My first splash into the coast off of Kalaupapa is disorienting. I am unable to put my finger on what feels different as I snorkel through beautiful coral heads and ancient volcanic flows. When I surface to check back on the shore, the wind echoing in my snorkel is the only sound to be heard. Eventually, I come to realize that the odd silence at the surface is because the ocean here is loud. 

I dunk my head back under the water, and sure enough, a cacophony of popping, crackling, and creaks meets me. For such a slow realization, it is a pleasant surprise. I often find the ocean to be soothing because of its relative silence. Compared to the bustle of life on land, it’s a haven where everything quiets and slows (and people can’t talk to you!). Listening to the chorus of snapping shrimp, whistling dolphins, and crunching parrotfish is a gentle reminder that the ocean is also full of bustle and noise, and the silence is often a consequence of humans. Kalaupapa is renowned for its abundance of fish and marine life because of the careful stewardship of those enforcing its designation and protection as a National Historic Park.  

While Kalaupapa is a refuge for marine life, it hasn’t always been for people. In the late 1800s, those with Hansen’s disease, also known as leprosy, were exiled to Kalaupapa and forbidden from leaving (NPS). Thousands of people suffered in this remote place, separated from their families and struggling to survive with little assistance before a cure was found. People like Mother Marianne from the Sisters of St. Francis and Father Damien (both now Saints), along with the support of Queen Kapiʻolani, are credited with taking care of the patients and improving their quality of life when no one else would. The story of Kalaupapa is complex, so while its designation as a National Historic Park has had tremendous benefits for its marine ecosystems, it is important not to forget why it was established in the first place, and the stories of the people who suffered and persevered here. 

Those who currently reside in Kalaupapa do an amazing job of keeping the history alive. My first day, Biological Sciences Technician Glauco Antonio Puig-Santana introduces me to a group from Sustainable Coastlines Hawaii (SCH), and we visit the current Sisters to learn more about the history of Kalaupapa and the roles past Sisters and Mother Marianne played in taking care of patients. Glauco and Sisters Alicia and Barbara-Jean give me a warm welcome, answering my questions and ensuring I am informed and respectful about Kalaupapa, past and present. I only spend a short amount of time with SCH, but enjoy getting to meet such wonderful people. Even after they leave, evidence of their hard work stays in Kalaupapa. The coastline looks pristine after the countless hours they’ve spent removing marine debris, and helicopters are needed to fly out the massive bags they’ve filled with thousands of pounds of trash. 

I start out the week tagging along with Glauco on some Hawaiian Monk Seal surveys. It is a real treat to get to see these endangered mammals, with a population less than 1600, happily relaxing on the beach. We identify the individuals and record their locations, staying a safe distance and noting mom and pup pairs and any obvious changes in health. They completely ignore us, preferring to sunbathe on the sand, occasionally rolling into the ocean to cool off. The thought occurs to me during surveys that I’d make an excellent monk seal.

One of the unique things about Kalaupapa’s geography is that it is entirely isolated from the “topside” of Molokai except for one very steep 3-mile trail that has an elevation gain of 1600 feet. Many in Kalaupapa opt for this butt-kicking hike to reach family or friends rather than a costlier flight that is the only motorized transportation to topside. I can confirm that you feel every foot in elevation change as you ascend, and your knees definitely feel it on the descent. What is mind-blowing to me is that almost the entire 26 switchbacks of the trail are made up of cinderblock like steps that would have had to been carried down and placed by hand. Thanks to this astonishing work, I have a great hike along the trail with amazing views of the island and the settlement of Kalaupapa.

Later in the week, we head out for some diving to finish up benthic surveys sites for the park. Petrisha Alvarez from Division(s) of Land & Natural Resources (DLNR) and Aquatic Resources (DAR), joins us from topside Molokai to be our very awesome boat operator for the day (via the steep trail, thanks Trisha!). I was warned earlier in the week that the beguiling calm seas of the West side of Kalaupapa turn into the not-so-fondly named Barf Boulevard around to the East end. Even in the relatively good conditions of our low-wind day, the swells are large, and the shoreline cliffs are continuously being swallowed by white froth. I have a newfound respect for the dedication of the people who do marine operations in Kalaupapa. The East side is no walk in the park, and it takes some serious determination and boating skills to get work done. 

We hit four sites off the coastline that still need benthic surveys, and make the call to wait for safer conditions to dive the fifth, which is closest to the rocky shoreline and still getting pounded with surf. We also take water samples to be sent off for analysis. I only mess up one compass heading and break a sample syringe at depth so all in all it’s a pretty good working day if you know me.

Finishing up a day on the water in Kalaupapa is not as simple as docking the boat, unloading, and rinsing off. All I will say is that the Blue Card swim tests and skills are a piece of cake compared to the shenanigans (safe, of course) required to unload gear, rinse the boat, and secure it to a mooring buoy. I’m now convinced there should be a Kalaupapa Card swim test.

Later, we pull out backpacking gear and start running through checklists to make sure things are ready for stream surveys. In case I hadn’t already proven my adept skills during water sampling, I spill a fair amount of camp stove fuel, and we end up testing them all on the ground so I can safely get some practice before people actually need me to cook dinner.

