bahn over. I have always been a devotee of the work of the pioneering conceptual artist Sol LeWitt. In fact, I worked at the Wadsworth Atheneum, which has a huge collection of his work, and I was privileged to spend an hour with the artist at his home and studio in coastal Connecticut. I mention this for two reasons: While on the train, I passed a huge LeWitt sculpture, which was remarkable to me. I wandered around East Berlin; all the galleries were shuttered. Finally, as I was leaving, I espied an open steel gate, beyond which was a courtyard, and another open door. I walked into the pristine space, and, to my amazement, there was an exhibition of sculpture and drawings by – you guessed it – Sol LeWitt!

For some reason, I didn’t visit Berlin’s splendid art museums, with the exception of the Guggenheim. For an art historian, that was pretty inexcusable. We found a nice little café on the Unter den Linden, a wide boulevard with a graveled walkway in the median. There were table and chairs and a little bar, an outpost of the Einstein Café across the street. A was rushing me to get to the newly-re-opened Reichstag. Not wanting to leave my latte, I went across the street to the café, and asked for a ‘to go’ cup. Of course, they had no such thing. The server was gracious; he disappeared into the back and emerged with a glass for my coffee. We hurried along the Unter den Linden, me trying to finish my latte as we practically ran towards the Brandenburg Gate.

NEXT: Provence! Or, maybe more Germany…

“I Hate Plastic”

This afternoon, I walked from the Embassy Suites in Monterey, where I’ve been doing construction (see other blog post), along the highway, through a eucalyptus forest, past the Naval Postgraduate School, past some dunes, up a boardwalk over the dunes, and along the bay (after a 5-minute siesta on the white sand), then rolled up my pants and walked in the gently rolling waves, past a dead Harbor seal, some cigarette butts and a dead cormorant. I picked up some plastic trash along the way; there’s always plenty of trash on Del Monte Beach. As I was sitting putting on my shoes on the concrete wall by the rest rooms at the Commercial Wharf, I was surrounded by several adorable young children. I asked one of the little boys if he had a good time at the beach. Nod. “Where do you live?” “Salinas.” Another kid chimed in, “We just made a beach cleanup video!” “That’s great!” I said, with genuine enthusiasm. I asked, “What can you do to protect the ocean?” One of the kids said, “Don’t pour anything down the [street] drains.” “That’s right! What else can you do?” I was fishing (no pun intended) for another answer. I gave them a little tutorial on plastic in the ocean, and how we can help prevent plastic pollution by not using plastic forks and plastic spoons and plastic cups. There was a pause, and a cute little blond girl said, “I hate plastic.”

Sawdust

I have a lifelong love affair with wood. The feel of a heavy lignum vitae plane, the scent of soft white pine shavings as they twist out of the plane’s mouth, the fragrant sawdust. I loved the sawdust so much I would leave it strewn about my parents’ basement, to the chagrin of my mother.

When I was a kid, I built crude wooden boats, forts, and, later, furniture. In high school, I took a shop class, and, on my own, built furniture as Christmas gifts for family members; some of them are still in use. I worked with a carpenter who was remodeling the family basement.

After school, I would drive the old VW bug to a job site, working with a carpenter who was building a large house, for a doctor, on top of Scargo Hill, in Dennis, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod. The house overlooked Scargo Pond, and Cape Cod Bay. It was the highest point on the Cape, and on a clear day, you could see all the way to Provincetown.

The builder was a small, scruffy, mustachioed English man, who pretty much built the huge house by himself, with my (sometimes bungling) assistance. He taught me one of the most important lessons of my life: always bring the wheelbarrow over to the pile of sand. In other words, don’t do more work than you have to. He taught me how to grab a handful of nails, and begin setting the next nail as I was finishing pounding one into the plywood deck with three skillful swings of the 16-ounce framing hammer. I learned how to frame a wall, mix cement, carry 4X8 sheets of ¾” sheathing around. Besides a near-death experience, when a pile of plywood nearly fell on my head, and the carpenter’s absconding with thousands of dollars of the owner’s money, it was a great experience.

