Eye of the Albatross: Visions of Hope and Survival

by Carl Safina

  Circumnavigation Routes of Royal Albatrosses from New Zealand

  Albatross Nesting islands of the Northern Hemisphere

  ABOUT 1.8 MILLION ALBATROSS PAIRS breed around the world each year. (Albatross numbers worldwide have fluctuated widely since they began finding people in their world; there were many more until the mid-1800s, and probably far fewer in the early 1900s, than today.) Of the current total, two species—Amelia’s species, the Laysan Albatross; and the Southern Hemisphere’s Black-browed Albatross—contribute a disproportionate share: 1.3 million breeding pairs.

  Most albatross species exist in surprisingly low numbers. Of the twenty-four species, four species have annual worldwide breeding populations of 5,000 or fewer pairs; ten have between 5,000 and 20,000 pairs; four have 20,000 to 50,000 pairs; four between 50,000 and 100,000 pairs. No species currently has a population numbering between 100,000 and 500,000 breeding pairs. The Laysan and Black-browed Albatrosses have each had more than half a million breeding pairs in recent years.

  The number of pairs breeding annually is only part of the census, because many adults don’t breed every year, and the seas harbor many nonbreeding juveniles in their first years of life. For example, though the Laysan Albatross has annual breeding numbers in the vicinity of half a million nesting pairs, the total population of adults and juveniles is currently about 2.4 million birds. Amelia’s neighbors the Black-footeds nest with about 60,000 breeding pairs annually, but roughly 300,000 individuals in total roam the North Pacific.

  Albatross Nesting Islands, of the Southern Hemisphere

  Albatrosses breed on only twenty-two islands or island groups in the entire Southern Hemisphere, and only six islands or island groups in the North Pacific. Between roughly the mid-1700s and the early 1900s sealers, whalers, settlers, and especially feather hunters exterminated albatrosses from about a dozen or so islands.

  Despite the vast sea regions they roam, each albatross species puts all its eggs in surprisingly few baskets. Of the twenty-four species, fourteen species breed on only one or two islands or island groups. Ten species breed only on New Zealand islands. Another six likewise breed only on islands of single nations. All the albatrosses in the world breed on islands under the claim of only ten nations (Australia, New Zealand, the United States, South Africa, Mexico, Chile, Ecuador, Japan, and Southern Hemisphere possessions of the United Kingdom and France).

  The Black-browed Albatross—the only southern albatross currently maintaining more than a million breeding individuals (there are 700,000 breeding pairs, plus juveniles at sea)—accounts for over half of all albatrosses in the Southern Hemisphere. While it breeds on a dozen islands or island groups, three-quarters of its population breeds on just two islands in the Falklands, and that population has recently dropped by 17 percent. The Wandering Albatross, Diomedea exulans, nests on only six island groups spread throughout the whole Southern Hemisphere. Ninety-nine percent of the Northern Royal Albatross population (8,500 pairs) breeds on New Zealand’s Chatham Islands. Ninety-nine percent of the Southern Royal Albatross population (8,000 pairs) breeds on New Zealand’s Campbell Island. Virtually all Galapagos (or Waved) Albatrosses breed on one small scrubby island devoid of freshwater, Isla Española, in the Galapagos Islands.

  Two-thirds of the world’s Laysan Albatross pairs nest on Midway Atoll, making up the world’s single largest albatross colony. Midway and Laysan Island combined host over go percent of the species’ world population. Small numbers of Laysan Albatrosses breed on other scattered islands: a few dozen pairs on two widely distant Mexican islands, a handful at Wake, a few dozen in the Bonin Islands, several hundred pairs on Torishima, possibly several pairs on other islands. But this little chain—the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands—is the nesting ground for about 99 percent of the world’s Laysan Albatrosses and 97 percent of the global population of Black-footed Albatrosses. That’s why I say it’s a lot of eggs in very few baskets.

