This week I left the warm coral reefs of the Caribbean for a five-day Kelp Forest Monitoring cruise in California’s Channel Islands National Park. After some 23 hours of traveling I made it to the park headquarters in Ventura Harbor, where marine ecologist Josh Sprague met me and led me to the Sea Ranger II, the 58-foot boat where I would spend the night and then the following five days. A quick update on the stand-down: the new dive policy has been written and approved, and now individual parks are in the process of adjusting their dive programs to be compliant with the new policy, resubmitting their qualifications, and completing the type of updates and rewrites of emergency protocols that I was working on in DRTO. Fortunately for me, the Channel Islands’ dive program has been extremely on top of this, and was the first in the Pacific-West region to be stood up (Park service lingo differs slightly from dating lingo, I’ve found). One hundred twenty-four pages of dive policy and a 65-question test later, I was ready to dive with them.

On Monday morning, I awoke to the rest of the crew beginning to load the boat. I met marine biologist and Regional Dive Officer David Kushner, biological technician and Park Dive Officer Kelly Moore, boat captain Keith Duran, and biological technicians James Grunden, Mykle Hoban (a former OWUSS AAUS intern), Jaime McClain, and Doug Simpson. To my utter joy, they were filling the boat’s refrigerator and cabinets with all the most delicious Trader Joe’s snacks I could possibly desire. Loading and logistics complete, we were off for a week of intensive kelp forest surveys.

A native Californian, I’m partial to foggy seascapes, and I was immediately taken with the Channel Islands in their understated loveliness. On land, the islands offer rich cultural history and biodiversity, with endemism (when species are unique to the islands or even an individual island) comparable to that of the Galapagos. On this boat-based mission, however, I only viewed the terrestrial resources from afar: we were there for what was below the surface. The marine life here is particularly interesting because these islands lie on the convergence point of cold currents from the Arctic and warm currents from Mexico. These currents bring together warm- and cold-water species to create high biodiversity, and their mixing churns up nutrients from the deep ocean, a process called upwelling, which supports a large biomass.

Five of the eight Channel Islands and the waters out to one nautical mile from their shores were designated as a National Park in 1980 with a specific view toward long term monitoring. The Kelp Forest Monitoring (KFM) project began in 1981, and is the longest running monitoring program in the National Park Service. They started with thirteen permanent sites, and now regularly survey 33, taking data on the size and abundance of certain indicator species at various levels of the food chain. The sites represent a broad range of temperatures and levels of protection. The state of California controls the marine resources and allows fishing within the park, but eleven no-take Marine Reserves within the park boundaries were established in 2002. The KFM project added sites inside and outside these reserves to assess their efficacy. Their data helps inform the state’s management decisions, and demonstrate how policies affect the marine ecosystem. What’s especially cool about the KFM project is that it provides long-term fishery-independent data. Most of the information we have about fish populations comes from studies of what fishermen catch, like the creel surveys I did in Biscayne. Fishery-independent studies, while harder to perform, provide a much more accurate and comprehensive picture of what exists in the marine ecosystems, as opposed to what fishermen are targeting in response to demand. Dave also explained to me the value a multi-decade dataset, a rarity since the usual span of a funded study or PhD project is only a few years. Evaluating trends over so many years has yielded some surprises. What park scientists thought they understood about weather patterns and population trends is changing as the broader view reveals larger trends that a five- or even ten-year snapshot would fail to capture. To continue this legacy of rigorous data collection, the KFM team goes out every other week from May through October to complete surveys on all 33 sites.

That first afternoon, we pulled up to the closest island, Anacapa, and jumped in at Landing Cove. I was assigned 5m quadrants with Kelly, for which we swim along either side of a 100m transect and count any giant kelp, invasive sargassum, and two indicator species of sea star, giant-spined and ochre, within one meter of the transect line, tallying them in five meter increments. When we’re done, we go back and do Macosystis (giant kelp) counts, which involve measuring the largest diameter of the holdfast and counting the number of stipes (like stems) present at 1m height for 100 total individuals. All around us, other members of the team surveyed the benthic substrate and the abundance and size of fish, sea stars, urchins, sponges, and other indicator species.