After a week that flies by at Kaloko-Honokōhau, I’m back at Kalaupapa to join their annual stream surveying trip. I have a little free time in the office Monday, and I get to practice conducting a monk seal survey on my own. This works out great for me because I can sit and watch them as long as I want. To add to my ineffective time management, I spend half an hour watching a group of blacktip sharks cruising around the shoreline. I also quickly learn that the seals must know who Glauco is. My previous survey with him, they completely ignored us, and we could get close enough to read the tags on their flippers. Surveying by myself, well over twice the distance away than I was the last time, I quickly learn that I’m an outsider.

While I stay far enough away to not disturb them into moving, every single seal I encounter watches me with interest, very different than the laid back beach bums of the previous survey. Needless to say, getting the tag ID without bothering them was next to impossible, and I was only able to ID a few. Still, I thought it was pretty cool that they were so in tune with their surroundings to be able to differentiate between people (even if they appear to mostly be snoozing).

At one point, I encounter a very small weaned pup enjoying playing in some tide pools. I spend another thirty minutes watching it splash around and blow bubbles in the water for what appears to be its own entertainment. I can’t find the red tags on either of its flippers, but I do notice it has a unique bleach spot around its left hip area. Glauco gets very excited when I show him a picture later, and he identifies the pup as PM11 from the bleach spot. This seal pup hadn’t been spotted for a couple of weeks, which was worrisome, so it was a great feeling to know it was still alive and in the area.

Soon, it is time for the much-anticipated stream survey. Getting to hike, camp, and survey streams in the lush valley of Waikolu is a dream come true for me. It is also a surprisingly full-circle experience that I definitely did not get emotional about. I spent my childhood snorkeling in streams in Western NC, looking for crawdads, salamanders, and the elusive hellbender (fly fishers absolutely hated to see me coming). While I loved my freshwater critters, I was always dreaming of getting to see marine life and eventually “have a job outside”. The realization that I now get to do both is surreal, and it’s possible I tear up more than a few times thinking about it. I feel so privileged to have this experience, and I know that younger me would be so thrilled and proud to learn that she still gets to enjoy her favorite pastime as work!

To get to our base camp, our team has a short but slow going hike across a stretch of rocky shoreline. It’s paramount that every step on a boulder is carefully executed because it’s not the time or place to be nursing a sprained ankle, or worse. Our leads, Glauco and Anne Farahi, Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park Biological Sciences Technician, casually mention that besides the rocks, goats and other wildlife can also fall off the cliffs we walk under. For a while, I thought they were just trying to scare us into diligently wearing our hard hats for the whole hike, but upon our return hike, we stumble across two deer that had met this fate. I don’t think my hard hat would have been much help, but I’m glad we have them.

Waikolu, like the rest of the park, is stunning. Our base camp sits at the mouth of the stream, under the watchful gaze of steep mountains. I can’t even express how excited I am to unzip my tent each morning and look at the view outside, often decorated with a rainbow or two. We start each day with a safety review and briefing, and then fight Anne to make sure she doesn’t sneak all the heavy equipment in her backpack before heading out.

Our team also includes Trisha and Maria Angst from DAR, and Olivia Ponchin and Searrah Bierker, who are Scientists in Parks Interns from Volcanoes National Park. I feel a little useless when we arrive at our first site because I don’t have much field experience in any type of stream survey. However, the team is super competent, and everyone is incredibly helpful in teaching me the protocols as we work. I’m so grateful for everyone’s patience while I get to learn hīhīwai (freshwater snails) surveying protocol, water quality measurements and sampling, pebble surveying, and flow tracking. The hīhīwai surveys are easily my favorite because they are basically a treasure hunt for adorable snails within randomized 1/4 meter quadrats. I was especially enamored with them because they remind me of abalone, a marine snail I’ve spent some time with in a past internship.

I&M protocols are different and focus on collecting data in a way that can be combined into a better understanding of the big picture of an ecosystem. For Pacific Island Inventory & Monitoring Network (PACN) stream surveys, one overall survey site in Waikolu includes multiples smaller surveys from fish ID to water flow. The culmination of these “mini” surveys can be informative about that specific location or combined with the rest of the sites to tell a story about the stream as a whole. Then, entire stream systems across Hawai’i can be compared to each other because all were surveyed using these protocols. Furthermore, each protocol (fish, water quality, etc.) fits smoothly in the overall site survey, which is evident in the way different surveys can be split among teams and carried out simultaneously without getting in the way of each other. Even better, because they are all completed within the same timeframe, they are relevant to each other and have less variability.

While this may not sound the most exciting to people not interested in data collection and management, what is exciting is how it can be used. Waikolu stream has been surveyed since 2007 with these excellent, in depth protocols, and this data has been pivotal in monitoring long term stream health, providing a benchmark for other Hawaiian Streams, and justifying policy implementations to benefit the streams (DLNR). Call me a nerd, but that should be exciting to anyone.

As if we don’t spend enough time each day in the chilly stream water, Glauco takes me to get my Tahitian prawn fix after the work day is done. Non-native Tahitian prawns are destructive to the native species in these streams and, unfortunately, have been wildly successful. After these highly invasive, delicious morsels stared at me from their crevices in eddy pools all day, it’s finally time to get after them. Which… I am pretty bad at. Teeth chattering, I finally nab one with a three-prong Glauco handed me and add it victoriously to the dozen he’s already caught. I definitely injure a lot more than I actually catch, and it takes no time for other prawns to descend on their fallen comrades in a feeding frenzy. It’s a tough day to be a prawn, or maybe not, because I only catch two more, but I have an insane amount of fun and at least traumatize a fair amount.