  A SMALL WORLD

  BY MARCH, those youngsters still alive at Tern Island have grown quite a bit. Sitting upright, the chunky chicklets look like dark, downy pineapples. This is very interesting, but I’ve been invited to travel a little farther along this island chain, to fabled Laysan Island. You don’t turn down that kind of invitation. Laysan has been praised by Smithsonian Institution scientists as having “the most remarkable biota of any island in the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands.” Ornithologist Craig S. Harrison has written that Laysan presents “one of the finest remaining wildlife spectacles on earth.” If someone asks if you want to go, you don’t say you’ll check your calendar and get back to them. You immediately answer, “Yes.”

  Laysan has no airstrip. Access is by ship only, a week from Honolulu; even from here at French Frigate Shoals, Laysan lies days distant.

  Though Laysan is the second largest single island in this chain, it’s small anyway: under a mile by two, just 1.4 square miles in area. Only the skimpiest skeleton crew—three to six people—is maintained there to work on seals, ducks, seabirds, and habitat restoration. Now it’s time for the five-month rotation, time to take out the “survivors” and bring in the fresh team. And so the bow of the U.S. scientific ship Townsend Cromwell is pointed west, following the afternoon sun.

  I’m assigned to share a small, windowless cabin with George Grigorovitch, a large man with a weight lifter’s build, a shaved head, and a down-curving mustache. He works the night shift in the engine room. The cabin is about ten feet square, crowded with lockers and drawers and some storage boxes. It’s a cramped, dark space, part storage unit, part prison cell. Grigorovitch has no other home. “Seven years in that bunk,” he woofs in his husky voice. He says he doesn’t like the work here anymore, doesn’t like the sea, but needs the paycheck. Says, “I can’t afford to live ashore.” He means that financially, but it’s an odd remark in a world where a lot of people with skinny paychecks manage somehow to live on land. I wonder what his comment fails to reveal.

  I WAKE IN THE COOL blackness of the windowless cabin after a span of hours rich in dreaming, my wristwatch the only real proof that the dreamtime has run out. I come into the blinding sunshine and warmth of the deck of the traveling ship, where sea and sky rim a round horizon. Here’s a thought: you can gaze upon any type of terra firma—from savannahs to deep jungles to the highest mountains—and presume that your legs could get you there. But stand on any boat’s deck, or upon any shore staring seaward, and you are reminded that legs are useless on three-quarters of Earth’s surface. Whales and dolphins, descendants of quadrupeds, came to resemble fish so they could triple the size of their world. Their farewell to legs took ages, but if you’re a person, to get anywhere at sea you need a vessel. And that’s what makes boats special; they’re the magic carpets of most of the planet’s surface. Boats carry us to visit those strangely alien creatures of the vast watery reaches where we were never meant to go, the off-limits spaces and limitless faces of the Deep. A plane can get you over an ocean, but only a boat can really get you in. Boats are unmatched cheating devices.

  A large flyingfish has flown aboard during the night and expired on deck. I pull open its big, lacy, cellophaney, dragonfly-like wings. The first albatross—a speck on the horizon rendered unmistakable by that wind-stiffened, bounding progress—appears briefly, then is lost among the rippled blue distances of the sea. Then, for hours, sailing albatrosses are our constant companions. Soon they’re joined by a frigatebird and several boobies. It’s easy to imagine the solace and excitement explorers felt at the sight of increasing numbers of birds. Birds meant they were again in the company of creatures like themselves—ocean roamers who needed land occasionally—and that an island or continent must surely lie just beyond the blue horizon.

  An unsettled breeze has made the sea a wind-roughened, grizzled white. The boat is rocking a bit, but at the moment I find the effect soothing and pleasant.

  A brief exposition on swaying: Everything on a ship sways, even in superlatively benign weather. Everything ha
nging becomes a pendulum. Everyone uses a lot of energy just standing upright. Because of this, you eat twice as much as usual, yet maintain your weight. Putting your leg into a pair of pants while standing becomes a game of skill and peril. You shower leaning hard against the stall or hanging on to the pipes. Cups hanging in the galley become little metronomes of the sea’s rhythm. In your bunk you must put a leg at an angle to the rest of your body, to check your motion. Otherwise, you end up rolling like a log all night, rather than sleeping like one. A crew member says, “I can tell who’ll get seasick as I watch newcomers climb aboard. The stiff-walking ones are going to have trouble. Those who seem springy and at ease will do better.” You can’t cruise away if you ain’t got that sway.