We had calm winds and relatively flat water, so below it was beautifully clear. I’ve heard kelp fronds compared to stained glass, and light filtering through the kelp into the hush of the water did evoke a cathedral-like sense of sacred. California’s giant sequoias have the same effect. The kelp forest has a more reserved color scheme than the riotous Caribbean coral reefs, which makes the occasional bright colors—the vivid purple of sea urchins, the deep orange of the garibaldi—all the more striking. I was enthralled by the minutiae all around the transect: it was incredible to be diving among the creatures that had inhabited the touch tanks of my childhood.

Calm weather meant great conditions, and also that we went to the more exposed sites and the northern islands, which most visitors never see. I was thrilled to be so lucky, but it did mean we went to all of the coldest sites. Despite the four years I spent in Boston specifically training for situations like this, I was hopelessly chilly. People were kind enough to loan me extra gear, but even in a 7mm wetsuit, two vests, two hoods, and thick gloves, my teeth were chattering on the regulator by the end of each dive. This was partially because the team goes on extremely long dives to collect as much data as possible. I’m used to dives between 30-50 minutes, and here they were often above 80. This makes each dive incredibly productive, but I definitely wasn’t as useful a contributor as the dives went on and I lost sensation in my fingers

I’ve been getting some questions about how we collect data underwater, and it still blows my mind each time so it’s well worth some description here. We record data on UNDERWATER PAPER. I haven’t actually asked what it’s made of yet, but it maintains most of the properties of ordinary paper while being completely waterproof (and slightly shiny). The paper can be attached to clipboards with rubber bands, as we did in St. John, or slid into a frame of plastic slates and secured with wing nuts, as is customary in DRTO and the Channel Islands. The preferred writing implement for underwater science is the kind of pencil you may remember from early elementary school with several plastic segments of graphite that can be pulled out and then inserted in the top of the pencil to advance the next segment. Regular mechanical pencils rely on metal springs that quickly become useless in salt water, so these all-plastic instruments are premier (Their main weakness is that the loss of a single segment renders the entire pencil useless, but this can be mitigated with a spare pencil or a stray urchin spine). These pencils are secured to the slates with rubber tubing (which is much more reliable than trying to stick it in a BCD pocket or just holding it, which is how I probably doubled the Virgin Islands National Park’s pencil expenditures for next quarter). One of the most important inventory decisions scientists must make is which pattern to select for their pencil orders. This is also an important choice on each dive. I was particularly attached to a pencil festooned with purple whales in St. John, although I would settle for the one covered in $100 bills. In the Channel Islands I was always happy to get a slate with a glitter pencil, but wasn’t going to complain about puppies or bumblebees.

On subsequent dives and sites I put segmented pencil to underwater paper for more 5m quadrants and Macrosystis counts, diving with Dave, Josh, and Mykle. On the second day, diving off Santa Rosa, Dave showed me another survey type, Artificial Recruitment Modules, or ARMs. Many kelp forest critters, especially juveniles, live under rocks and in crevices, but it’s difficult to survey them in a controlled way since different divers might have different rock-turning capabilities. By creating artificial rocks with halved cinder blocks, the KFM team has created a systematic invasive survey. They stack these cinder blocks in wire mesh boxes, leaving a “courtyard” in the middle, and periodically turn each over, take all the indicator species out, measure and record them, and put them back. This is useful for tracking recruitment, the rate of juvenile individuals reaching maturity. Opening the ARM was Christmas for kelp nerds. Dave turned over the first block to reveal an octopus guarding her clutch of eggs, and each new block was crawling with brittle stars, urchins, sea stars, and the occasional tiny crabs that would huffily scuttle away. Juvenile fish cowered in the center, and larger fish lurked nearby in case we overlooked anything tasty. The site’s resident harbor seal, whom Keith has nicknamed Chester the Molester, also stopped by to oversee the proceedings. There were far too many study animals to measure during the dive, so we brought our stash to the boat, where it joined several other similarly stuffed mesh bags from the other ARMs at the site. On deck, everyone grabbed a chair and a set of calipers, and for the next several hours we grabbed urchin after urchin, sea star after sea star and called out their measurements to the furiously recording data collectors (this recording was executed on standard land paper).