When I say it was too soon that I had to leave, I mean it was wayyyy too soon. I had such a blast surveying with this awesome team of ladies (plus Glauco), and learned so much. Like how hīhīwai are adorable and FlowTrackers are really easy to mess up. I’m proud that I didn’t cry in front of everyone when it was time for me to hike out early with Maria, but I sure felt like it. Maria was an awesome and fun hiking buddy, and minus the dead deer and a few feral pigs we spooked off, we had an uneventful hike back to the settlement.

If anything, this internship has shown me what kind, welcoming, and extremely dedicated people work for the Park Service. After spending two days measuring pebbles in icy water, they will also spend the next five days measuring more pebbles, sleeping on the ground, and eating tamales out of pouches, all with a smile and positive attitude. I feel so privileged for the time I had with these wonderful people in such a special place. Kalaupapa definitely won me over.

 You might be surprised to learn that Mt. Everest is not the tallest mountain in the world; that honor would be reserved for Mauna Kea, HI. While Mt. Everest has the highest altitude at 29,029ft above sea level, if measured from its base on the sea floor, the volcanic summit of Mauna Kea surpasses Mt. Everest at 33,500ft (NOAA). So why this fun fact? Because a second fun fact is that I can technically say I’ve summited the tallest mountain in the world! (Shsh, please let me have this one.) 

While it might have been wiser for me to spend my first day off in a while resting, sleeping, or catching up on my expense reporting, the lure of an extremely strenuous all-day hike was too much to resist. After some careful research about the hike specs (hence stumbling across the fun fact), I wake up at 4:30 AM to get to the trailhead at sunrise. Most people take 8-12 hours to climb up the 4,000 ft in elevation and back, and I also want to give myself an hour to acclimate to the altitude at the visitor’s center, which sits at 9,000 ft above sea level. During this time, I chug lots of water, fill out my hiking permit, and read the multitude of signs warning about symptoms of altitude sickness. I’ve spent the last few months at sea level, am slightly out of hiking shape, and am not ready to be dragged out by park rangers so my plan is to go as slow as possible. 

With enough self-control to surprise my mom, I slowly make my ascent up the dusty volcanic landscape. The trail quickly turns from some sparse shrubs to fields of crumbled rock, and I become absurdly happy when I spy a ladybug, the only critter I’ve laid eyes on for hours. I hike so slow that I walk in my own cloud of dust, which seems especially pathetic as I’m passed by two groups on their way up. However, by mile 4, my self-pity turns into slightly righteous pride as the groups pass back by me on their way down, having turned around before the summit after getting hit by nausea and dizziness. It would seem my self-control pays off, and I make it the 6 miles to the top without any symptoms. 

I don’t hike to the true summit out of Manau Kea, as it is considered a sacred place of significant cultural and religious importance to native Hawaiians, but the view at the end of the trail is spectacular. The massive telescopes from NASA, Subaru, and various countries are out of place but also fitting as some kind of settlement on Mars. After finishing my family-size bag of jerky, I head back down and make it safely back to the parking lot, saved from an embarrassing ranger rescue. However, I am not entirely spared from embarrassment as I can barely walk into the office the next morning, ready to meet the team at Kaloko-Honokōhau.

Kaloko-Honokōhau is a park located on the Big Island with a unique history and an array of ecosystems. It boasts over 200 anchialine pools and was founded only because of the community effort, hard work, and foresight of native Hawaiians seeking to preserve the history and natural resources of this ancient settlement. The park boundaries also encompass parts of multiple ahupua‘a designations, which are traditional geographical boundaries that encompass a “slice” of the islands, from the sea to mountains. The NPS team at Kaloko-Honokōhau is very informed and dedicated to the land and ocean’s past history and present significance, sharing their knowledge with me so I can be a respectful visitor.

I head out with Kaile’a Annandale, Rachel Nunley and Katie Cartee for anchialine pool assessments after Rachel strongarms GIS for our survey. It puts up quite a fight, but she emerges impressively victorious, and we set out for the field. The pools are beautiful to witness and have a very interesting backstory. They are filled with brackish water, but above ground sources like streams or incoming waves. Instead, fresh water mixes with seawater in the deep, porous lava rocks and seeps up into the pools, with the depths changing depending on tides. Species like the ʻōpaeʻula, or Hawaiian Red Shrimp, also hang out in this hidden underground world and can be found in the pools during high tides. Upon first seeing these adorable little guys, I think I squeal loud enough for visitors to hear me across the lava fields.

The team explains to me how rising sea levels are predicted to drastically change pools. Places that are too dry for pools to be present now might soon turn into more permanent anchialine systems, possibly expanding where the ʻōpaeʻula can live. Some pools that used to be independent of each other might soon become connected with higher tides, as well as connected to fishponds and the ocean. This can greatly impact the ecology of each pool as native and non-native/invasive species are able to move more freely between pools. A big concern with all this change is the introduction of invasive fish that eat the shrimp, as they can move from the previously unconnected fishpond and ocean.