I’ve always loved building things. My first career ambition was to make one-of-a-kind modern furniture. Long story short, it didn’t work out, and I ended up in college, which was probably my first career mistake. I dropped out of UMass after a couple of years, and began painting, making my way to Boston, where I majored in Sculpture at Massachusetts College of Art. I loved making paintings, building stretchers, constructing sculpture. Off and on, over the years, I’ve thought about becoming an architect, having a life-long interest in physical spaces and design. My mother was an architect, briefly, before giving it up to, perhaps reluctantly, raise five children.

When I was quite young, I would draw pictures of houses, mostly floor plans. My childhood fantasy of building my own house became a reality in 1992, when I bought a rugged patch of New Hampshire forest, bought my first chain saw, and set about collecting huge windows, glass block, and bathroom and lighting fixtures. I designed the tiny house, and worked on all phases of the construction. It was physically brutal work, but thrilling to see the house take shape. Unfortunately, my wife died the weekend we were supposed to move in, so the house never got finished inside. My “Modernist Cabin,” replete with huge windows, a large skylight over the bed for late night star gazing, recessed lighting, matching “Country Gray” Kohler bathroom fixtures, black granite bathroom floor and glass block, was sold for a pittance, and I moved back to Massachusetts.

Recently, having been out of work for some time, I got a temp job through an agency in Monterey. The description made it sound like a pretty easy gig: some rearranging of light furniture, hauling scraps of wood to the dumpster. “Must be able to lift 30 poounds.”

Renaissance Design, a firm out of South Carolina, was hired to retrofit the television armoires in a large hotel in Monterey. There are about 450 of these cabinets. In addition, all the old TVs, which are quite heavy, have to be hauled out to a rental truck, and the new ones hauled in.

Here’s the process: We go floor by floor, about one floor per day, in the 12-story building. The hotel, a big, pink, boxy eyesore, can be seen across the water from my “office” at Café La Strada. I have had to crop it out of pictures. The luxury hotel is even uglier on the inside.

First, the suites are prepped. All the furniture (except the cabinets) is moved to the bedroom, the television sets unhooked from the wall (an “earthquake chain” holds them in place).

Meanwhile, one of the rooms is set up as the “cut room,” where the cabinets are cut down to size. This is my station. Plastic carpet protector is laid out over sections of the carpet, and a cloth tarp is stretched out, and secured with duct tape. The tables of tools are hauled in and arranged.

One crew is busy freeing the old TVs from the wall, another crew puts the six-foot cabinets on dollies, wheels them into the hall and removes the hardware. Another crew takes the cut cabinets and re-fastens the tops and cleans them up.

The guy I work with is a good-natured man with a thick South Carolina drawl, which, since I spent seven of my formative years in the South, feels a bit comforting. S is tall, has a large potbelly, and with his graying hair and wrinkled face, looks a bit older that his stated age of fifty. His singing is vaguely reminiscent of a sea lion, but at least you can understand the words.

S and I each grab an end of the cabinet and drag it over the doorjamb with an uncomfortable bump, and drag it across the sawdusty tarp near the wall, then drag another one in. S grabs the skill saw and expertly assails the side of the cabinet. On most cuts, the saw binds, so he has to yank it out and make another quick cut. He walks quickly to the other side; we move clockwise, S cutting with a jarring noise, me holding the newly freed top. At first, I was hauling the top out to the hall, but eventually, I asked for help, fearing I would dislocate my shoulders. Now, S and I lift it out together, unless M, the owner, is nearby, in which case he wrestles it out.

After we have cut the tops off the cabinets, we set to work on the one closest to the door. We lean the behemoth toward S, while I yank the dolly out and lean it against the wall. We drop the cabinet on its side, and drag it towards S, a move that takes some practice. S grabs his jig (template), and places it on the side of the cabinet. He grabs the other saw, which is attached to a vacuum machine, and zips across the guide, while I catch the waste piece and set it in the hall to be whisked away by another temp worker, or carpenter, depending on who’s nearby. Those scraps get put in a large wheeled bin and hauled to the freight elevator, where they are taken on a maze like journey through the kitchen to the dumpster. My first assignment was to haul heavy scraps into the dumpster in the rain. I was not thrilled about this. I was so sore the first day, I wasn’t sure I would make it.

The next step is to flip the cabinet on its other side, which took some training, a move S proudly announced he had developed. Once the piece is in place, S grabs the jig, and the other scrap is freed, and placed in the hall.