On Wednesday evening we reached San Miguel, the northernmost and least accessible island. Here the kelp was so thick that we were diving in near darkness, and the water was freezing! On deck we stay warm with a hot water hose that we regularly stick down our wetsuits (boat norms differ slightly from normal norms, I’ve found), huge fleece-lined parkas, and lots of hot tea and cocoa. A buddy team is usually in the water at any given time while we’re completing a site, so there’s a fairly continuous rotation of dive preparation and dive recovery. For one of the surveys they use a full-face mask with surface supplied-air and a microphone system, so the diver can stay down longer and dictate data to someone recording on the surface (also done on land paper). We bustle around donning gear and passing around the hose to the constant sounds of Darth Vader breathing and rapid categorizations of the benthic habitat.

When we’re not diving, we’re generally sleeping or eating (The bounteous, nay, Brobdingnagian supply of snacks was defenseless against our onslaught). In the evenings there’s usually a fair bit of data processing and discussion before we eat dinner as a group. Members of the team switch off cooking for everyone, and their culinary abilities were uniformly outstanding. In transit we might have time to read on the fly deck or in the cabin, and one night we had a screening of Wedding Crashers, enjoyed with brownies à la mode.

On the last day, we had time for a few dives before heading back to shore. We anchored at Anacapa once again, but surveyed a site outside of the no-take reserves. The difference was remarkable. On this site, all we could see was urchin barren, a classic example of the cascading consequences of overfishing. With the removal of sheepshead and other fish that prey on sea urchins, the urchin populations exploded and grazed all of the kelp. Rather than forest, here was grassland, although the grass, on closer inspection, was the waving arms of millions of brittle stars. The water was clear and much warmer (60°! I could almost forgo the second hood!) (Almost.) and the surveys were quick with no kelp to count. Mykle and I brought some calipers to measure as many sea stars as we could, while sea lions cruised by in clear hopes of making mischief.

The cruise was all too short, but I was also looking forward to a family visit. In another bout of fortuitous timing, my return to Southern California was a few days before my younger brother’s move-in day for his freshman year at USC. I had a great weekend with the family exploring the Getty Museum and Venice Beach before braving the cattle round up of lanyards and shower caddies and frazzled parents that is moving into a freshman dorm. I bid farewell to the new college student and the new empty nesters, and set off to spend the next month in Hawaii.

Thanks so much to the KFM team for letting me tag along this week, feeding me handsomely, and loaning me all sorts of extra gear, not least of which the underwater camera I used to take all these pictures (The SRC camera is back in Denver for repairs, since it turns out my flooding troubles were not as over as I hoped. Luckily the camera is fine, but Brett is being kind enough to service the housing for me!). I had such a wonderful time, and will definitely be making a return trip or many to the Channel Islands.

Conveniently (presciently, even) timed for the dive stand-down, I was scheduled with a land interlude this week: back in the Virgin Islands for sea turtle patrolling in Buck Island Reef National Monument, off St. Croix.

The turtle project on Buck Island has been a continuous effort since 1988 to identify and monitor all the nesting females on the island. Each female is identified by tags on all four flippers and a microchip PIT (passive integrated transponder) tag, as well as photos and a biopsy for genetic data. The goal is to monitor all turtle activity on the island every night, which provides a comprehensive picture of individual females’ nesting patterns within a season, as well as long-term trends in where turtles nest and how often. Researchers must patrol the island’s beaches from sunset to sunrise during nesting season, recording the location and date of each female’s nests and false crawls. No one can leave the island if turtles are still on the beach, so the shift goes from 6pm to anywhere between 4am and 8am. The Buck Island scientists and interns “embrace the darkness” for a truly brutal twelve week research season, and I was joining them around week three.