The next day, to access the achialine pools at the north end of the park, we get to walk over the loko kuapā, or fish pond wall. Originally constructed hundreds of years ago, this fishpond is the largest in Hawai’i and was used by royalty. The wall is dry-stacked, an impressive crafting feat. Each rock has been perfectly chosen and placed within the wall so that no mortar or type of binding agent is needed. This astounding craftsmanship holds up to the pounding of surf and even has two ‘auwai kai, or channels, with mākāhā, or gates, on both ends to manage the movement of fish between the ocean and pond (NPS).

Later, Kaile’a receives a call that a monk seal has been reported on the park beach. Unlike the beaches of Kalaupapa, where monk seals can lounge without disruption from the public, Kaloko-Honokōhau has a lot of curious visitors who often can get too close, even by accident, as the seals are really good at looking like rocks. While we wait for a volunteer organization to show up to babysit, Kaile’a gets another call – apparently, another monk seal has been spotted at the opposite end of the beach! This is an extremely rare occurrence as there are only 10 seals that hang out on the Big Island, and to have both on the beach during one day is unusual. While Morgan Chambers keeps a watchful eye over the female at the north end, Kaile’a and I “babysit” at the south end.

We ID our seal by the tag on her flipper as a one year old female, and Kaile’a explains that she is smart and often found in the harbor next door looking for fish scraps. Unfortunately, being smart hasn’t been in her best interest, and there is worry she might be injured or killed in retaliation by fishermen who find her a nuisance. For now, she blinks at us innocently between her naps next to a sea turtle.

The week flies by too fast, and soon, it’s my last day. After a lot of time in the blazing heat of the lava rocks, we get a nice little cool off with some snorkeling around the shore, checking for coral bleaching and removing any debris we find. People might be getting tired of me saying how amazing things are that I’ve never experienced before… but it keeps happening! Kaloko-Honokōhau has the most coral cover I’ve ever seen, with beautiful submerged arches to swim through and even microorganisms that flash different colors in broad daylight!

I try and fail not to yell loudly through my snorkel as I watch tiny little organisms float by, flashing neon blue, then orange, then green. I can only imagine how magnificent they are in the dark. I have a wonderful time diving down under the arches and playing chicken with eels hiding in the abundant coral. If you were wondering, I am definitely the chicken. While not as fishy as Kalaupapa, Kaloko-Honokōhau’s coral is something else.

I only found an abandoned snorkel and some fishing line after an hour, so it seems Kaloko-Honokōhau is in pretty good shape. Kaile’a says there is no alarming bleaching either, and these little victories make for a great day. I end my time with the Kaloko-Honokōhau NPS team at a wonderful bicultural talk by Kekuʻiapōiula Keliipuleole on anchialine pools. After only a week, I’m well on my way to becoming shrimp-tern level of obsessed. I am so sad to say goodbye to this amazing and dedicated team and am grateful for the fun times and field snacks I shared with them.

I spend my last two days in Kona on some dives with Sarah Milisen, my super awesome host and a divemaster in the area. She takes me on a shore dive to look for tiger sharks, annndddd we have the luckiest dive ever. We see a tiger within the first 10 minutes, and almost simultaneously, a pod of spinner dolphins glides by! I may not be one for dancing in clubs, but you will definitely find me busting a move at 70ft if I see a shark. This was my first tiger and the most incredible experience. She drifted on the edge of our peripheral for a while, where the spectacular visibility turned into smokier water, and then went on her way. Our luck didn’t stop there: we saw an octopus, giant trevally, finescale triggerfish, gold lace nudibranch, and two bait balls that collided together in a spectacular display right in front of us.

The next day, I join Sarah for an Ocean Defender’s Alliance marine debris clean up she is managing at Mahukona Beach Park. ODA has a super impressive volunteer presence with more than 50 SCUBA divers, free divers, snorkelers, and topside supporters. Groups split up to tackle different locations and debris types like a well-oiled machine, and I have a great dive looking for fishing line, and of course, admiring the coral. I only come across two lead weights and a few pieces of line, which is pretty awesome. Other teams hit some tire jackpots that they removed with lift bags. I can’t thank Sarah enough (and her precious pup, Alani) for including me in these awesome opportunities and welcoming me into her home for the week. Thank you for everything Sarah!

I thought I’d seen some spectacular places in my life, but just my first hour in Hawaii changes my entire definition of spectacular. I arrive right before sunset, and between the sparkling blue of the ocean and the enormous volcanic mountains towering above me, I am the definition of a distracted driver. My rental car yells at me more than a few times that I am straying too close to the white line. But I can barely help myself! Every time I round a curve, I am met with impossibly vertical walls of lush green. O’ahu is like nothing I have ever experienced. As I drive, I am stunned, craning my head to stare open-mouthed at the mountains rushing up towards the sky.

As my host for the week, Stacey Tighe, 1980 Rolex Scholar, welcomes me into her home, she tells me that when it rains, she can often count over 15 waterfalls plummeting down between the ribbed sides of the mountains just behind her house. Throughout my stay, Stacey is the most welcoming and generous host I could ask for. She takes really good care of me after an unfortunate run-in with COVID, for which I will be forever grateful (thank you, Stacey!). My first morning on the island, Stacey informs me that some other OWUSS alums have a day of freediving and sailing planned, and I’m invited! I get to meet previous scholars Neha Acharya-Patel and Katie Lang, as well as former REEF intern Jessica Schem. I am also reunited with former NPS Intern Shaun Wolfe. 