Next, we lift the bottom portion, and drop it right side up. I quickly grab the tri-square and a pencil from the dusty table and scribe a line across the top. In a move worthy of a Merce Cunningham dance performance, S moves in with the skill saw, flips back the blade guard, drops the whirring blade on the maple veneered particle board and cuts a line, reverses the saw, flips up the blade guard, and cuts in the other direction. When he moves to the other side, I grab a small pine scrap and scrape away the splinters (I call them “chads”), and excess veneer.

Now comes the fun part. With a move rivaling the best athletic gesture, I drop the scrap wood onto the table, grab the rubber mallet (actually, a new, fluorescent orange rubber Stanley hammer) and, God willing, with one swift and violent blow, liberate the cut out section from the base, where it, inevitably, gets lodged and has to be wrestled out of. This is where some of my most impressive abrasions come from. Once the scrap is freed, I place it in the hall, often into the hand of the owner, who whisks it away. S knocks away a few chads, blows out the sawdust with a few blasts of compressed air, throws the nozzle back onto the plastic table, and lifts the diminished cabinet while I roll the carpet-covered wooden dolly back under it, and in one smooth move, bounce it over the door jamb and into the hall.

Once both cabinets are thus violated, we go into the hall, where a long line of de-hardwared cabinets is waiting. We wheel in two new maple-sheathed “victims,” as S calls them, and the process begins again.

Between the whizzing of the saws, the hammering, and occasional swearing, S pokes at his earpiece, connecting him to a call from his “completely disabled” wife back in SC. “She’s dependent on me.” Sometimes, I can’t tell whether he is talking to me or to his wife, but I will often talk back to him anyway. He says in singsong tones, “Baby, I’m working. [pause] Well, in order to keep you in your lavish lifestyle, I have to work,” he drawls.

S is retired as a cabinetmaker, but takes jobs here and there with Renaissance, since it’s “easy money.” He and the owner, an old friend, are always busting each other’s balls, joking around. “Two more, and you can take a cigarette break.” S replies, Thank you, boss.” “That’s two more floors.” Later, S speaks again, apparently to himself, “Well, baby, it’s the saw. I’m working.” Once, a couple of housekeepers walked by. “Yes, baby, there are women here,” he said in even tones. “But I’m married to you. [pause] Now, you’re getting ugly. I’m going to hang up.” His wife calls him several times a day, and he walks around, sawing and lifting, speaking soothingly to her.

S started calling me Simon the first day. On the second day, I was Juan. Then Herve. I told him, “Call me anything but late for dinner.” He loves to bellow oldies in his inimitable way, getting most of the words right, if not the melody, anything from Z Z Top to Christmas Carols. Often the songs relate to what is happening around him, or are a pointed message to another worker. “Let’s finish these two and then we’ll take a smoke break,” he says with evident glee.

There is a real esprit de corps among the half dozen carpenters, and the half dozen temps, half of who are young women. Only once did I see S get angry, when somebody lifted an empty box from the elevator and placed it in our path. “Do you know whose box this is?” S asked irritably of a supervisor. He snapped back, “I’m not in charge of the boxes!” To which S replied, “Well, you don’t just drop a box in the middle of the hall!” The supervisor, whom S describes as having a “Napoleon Complex,” yelped, “Well, I don’t take ten cigarette breaks a day!” Stanley snapped back, “Well, you walk around all day, doin’ nothin’.” He calmed down after a while, after mumbling for a few minutes.

Today is a day off, and I’m sitting with my white MacBook at the Café La Strada, covered with abrasions and bruises, exhausted: bent but not broken. As painful as the experience is, I look forward to inhaling more sawdust, joking with the crew and eating in the employee dungeon a few more times. Idle hands are the Devils’ playthings.

Can Community-Based Fisheries Foster Sustainability?

This afternoon, as part of a lecture series at Hopkins Marine Station (Stanford University) in Pacific Grove, author Richard Cudney-Bueno spoke about sustainable fishing practices, specifically marine reserves and community-based management in the Gulf of California, the most fecund fishing area in Mexico, and the only sea that is the exclusive property of one nation.

The Gulf is home to a variety of marine animals, including migratory species like the Humpback Whale, the California Gray Whale, the Killer Whale, the giant Manta Ray, the Leatherback Turtle, and the Earth’s largest animal, the Blue Whale. Fishery stocks include conch and various shell fish.