  On a ship, time seems to thicken and coagulate. Events stretch out. Because of the motion of the boat, everything from traveling a flight of stairs to getting out of bed takes longer. There is hardly anywhere to go; your options for walking are reduced to the confines within a couple of hundred feet. The inactivity has a strong soporific effect on anyone who doesn’t have immediate work to do. Even attempting to read on deck usually triggers a nap. Eating and sleeping expands to dominate the days. The drone and vibration of the engine, the constant rolling, and the confinement lead to lethargy.

  The biologists and a couple of crew members and I have gravitated indolently to the rear deck, where we’re watching the world wave by. The new biology crew for Laysan consists of two Monk Seal people, plus two interns whose respective jobs are to continue studies of the endangered Laysan Duck and to help eradicate an introduced grass called sandbur that destroys bird-nesting habitat. A second team is headed farther, to Lisianski Island.

  A significant aspect of working on Laysan or Lisianski entails being dropped on an island for a span of several months, hundreds of miles from other people any days from rescue in even the best conditions. It’s too far to be reached by helicopter. Any rescue or evacuation would have to be done by ship—minimum cost: $80,000 (so you’d better be dying).

  It’s not for everyone.

  But some people return again and again. Petra Bertilsson, blond, mid-thirties, is sitting with a blue shirt shielding her legs from the sun. She’s from Sweden, where she was a newspaper and magazine writer. She’d long been interested in ocean conservation, but, she says, “I was always afraid of the science.” Yet she took a deep breath and made a major life change, moving from Sweden to the University of Hawaii. “Moving entailed selling an apartment and breaking up with my fiance and committing to five years of schooling for a bachelor’s in zoology. Ja, it was a big commitment. But I’ve never been happier than I am out here. Here you can focus. You’re always in the moment here. It is very satisfying.”

  Brenda Becker, the lead Monk Seal biologist for Laysan, agrees that the commitment isn’t for everyone. Tall and thin, with wavy brown hair, she was raised in Nevada and studied forestry at the University of Nevada. “Until,” she says, “I found out that ‘forestry’ meant cutting down trees.” So she got a dual bachelor’s degree in range management and wildlife, and has worked in coal-mine reclamation, goose management, caribou ecology, endangered-tortoise management, Bighorn Sheep reintroduction, and even on the U.S. congressional staff. Brenda is coming for her twelfth season. “Mainly,” she says, “I come back because I know the seals and I want to see how their lives have progressed and unfolded. It’s like soap opera, but better than TV. And for five months, you have beach-front property. I like the simplicity. I’m glad we don’t have a phone. I like that you can get immersed in your work. And you’re surrounded by wildlife. Of course, some people decide it’s not for them. Mind-set is important. And it’s hard on relationships.” (Brenda’s boyfriend, Walter Machado, had been at the wharf to see her off the morning the Cromwell left Honolulu. When he kissed Brenda for the last time for the next five months, he made it count.)

  Amber Pairis, a veteran here who will be working on Lisianski Island this year, adds, “The flies and ants can be annoying, but the benefits are so overwhelming. The islands are just magical. You fall asleep with the sound of the terns and you wake to the most breathtaking view of the ocean. When you walk on the beach the footsteps are yours alone. You’re doing something most people will never get a chance to do. So a few flies and ants”—she shrugs—“they’re insignificant.”

  Petra, with a slight challenge in her voice, says, “Not always just a few ants, ja?” To me she explains, “Sometimes ants are everywhere. Whenever you were trying to eat, or drink a cup of tea, or anything, there were ants all over the place. If it’s a hot night and you’re sweating in your tent, you’ll wake and there will be ants stuck in the sweat on your body.”

  “How many?” I ask. “Two? Three? Dozens?”

  She says, “Oh no. More.”

  “Hundreds?”

  “Thousands. Ja, stuck on your body. It was pretty impressive there for a while. Another night I woke up because there was a spider on my neck. I started looking around with a flashlight and saw there e were about twenty spiders in my bed. I had to carry the spiders outside the tent, one by one. I’m sure they came right back in. But I won’t kill any animal.”

  “So are you a vegetarian?”