Our amazing day on the water starts with a pod of spinner dolphins who playfully cruise around the boat. When we hop in the water, the four or five I saw on the surface turn into more than 20 dolphins effortlessly gliding through the ocean. They aren’t moving too fast and hang out with us for a while, communicating in their clicks and whistles. This is the most personal encounter I’ve ever had with dolphins, and it was truly magical to get a peek at their fun times underwater. We spend the rest of the day freediving around The Eddie, which I’m told hosts one of the most prestigious surf competitions and monster waves in the winter. For now, it is deceptively flat and clear. This is also my first time getting to try freediving fins, and can I say… I am obsessed! I have pretty much the best day ever pretending to be a mermaid with all my new friends. 

After a free-spirited day out on the water, the next morning is much more subdued. Monday, Law Enforcement Ranger and Park Dive Officer Andrew Tandberg takes me to dive the U.S.S. Arizona, the battleship that sank on December 7, 1941, in the attack on Pearl Harbor. Along with the ship, over 1,177 men made the ultimate sacrifice, accounting for almost half of the casualties of Pearl Harbor. December 7^th marks an key turning point in U.S. history, and the Arizona continues to be an important symbol of the tragedy of WWII as well as the resilience of the American people. It also remains an archaeological wonder, with portholes containing trapped air from the day of its sinking, officers’ quarters with uniforms still on hangers, and bottles, bowls, and shoes remaining preserved on deck. It is a privilege to be able to dive this wreck, and I feel a wide range of emotions during my dive. I feel wonder at all the artifacts, grief for the families that lost a loved one, and gratitude for the sacrifice these men made and others continue to make for our country.

Andy gives me a topside briefing on what artifacts we will encounter on the ship, and I have a better understanding of what I am looking at as he points out bowls, kitchen tiles, ammo, forks, and, most jarring to me, shoes. I try not to dwell on things as we dive, and stay in the moment, ensuring I am a respectful visitor with controlled buoyancy, but after I surface, I spend a lot of time thinking about the shoes and why they happen to be scattered across the deck. Of all I saw on the Arizona, I feel that the shoes are the artifacts that most strongly connect me to the past and will stay with me long into the future.

Even at the site of so much loss, there is life everywhere. Featherduster worms, encrusting sponges, and coral have made the U.S.S. Arizona their home, and even in the low visibility of the harbor, the ship is still beautiful in its own way. Sea cucumbers monopolize much of the deck, and as voracious grazers, they do their part to keep the ship clean and preserved. Even a sea turtle finds refuge inside one of the officer’s quarters and gives me quite a startle when I peer into a porthole and find him next to a chandelier. 

During our dive, Andy and I are looking for any debris that has been dropped by visitors from the memorial above us. Out of respect for the gravesite and preservation of the ship, it is important to remove anything that is not part of its December 7^th history. We find two canes, a sunhat, sunglasses, as well as credit cards and hotel keys galore. At one point, we pass under the cutout in the bottom of the memorial and look up to see a myriad of faces, young and old, peering curiously at us. After having the distinctive experience of diving the U.S.S. Arizona, I’m glad to be able to remove the debris and contribute even in a small way to preserving a memorial that is so important to our history and our hearts.

 

“Something will have gone out of us as a people if we ever let the remaining wilderness be destroyed… we simply need that wild country available to us, even if we never do more than drive to its edge, and look in.”

– Wallace Stegner

This fitting quote is the last thing people view at on the boardwalk jettisoning off the Visitor’s Center of Biscayne National Park, where you are, quite literally, standing on the edge of “wild country”. In this case, it is more of a wild ocean, but this interpretive sign marks one of the furthest points into Biscayne you can travel to without a boat (unless you happen to fancy yourself an Olympic swimmer). For many, Stegner’s observation is true; even without access to the “wild” part of Biscayne, many people still enjoy relaxing or fishing off the boardwalk, seeing dolphins pass by and turtles pop up, and watching sunrises and sunsets. 

What lies beyond is not always easily or equitably accessible to the American people, even if it belongs to all. Biscayne National Park, alongside the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture (NMAAHC), is trying to change that. To start off my last week at Biscayne, I had the opportunity to join Josh Marano, Mark Vadas, and Gabrielle Miller with their Junior Scientists in the Sea (JSIS) group. Josh and Mark are archaeologists at Biscayne, and Gabrielle is an archaeologist at NMAAHC and a founder of the Slave Wrecks Project (SWP). SWP is an “international network of institutions and individuals that investigates the history of enslaved Africans across the globe, and engages with the enduring legacies of that past in the present (Slave Wrecks Project).” I get to join Gabrielle, Josh, and Mark in the classroom where they teach a course on Marine Archaeology techniques to the JSIS students. Students then go out and practice using equipment under supervision at the Mandalay wreck.

I was excited to be able to go to their workshop, since I was hearing a lot of big, scary words like photogrammetry thrown around during my time in Denver. I’m still confused, but the word is less scary, and you really shouldn’t be asking me, any one of the young people in JSIS can tell you! 