Cudney-Bueno reports that, according to the FAO (United Nations Food & Agriculture Organization), 69% of fish stocks are fully to heavily exploited or depleted, and most marine taxa are “fished out.” This is reflective of the larger world picture: many species are depleted or fished to the point of near-extinction. Regulating fishing practices is a complex process, but needs to occur if fish and other marine life are to be able to reproduce and replenish stocks for future generations.

Cudney-Bueno says there has been a big push in the Gulf of California in the past 15 to 20 years for community-based management (CBM) of fisheries. Some of the reasons CBM is important are that it protects ecosystems, fosters respect, increases biodiversity and reduces costs. Cudney-Bueno describes CBM as “Win-Win”: the community is happy, since they are making more money, and the fish are happy, because they are able to reproduce, just like Nature intended.

Despite the “romantic” notion that CBMs are all goodness and light, Cudney-Bueno says that cooperation amongst fishermen, communities and governments is not “a given.” There is corruption, greed and other problems within the communities. Some communities express a strong resistance to change, there are taboos against certain changes, and so on.

On the 1,000-mile peninsula that is Baja, there are some marvelous ecosystems, including one of the world’s largest sand dunes. Baja is home to one of the most productive fishing grounds in the world, producing sardines, shrimp and squid. There are also a number of varieties of endangered fish species.

Puerto Peñasco (“Rocky Point”) is a city in the northwest of the state of Sonora (about 100 km from the Arizona border), a very hot and dry area, long known for its fisheries. There is a community-based network of fishing reserves, the first of its kind in Mexico, which covers some 30% of the Gulf of California’s fishing areas.

Before the 1920s, Puerto Peñasco was one of the safe harbors for itinerant fishermen from the upper Gulf, Bahia Kino, Puerto Lobos and other areas. They would camp out there and fish. The prized catch of the area was called totoaba, which was used primarily for medicinal purposes. Too arid for settlement, the area wasn’t really developed until Arizonan John Stone built a hotel and casino to exploit Americans looking to escape Prohibition. It is rumored that Al Capone was a regular guest. Before leaving the area, Stone is said to have burned down the hotel and blown up the well.

In the early 1960s and 70s, the area was rich with squid and sperm whales. Some of the itinerant fishermen began to stay in the area. Prized catches included rock scallops, the Sonora snail and Black murex. Without oversight, within a few years, the population of these animals “went from huge to almost nonexistent.”

Resistance to CBMs was based on a number of factors. There was a general belief by fishermen in the resilience of the ecosystem, based on previous experience, and on direct observations of stocks. Interestingly, when there were CBMs in place, there were community safeguards against over fishing and poaching. The system of enforcement of rules was based on trust and reciprocity within the community. “100%” of the people in these communities resported that they trusted their neighbors. Fishermen said that breaking shared agreements would result in public shame. Peer pressure was cited as keeping people in line, along with threats of confiscation of equipment, including boats, and even threats of exclusion from the cooperative. As leadership shifted, things began to fall apart, resulting in a general breakdown of order. Familial ties began to act as an impediment to community cohesiveness, instead of cohesiveness, as family members began to break the rules, and protect other family members acting outside the rules.

The upshot, according to Cudner-Bueno, is that successful local management of fisheries is possible, despite challenges, even in the absence of heavy policing. Cooperatives can evolve rapidly in young, modern fisheries. Reserves can be established due to the cost-effectiveness of these enterprises, and a general understanding that allowing marine stocks to reproduce is beneficial to all.

Richard Cudney-Bueno, PhD, Conservation & Science Program, Packard Foundation; Institute of Marine Sciences, UCSC.

Resources:

PANGAS: http://www.pangas.arizona.edu/en/public

http://www.packard.org/categoryDetails.aspx?RootCatID=3&CategoryID=73

http://www.filedby.com/unclaimed_author/richard_Cudney-Bueno_bueno/3500181/works/7276129/EcosystemBased_Management_for_the_Oceans/

The Wide (And Threatened) Sargasso Sea

The words “Sargasso Sea” conjure poetic, romantic images, especially if you’ve seen the film, “The Wide Sargasso Sea.” The Wikipedia entry on the Sargasso says, “the ocean water in the Sargasso Sea is distinctive for its deep blue color and exceptional clarity, with underwater visibility of up to 200 feet.” The Sargasso is located in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean, bounded the Gulf Stream, the North Atlantic Current, the Canary Current and the North Atlantic Equatorial Current, which form the North Atlantic Subtropical Gyre. It is the only sea with no shores.