  “I started eating chicken last year. I would eat fish, but I object to fishing practices. If I knew that it was from a truly sustainable fishery with good fishing practices, I might feel differently. I just don’t want to be part of any kind of mass-produced fish from large-scale fisheries. When you see big, ocean-roaming fish free-swimming, they’re so beautiful. You know the Moonfish? That was my favorite fish to eat, until I saw them alive.”

  The two greenhorns—not counting myself—are Rebecca Woodward and Alex Wegmann. Rebecca is a very young looking twenty-four-year-old with straight, light brown hair and lots of freckles. She’s eager, a little bit nervous. “Hopefully it’ll look good on my resume, but I also want to see whether I can live so remotely for five months.” Pretty soon she’ll know the answer.

  Alex is twenty-two years old and on the move. In his sophomore year he spent a month in Nicaragua, studying coffee farming in a village with no electricity, no running water, no hospital. “There, if your automobile breaks, you fix it by taking parts from the chicken coop.” He then spent six months in Australia studying aboriginal society and linguistics. He was shocked to learn that well into the twentieth century ranchers could legally shoot aboriginal people for “trespassing” on land that for forty thousand years had been theirs.

  I’m sure Rebecca and Alex will thrive on Laysan, then be ready for new challenges elsewhere. It’s an unforgettable sojourn to an unheardof nook of the world. Somehow, the people coming here have slipped the noose of the usual bind and grind.

  There are career downsides, though. Some people seem to get marooned. As one person observed, “This work is a paid ticket to adventure, but I’ve seen it put people far behind professionally. Doing this for more than a couple of years tends not to be a winning strategy if you’re interested in a conventional career eventually, such as in academia or running a research program.” Still, convention is not for everyone.

  Clouds move in, their big shadows turning the sea surface from cobalt to a mottled blue-black. Ray Bolland comes aft and joins us. Born and raised in Hawaii, Ray says he’s “a local kid who has made it into the big field of science.” He’s leading a survey of the lost and discarded fishing netting hung up on the reefs—a constant danger to the wildlife. A later cruise with a larger crew of divers will return to try, for the first time, to systematically remove lost fishing nets from the entire island chain. So far, Ray has led localized cleanups on several islands.

  One method of locating lost nets is for the ship to circle an island slowly while towing a snorkeler who scans the reef below. Dr. John Lamkin, the ship’s commander, says, “Hey, Ray, tell Carl about how you like to be towed behind the boat nude.”

  “Not since the jellyfish incident, I don’t.”

  Brenda says, “Remember Theresa b
eing followed by the Tiger Shark while she was getting towed?”

  Lamkin says, “No Tiger Shark in the Pacific is mean enough to take on Theresa.”

  When talk turns to Alaska’s endangered Steller Sea Lion, Lamkin loses his levity. “In 1986 I was up in international waters between Alaska and Russia—that area called the Donut Hole—and the fishing vessels were stacked up like lawn mowers about to cut a whole lawn in one pass. I don’t see how any fish survived. We caught a lot of Steller Sea Lions even in short tows of our research net. How many the commercial fleet caught, no one would admit. Most sea lions caught alive got shot by fishermen. I’m sure they killed a bunch. I’m not surprised they’re endangered.”

  The Steller Sea Lion remains imperiled, and now food shortages seem to be a problem (for unclear reasons possibly related to fishing or climate change—or both). But the struggle to secure their future isn’t over. In 1993, the United States, China, South Korea, Poland, and the Russian Federation agreed to stop fishing in the area where Captain Lamkin witnessed such excess. Under 1992 amendments to the Marine Mammal Protection Act, it is illegal for U.S. fishers to shoot marine mammals. And in the eastern Bering Sea, all boats over sixty-five feet (the vast majority) must now carry a government observer. Things change. Some things improve. When they do, we can usually thank a few idealistic people who worked very, very hard.

  A Black-footed Albatross circumnavigates the ship on fixed wings, crossing a rainbow on the horizon. It’s a good-luck omen if ever there was. The bird and the surrounding sea seem right and comforting, fused and eternal. But the fleeting rainbow makes a more apt metaphor for how rapidly the sea can change. For the moment, though, I’m satisfied to realize that any day one can squeeze metaphors from clouds and ponder eternity in rainbows is a day well lived.