I get in some more practice with my camera while observing their training dives, and I must say the scooters looked pretty fun. Unfortunately, I suffered through the beginning of a battle with food poisoning later that day. It’s been a long time coming after my years of eating expired cheese and sun-warmed turkey sandwiches, but if you ever meet me in person, I have a horrifyingly funny story to tell you. Sadly, I had some more bad luck the next day in the diagnosis of an ear infection, which means a week of no diving and, of course, the forecast shows incredible conditions for the rest of my time at Biscayne.

The next day, I head out with the boat as support for marine debris removal on deck, and the conditions are the best since I’ve been at Biscayne. The water is unbelievably clear and calm, even way out past the bay. Even as I pretend to the rest of the team that my tears are spray from the boat, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude to even be out on the water, getting to enjoy this beautiful day.

My time in the field with Biscayne ends on a very successful turtle surveying day with Delaina Ross and Bianca Banato (all under Marine Turtle Permit MTP-25-024). If you are traumatized from my previous turtle blog, don’t fear! I have good news to report. We excavate two nests after noticing telltale depressions at the sites, which indicate hatchlings, and mark two new false crawls as well as a new nest. Both excavated nests have over 130 eggs, with the majority showing signs of successful hatching. During the first excavation, Delaina excitedly shows me the signs of a hatched egg. Compared to the snipped but still soft shells of a ghost crab predation, these shells curl where they have been ripped open and are dried out. The last nest excavation even has a hatchling stuck inside! Based on the nest data, we were hesitant to dig upon seeing the impression as it was still pretty early for a hatch date. However, Bianca’s instincts were on point, and had we waited until a later date, the hatchling still in the nest would have likely died.

And with that, I’ll end my Biscayne blogs. Maybe you are tired of Biscayne blogs three weeks in a row, so enjoy some more photos with captions. I certainly will never become tired of Biscayne and am sad to bid these wonderful people and this amazing place goodbye. However, my closing words to the mosquitoes – actually, I’ll save my supervisors from having to redact an entire paragraph. Use your imagination. If you know me, it shouldn’t be too hard.

My second week at Biscayne kicks off the derelict trap retrieval operation everyone at the office has been anticipating. This is the one week, every two years, that they can remove whatever lobster, stone crab, and blue crab traps they find. This is the only ten day period every two years during which blue crab season. For this week, and this week only, all three traps left in Biscayne National Park are illegal, because all three fishing seasons are closed. The team has been carefully recording the locations of traps for the last two years, and if they are still in place, they will know for sure that they are derelict, abandoned, or illegal. 

Monday, we also conduct some turtle surveys, collect water samples for red tide, and remove any derelict traps we spot along the way. The bay is a smooth mirror and we can see everything from the boat, right down to a little nurse shark snuffling its way through the eelgrass. The water is so clear that when I jump in to grab two traps without buoys, I can see without a mask. Pulling up older traps is like pulling up a treasure chest. They are packed with lobsters, crabs, brittle stars, and translucent baby Caribbean octopuses with eyes like opals. Seriously. They are the most amazing glittering blue orbs in an otherwise colorless little slime ball of cuteness. 

After a week of calm seas and skies, Mother Nature decided that this week of all weeks was the time to let loose. The forecast shows an onslaught of thunderstorms peppering Biscayne National Park all week. Luckily, being in Florida means it could be pouring buckets on you, but if you slung your dive buddy off the boat, they’d be under sunny skies. I’m not strong enough to throw them overboard with their steel cylinders (if you haven’t picked up by now, I have a grudge against the steel 120s), so I guess they’d be stuck in the pouring rain. After careful consideration, we head out, with a watchful eye on the radar, ready to dodge storms if needed.

Removing derelict traps is no joke. A lot of traps are weighed down with ballasts, which are concrete slabs poured into the bottom of traps to keep them on the ocean floor. Lobster traps are by far the heaviest, made out entirely of wood and concrete, and can weigh up to 70 pounds. Wet and biofouled, ours have weighed in at over 100 lbs. It usually takes two lift bags to get them to the surface. This requires careful coordination between a buddy pair to make sure they are filling each lift bag with air at the same time so that the trap rises in a controlled manner to the surface. At one dive site, Rachel Fisher, Amanda Rivard, and I follow a line of traps for a couple hundred yards, but for what feels like miles as we kick into a strong current.

As soon as you think you are exhausted from digging broken traps out of the sand, swimming against strong current, and untangling heavy lines fouled with sponges, algae, and (my favorite) fire coral, you find yourself up on deck hauling in trap after 70 freaking pound trap. Pretty quickly you find yourself excited to get back in the water, and so the cycle continues. Back at the park headquarters, all the debris needs to be sorted, weighed, and taken to dumpsters. It’s challenging work, but I enjoy getting to be with a team of upbeat, funny, and motivated people. While having mostly female teams can still be a rare occurrence in many scientific fields, Biscayne’s divers set amazing examples to look up to, and they kick some serious butt. I’m thrilled to get to work and learn alongside them.

While I admit I spend a good part of my dives staring at the bottom and cursing traps through my reg, Biscayne National Park refuses to be ignored. On one dive, loaded up with a plethora of lift bags, clips, and mesh bags, we descend onto a beautiful reef with a friendly turtle, nurse shark, and even a moray eel! If my internship ended the next day, I would be content with all I saw! Even more exciting is our second dive. Amanda Rivard picks out a reef patch for some scouting work that has an average depth of around 15ft. At first, it seems devoid of hard corals but is a beautiful garden of purple and orange gorgons and sponges. Then, as we hit the end of the patch and start returning on the West side, I notice Rivard freaking out.