By now, most of us are familiar with the “Great Pacific Garbage Patch” in the North Pacific Gyre. Recently, scientists and explorers have found similar aggregations of plastic and other debris in other gyres, including the Sargasso. (See my previous blog post about one such exploration.)

Arlo Hemphill, oceanographer and communications specialist for the Center for Ocean Solutions, spoke about the Sargasso recently to scientists and educators in Monterey. Hemphill has spoken at the United Nations on issues of marine conservation and preservation.

Hemphill describes the oceans as the “highways” of the “great pelagics,” that is, large open ocean fish and other sea creatures. He says there could be as many as ten million species that have not been described, and therefore not protected. The deep sea is home to corals that could be as old as 10,000 years. Bottom trawling, a method of fishing that drags football field-sized nets across the ocean floor, destroys everything in its path, including the ancient corals.

The oceans cover 71% of the Earth’s surface. 64% of oceans lie beyond national jurisdiction. Creating alliances for ocean protection between nations, with all their conflicting needs and interests, is a complex process. Protection of the deep seas is crucial to maintaining ecological balance.

Hemphill says that in the past fifty years, we have lost 90% of the large pelagic (open ocean) fishes. With no regulation, the high seas and their inhabitants are at great risk.

Huge fishing vessels, utilizing stadium-sized nets, go after Orange roughy, or deep sea perch, including the breeders, making it impossible for the species to reproduce and rebound. “Like other slimeheads, the orange roughy is slow-growing and late to mature, resulting in a very low resilience. They are extremely susceptible to over fishing because of this, and many stocks (especially those off New Zealand and Australia, which were first exploited in the late 1970s) have already crashed; recently discovered substitute stocks are rapidly dwindling.” (Wikipedia) Fishing practices are often motivated by greed, with no thought at all about the future of the fish or the Oceans themselves.

We need international cooperation to protect the “Yosemites” and “Grand Canyons” of the deep seas.

The Sargasso is unique, in that the quantity of sargassum, or drift algae, creates huge mats that provide unique ecosystems for a wide range of animals, and also serve as a nursery for many species. Flying fish, for example, lay their eggs in the sargassum. This drift algae is also a refuge for migratory birds. The Sargasso Sea is home to deep sea corals, large pelagics and sushi eels.

One of the threats to the Sargasso is the massive harvest of sargassum for use as a biofuel. Bermuda, near the western fringes of the Sargasso, has made a commitment to help preserve the area. Eighteen million dollars was raised by Mission Blue, a project of the TED Prize, which gathered scientists, environmentalist and artists, including Sylvia Earle, Barbara Block, Damien Rice, Jackson Brown and Jean-Michel Cousteau, to “draw inspiration from the challenging new ideas presented to save the Blue Heart of the Planet.”

For now, the United States, the European Union, Bermuda is engaged with other nations in a collaborative effort to protect the Sargasso Sea. While it is a non-binding agreement, and other nations not part of the agreement could operate freely in protected waters, it would be politically disadvantageous to do so. The “exchange of notes” is a beginning, and, Hemphill says, is “great leverage.”

Resources:

Arlo Hemphill has a beautiful website, http://www.arlohemphill.com. You can follow him on Twitter, @arlohemphill, and The Center for Ocean Solutions, @oceansolutions.

You can read more about Mission Blue @ http://www.tedprize.org/mission-blue-voyage/

You can read about the remarkable journey to the North Atlantic Gyre by 5 Gyres (www.5gyres.org; Twitter @5gyres & @agentstiv), “We Are Drowning in a Toxic Plastic Soup,” on this blog.

A Good Walk Ruined

The extent of my knowledge about golf can be summarized as follows: not much. My mother’s father was a golfer, and I went out with him once when I was too young to know better. A few years ago, I hit a few balls with my sports genius nephew, and watched as the little white balls dribbled out onto the green grass.

I guess golfers enjoy golf, and they are certainly entitled to enjoy it. If you were to fly over the Monterey Peninsula, where I live, you would see more large, biomorphic blotches of exceptionally short green grass than you could shake a golf club at. My regular walk to the beach takes me by the Pacific Grove Golf Links, situated adjacent to Asilomar State Beach and the famed lighthouse.

Pebble Beach is a golf ball’s throw away, with their several world-renowned courses. I don’t know how many balls end up in the cold drink of the Pacific Ocean, but I suspect quite a few. A few weeks ago, I was walking along Ocean View Avenue in Pacific Grove, and noticed a golfer facing the wrong way, toward the glistening blue of the ocean. I pictured a sea critter being bonked in the head by a hard, little white ball. I asked him why he was hitting balls into the ocean, and he replied, “Practice,” as if it should be pretty obvious. I asked him why he couldn’t practice hitting the ball down the fairway. “Those count.” I decided not to pursue it further, except to mention that he was putting more junk in the ocean.

Last year, I was walking by the links, and saw a guy turning a spigot, allowing a luxuriant stream of exquisitely clear water to exit the green via the street. Curious by nature, I asked him what he was doing. He told me that the course was once a “swamp,” filled in to create this lovely monochrome green carpet. I made a mental note: He was draining spring water into the gutter so that the links didn’t become inundated.

I haven’t studied the environmental impacts of golf courses, but I am just a little suspicious, by nature. I can’t walk by a golf course and not wonder how much fertilizer, herbicides, insecticides and other cides are liberally applied to Terra Firma to create such perfect carpets. Not to mention all the “swamps” that have been filled in. The golf course at nearby Spanish Bay was built right on the dunes, so my assumption, being assumptive by nature, is that they paved over the pristine dune ecosystems to create their perfect, biomorphic sand traps. Ironically, there are beautifully crafted signs in the dunes between the greens and the walkway that say, in effect, “Fragile Dunes Stay on Trail.” The little swaths of remaining dunes are quite pretty, and make a perfect foil for the golf course.

The plush green turf of the links is lovely, if you like monochrome, and quite pleasant to traipse upon. I don’t know about the golfers, but I’m pretty sure that the links are a good walk ruined for the original inhabitants.

The Case of the Mutilated Shrubbery

My bus stop, half a block from my apartment in Pacific Grove, is a miniature Garden of Eden. There is a floral effusion, including swaths of Mexican sage, with their unsteady stalks of delicate purple flowers, and a large-frond plant with penile stalks of purple flowers that jut potently upward. The gleaming hummingbirds adore the Mexican sage, and swoop down from their tree perch to drink in its goodness. The shrub can get to be fairly large. There is a profusion of other flowers and trees around this florid oasis, harboring mourning doves, crows, Downy woodpeckers, sparrows, Purple finches. Standing at the bus stop, you can gaze out at the breakers bursting on the outer rocks of Point Pinos (Point of Pines). On a sunny day, with the songbirds singing, it can very nearly resemble Paradise.

I arrived at the bus stop one morning last year to find that the large flowering shrub had been mutilated, its green branches strewn around, revealing only gray stubs. A short time later, walking to the beach down a different road, I noticed another shrub similarly dismembered. I wondered if there was a serial plant killer on the loose. This is just the sort of story that the Pacific Grove Hometown Bulletin might bite on, I imagined, so I called the paper and reported it. The ace reporter said he would investigate. Meanwhile, after studious sleuthing, I learned that the plant by the bus stop had been cut down in the middle of the night.

Eventually, after talking to the girls at the Sea Breeze motel next to the bus stop, who were clueless about the recent outrage, I began to suspect the owner of the Vietnamese restaurant next door, who may have been concerned that the plant might obscure his sign, which was down the block. Eventually, I tracked down the owner, and confronted him. Through his accent, I gathered that he had hired someone to eviscerate the lovely plant. I explained that the plants were a Mecca for wildlife, not to mention the “weeds” growing forest-like next to them (which, incidentally, obscured the dumpster). Birds and bees and flowers and trees all living together in perfect harmony, unaware of the impending massacre.

The restaurant owner was polite, but I couldn’t tell if he actually cared about our vegetative brethren, or was just trying to get rid of me. Whenever I am at my bus oasis, I gaze fondly at the plants, watch for the bees and hummingbirds, and wonder when the next desecration will take place.