My concern turns to amazement as I see the staghorn coral, Acropora cervicornis (Acer), littering the side of the reef patch. Rivard, Delaina, and I all look at each other in disbelief. Seeing healthy Acer in South Florida is now rare, as the compounding effects of extremely warm temperatures in the summer and disease outbreaks reduce whatever populations are left to deeper reefs (National Park Service). Observing this coral growing pleasantly in about 12ft of water is mind-blowing and so exciting. When we get on the boat, Rivard immediately contacts the restoration team. These corals are large enough to spawn, meaning they could add genetic diversity and heat resilience to the coral restoration nursery.

It’s easy to fall into a rut of only seeing environmental destruction in the field and feel pretty pessimistic about the future of our natural world. Getting to see this resilient coral, which has seemingly defied two recent heat waves, hurricanes, and the pressures of marine debris from fishing, gives me hope. Apparently, I give the Biscayne team hope because they joke they should start taking me on each dive as a lucky charm after our day of turtles, sharks, coral, and more.

On the last day of trap removals, we head out on the Bay as offshore weather is a little too spicy for diving. We have a tough tide window to work with, and end up doing a lot of wading to get to traps too shallow to reach with the boat. At one point, I reach to grab a trap buoy, and end up back-flopped, belly up, staring at some clouds while my legs are bent at 90 degrees, disappearing in mud up to my knees. I was hoping no one saw, but when the water had drained from my ears and I pulled the sargassum off my head, I found an entire boat of people laughing at me. The wind is strong, and Delaina and Shelby rise to the challenge of keeping our flat-bottom boat (fondly nicknamed the “hockey puck”) from sliding all over the surface as we try to pull up to traps. I get to meet beloved long-time volunteers Suzy Pappas (Coastal Cleanup Corporation) and Frank Reyes (Mangrove Sasquatch), who also each coordinate beach cleanups and community outreach events in their own time. The stewardship that they and other volunteers show to Biscayne National Park and the surrounding area is a testament to how dedicated they are and how beloved the park is.

By the end of derelict trap week, we have removed over 85 traps, 5300+ pounds of debris, and approximately 2.6 miles of trap line. Countless stone crabs, blue crabs, lobsters, and other bycatch like nurse sharks were saved from derelict traps. To be clear, the fishing community was not being robbed of its dinner! Most of these traps were super old (besides being illegal) and would have never been found again. One of the teams was also able to save a sea turtle entangled in trap line, highlighting the danger of this marine debris and the importance of removing it.

At the end of the week, with the little free time I should have used to sleep, I’m able to connect with the 2025 OWUSS REEF Intern, Imogen Parker. I attend a coral outplanting workshop with the organization I.Care in the morning and then join her on a boat ride to one of I.Care’s sites. Getting to carefully clean algae off the outplanted coral bases was a peaceful end to a strenuous week of diving. The divemaster literally had to take the toothbrush out of my hand to tell I was done with my site. I personally think there were a few more pieces of algae that needed some attention. Finished with our sites, Imogen and I had fun getting to goof off together, and we ended International Women’s Dive Day with some fish tacos.

The first thing I learned at Biscayne National Park is that I am, in fact, not faster than a mosquito. After being picked up from the Miami airport and driven to Park Housing by Park Biologist and DSO Shelby Moneysmith (on her day off, too, because she is the best), I decided to go for a short run after a couple of cramped hours on the plane. It’s a short story and was an even shorter run because the mosquitoes ate me alive. 

They become an ever-present part of my time at Biscayne and relentlessly torment anyone caught outside. Shelby says they are worse because of a recent week of rain, but I think she is trying to make me feel better about slapping and swatting while everyone else stoically endures the feasting. I try my best to ignore them, but by the evening, my face, neck, ears, and hair are crusty with mats of dried, smeared mosquitoes. 

Luckily, most of the days at Biscayne are spent out on the water, a mosquito-free paradise of turquoise blue. Compared to the cold, low-visibility waters of the Pacific Northwest, where I started my Scientific Diving journey, Biscayne is paradise. Looking down at coral patches from 40 feet above on the boat is unbelievable. My first day at the park, I get in four dives observing Shelby Moneysmith, Ana Zangroniz, and Amanda Rivard as they do fish ID Reef Visual Census (RVC) surveys. I also assist in marine debris removal and scouting for derelict lobster traps. 

Biscayne National Park is unique in that it is one of the only National Parks to allow fishing, both recreational and commercial, within its waters (National Park Service). This means it has unique conservation issues, such as ropes, lines, and traps left behind from fishing. These items often foul up with algae and encrusting sponges where they sink to the ocean floor and can smother, tangle, or rip up precious coral habitats, especially during rough weather. At one site alone, we removed over 100 pounds of line.

Next week will be the only week of the year when it is illegal to leave out lobster, stone crab, and blue crab traps. Blue crab traps are only out of season for 10 days every other year. This means park staff basically only have one week every two years where they can go out and determine, which traps are derelict (forgotten, lost, left out “accidentally”) or illegal, and can do a large-scale removal.