This morning, with the sun beaming happily down, the birds chattering, and the waves crashing in the blue distance, I decided to visit the restaurant again, just to advocate again for the shrubbery. I found the owner inside. He looked a tad impassive. I mentioned the plants. He apparently recognized me. He seemed a little defensive, denying he had cut the plant. “I want to save the nature for you. It’s the least I can do.”

We Are Drowning in a Toxic Plastic Soup

As you no doubt know by now, there is a huge collection of plastic debris swirling around in the once-pristine waters of the North Pacific Gyre, the circular currents in the North Pacific basin. This toxic swirl of filth has acquired the cute-sounding name, “The Great Pacific Garbage Patch.” Actually, it is a huge vortex of horrific pollution that threatens all the sea life around it.

Stiv Wilson and crew recently sailed through treacherous ocean conditions to explore a less-well known toxic soup, The North Atlantic Gyre. There are five major Gyres in the world’s oceans, all, presumably, full of toxic plastic debris. The crew trawled behind the Sea Dragon with a fine mesh net at regular intervals, and consistently found bits of plastic throughout the ocean.

What is frustrating for anyone who studies plastics in the ocean is the idea that somehow we can just venture out to the Garbage Patch(es), scoop up the plastic and recycle it. The absurdity of this notion becomes clear when you start to really look at how the plastic has broken down, and become inextricably a part of the ecosystem. It is estimated that 35% of the fish tested from the North Pacific Gyre have bits of plastic in their stomachs. Various plastics break apart in different ways, and no one really knows the extent of the ways plastic has entered the food chain. The analogy “plastic confetti” perhaps more accurately reflects how the colorful bits of plastic are distributed throughout the water column.

The most alarming find for the crew was a free-floating plastic squid trap into which a triggerfish had become lodged. The fish, unable to extricate itself, kept growing inside the trap.

The usual assortment of identifiable plastic trash was found in the ocean: bottles, lids, lighters, a boot. But the most disturbing plastic is what has “photo-degraded,” that is, broken down into pieces small enough to be ingested by all manner of sea creatures. Apparently, bite marks on some of the larger bits of plastic garbage are from fish and other animals feeding on smaller animals that are breeding on the plastic.

My major frustration, and one shared by many in the environmental world, is how to get people to make the connection between their everyday activities and the dying of the oceans. The public is not being educated properly by the media, and is, understandably confused.

One thing is clear: if we don’t dramatically reduce our manufacture, use and disposal of plastics, we will drown in a sea of toxic waste. Human babies are born with BPA in their systems.

For more information about plastics in the ocean, check out the beautiful website of 5gyres.org (Twitter: @5gyres; also @wendmagazine). Thanks to Surfrider Foundation (surfrider.org, @surfrider) for hosting the presentation at the Monterey Bay Aquarium.

For now, we can reduce our plastic consumption every day, and help groups like 5gyres to move us towards a plastic-free world.

Weed to Die For… or, at least, go to prison for

Today, while going about my business in Monterey, I ran into a guy I know, an ex-hippy, or hippy, or just a guy trying to live without being hassled by The Man. This is a “cautionary” tale, or just a tale about a guy who was hassled – Big Time – by The Man.

John, I’ll call him, for no particular reason, has lived a good, clean life, best I can tell. He has never been arrested, never had any problems with the law, has lived his life trying to make the world a better place. He was always friendly and easy-going.

John has been in a couple of nasty accidents, and suffers from chronic pain. In California, you can get a prescription for marijuana for a number of ailments, like glaucoma and chronic pain. John has a card for medical marijuana. No big deal. He goes into the dispensary, pays a reasonable amount of money for his medicinal plant, goes home, lights up, and is able to sleep, relatively pain-free. Sounds great, right?

Last year, John, peace-loving guy that he is, decides to go to a peace and love kind of gathering up on Oregon. John gets busted for possession. What follows is a horror story of jail, poverty and probation so alarming, I can’t print the details.

Besides all the hassle, the waiting for eight months for sentencing, and jail time, John has now become a bit anti-social, and confided that he just wants to transfer his probation to a small, remote place the California mountains where no one will intrude on his life. Essentially, he’s become a survivalist.

All for legally buying marijuana for a sore back. Did you know that now we’re building prisons in Mexico to warehouse American “criminals”?