The next day, I head out with Delaina and Bianca, both Scientific Divers through Florida SeaGrant, on a project that is in collaboration with Biscayne National Park. The goal for the day is to find and remove any derelict lobster or stone crab traps. Until Friday, all blue crab traps are still legal. We spot two buoys right away and notice both are missing identification tags, which means they are illegal. However, neither seems derelict (missing parts of the trap indicating it is no longer/can no longer be used). Since this is more in the domain of park law enforcement and not within our jurisdiction, we put the traps back but drop a pin so we can return if needed. 

The rather quick start to our day is misleading, and we spend the next couple of hours carefully navigating around the Featherbeds, which are shallow, sandy shoals. We scan the clear water for anything that could be trap material since lobsters and crabs like to burrow into the sandy banks of the shoals where they drop into deeper waters, making this a popular trapping spot. To Delaina and Bianca’s surprise, we don’t find anything. This could potentially mean recreational and commercial fishers are respecting the laws more than in previous years, or it could mean my trap-spotting abilities are subpar. I’d like to think it’s the first explanation.

Finally, we spot a buoy off in the distance, and upon closer inspection, pull up a stone crab trap. Inside are four stone crabs and the remains of many more. If stone crabs are stuck in traps together, they will eventually cannibalize each other, another reason why derelict traps are destructive and should be removed.

Based on the number of claws we pulled from the trap, Delaina estimates that at least three crabs had been cannibalized, and the smallest of the four had already shown fresh wounds, indicating early attempts. It was a pretty good feeling to return them to the ocean, even if this included scooping them up and then a less than gentle toss overboard to avoid their large claws. 

Thursday, I head out again with Delaina and Bianca for turtle surveys which include looking for signs of crawling, new nests, and predation. We also try to pick up what trash we can, because the beaches are covered in it. Rope is tangled in the thick mats of sargassum that wash up on shore, and anything from buoys, beer bottles, and shoes to makeup containers and coolers is littered along the coast. We squelch our way through mud of a particularly fragrant odor and try to weave through mangrove branches that have a hankering to slap us in the face. The mosquitoes… well, I digress, words can’t do them justice. Thankfully, I get to wear a bug jacket, and the mesh keeps them from hungrily chewing at my eyeballs like usual. It quickly becomes my favorite piece of clothing that I’ve never owned. 

Bianca and I eventually come across a marked nest with a few eggshells strewn about. She excitedly grabs them to verify hatched turtles, and her face drops as she points out incision marks on the leathery, shriveled material. She explains that this is a sign of predation from ghost crabs. The mood turns somber as we excavate the rest of the nest and find evidence of 107 eggs, all likely predated by ghost crabs. It’s a huge disappointment, especially when it’s such a large nest and had the potential of producing many offspring that could return to the beach and lay their own eggs. As we solemnly put the nest back and record our data, the scene in front of me is bleak. Even if every single turtle in this nest had hatched and survived predation, they would have needed to navigate their way around and over the mounds of trash on the beach to make it to the ocean. The haunting scene of bleached bones and carapaces, barely discernible between the bottles and buoys, tells the story of adults who returned only to die on these beaches.

It’s easy to jump to conclusions. Well, why doesn’t the park keep its beaches cleaner? Why don’t they pick up the trash? The simple and honest answer is that they do. They spend countless hours navigating miles of beaches, braving the heat and mosquitoes, regularly picking up hundreds of pounds of trash both in and out of the water. And so do numerous volunteers, participating in Biscayne National Park’s Beach Cleanup Program. The truth is that beach cleanups aren’t going to save the turtles when trash, specifically, plastic, continues to stream in from users of the park and beyond. Curbing the amount of plastic that ends up in the ocean is the only true solution to this problem. But that includes a community and cultural shift in behavior and values, and realistically, beach cleanups are Biscayne’s strongest tool at the moment. 

On a happier note, some baby raccoons await us at the dock. As Delaina expertly guides the 27ft Munson into the park slip, a huddle of people at the next boat over draws our attention. After some investigation, the most adorable bleary-eyed raccoons gaze up at us from their nest of rope in the anchor hold. Their mom watches us unconcerned under the shade of the nearby dock ramp, escaping the blistering heat.

Friday, I get to head out with the coral restoration team to observe their surveys and get some practice with the camera rig Brett Seymour from SRC sent me with. Before I left, he told me it was idiot proof and while I like a good challenge, I felt this wasn’t the time or place. This is my first dive with the steel 120s that everyone uses at Biscayne. I’ve been intimidated to go near one so far, probably because I’m imagining a scenario where I go to pick it up in front of the team and it doesn’t budge. Thankfully, I make it into the water, steel tank, camera, and all with no mishaps, and then proceed to have the longest dive I’ve ever been on at 163 minutes. The restoration plot is shallow, an average of 18ft deep, and I watch (very unhelpfully) as the coral team sets out many transect tapes and surveys the site. 

With both the cat and coral surviving my presence, we stop at Boca Chita Lighthouse to eat lunch and then go back to headquarters to finish up the day. I walk back to the housing, more than a little hungry, contemplating whether iguana tastes good and how fast my first week at Biscayne has flown by. Turns out I’m not fast enough to catch them anyway (only to say hi, I swear), and they all skitter safely away, probably on their way to invade the continent.