The afternoon I arrived in St. Croix, Buck Island biologist Ian Lundgren greeted me in his beflamed pickup truck and briefed me on turtle protocol. I had lived with Ian for the first week of fish blitz on St. John and he had regaled us all with stories and pictures of his beach pup Pedey, with whom, despite considerable hype, I immediately fell in love. I decided to jump right in with turtle patrols, so after a quick walk for Pedey we headed to the marina, where I met interns Sarah Steele and Gabe Lundgren and volunteer Sara Sperber. We loaded the boat with water, turtle data sheets, and radios before heading to Buck Island, about 1.5 miles away. Everyone works a rotating schedule to avoid full nocturnal insanity, so in the subsequent nights I also worked with biological technician Clay Pollock and interns Tessa Code and Alex Gulick.

The first step each evening is to go around to all the boats anchored on the island’s west beach, a popular tourist spot. We explain that turtles nest on this beach and ask any boaters planning to stay past sunset to use low lights and not play loud music after dark to avoid disturbing any turtles or hatchlings. People were generally excited and interested to hear about the turtles and happy to dim their lights.

We then anchor on the NPS dock, which is roughly in the middle of the island’s stretch of beach. This dock is our camp for the night. Far too hardcore for beanbag chairs, the Buck Island team curls up on the concrete for their hour between patrols. Just like in the Dry Tortugas, we patrol the beaches every half hour, but since Buck is much larger, it requires a three-person rotation. The schedule is two hours on patrol, one hour off, but the person on break is often called to assist if there are multiple turtles on the beach or a patrol must be finished while someone does a turtle work up. Turtles that are new to the beach or haven’t received their full array of tags and tests must be fully poked, punctured, and measured, and since we only work on them in the window between when they start laying eggs and when they leave the beach, things can get hairy with many turtles on the island. A researcher might spend several hours running back and forth between digging turtles waiting for them to start laying, and then must choreograph reinforcements to ensure that each turtle receives the proper attention without any lapse in beach patrols.

 

Every park and my few previous sea turtle experiences have had different policies on acceptable turtle decorum, and Buck Island is by far the most hands-on. This type of data collection—measurements, reading flipper tags—requires getting up close and personal with the turtles. Reading a turtle’s flipper tags often involves crawling on one’s belly behind her, grabbing a rear flipper, and reaching up to its base where the tag is located. The turtle doesn’t seem to notice if this is done while she’s moving said flipper, which means identification is a sandy scramble. Attaching or replacing tags requires the same crawling and flipper grabbing, but with pliers. The biopsy entails punching out a small tissue sample at the edge of a flipper, not an easy task while the turtle is moving. We also measure the turtle’s carapaces (shells), which for larger turtles more or less means giving them a hug, and for very large turtles both a hug and a straddle. Identifying each turtle is essential for data collection and is to be achieved at all costs. If an unidentified turtle makes moves toward the water (usually this means a false crawl) we do everything we can to keep her on the beach long enough for someone to read a tag. On my first night I had to sit on a green to slow her progress as Sarah scrabbled for her flippers.

The team takes the project a step beyond data collection to actively ensure nesting activities in optimal locations. If a turtle is having difficulty digging near vegetation, they’ll cut roots and even help dig to aid her nesting. If a turtle is digging in a suboptimal spot, perhaps too close to the water or on top of previous nests, they’ll discourage her by sneaking rocks or coconuts in the hole. Upon feeling these obstacles the turtle will generally abandon the spot and try again. If a turtle has already started laying eggs in a bad location, they’ll collect the eggs as she lays them or dig them up after she’s done and rebury them in a better spot. They’ll even fix false crawls: they’ve discovered that curling up in front of a water-bound turtle and pretending to be a rock activates some deeply ingrained turtle thought process that directs her turn around and try to nest again.

Turtles may also require redirection if they get disoriented in the vegetation. One night I spent almost two hours monitoring a green as she started and abandoned body pit after body pit (the precursor to a nest), crawling deep into the bushes, before abruptly and purposefully taking off toward the hills. Calling upon my training, I got in front of her and did my best rock impression, but to no avail: she advanced inexorably, tank-like, and I was forced to switch to evasive tactics that were almost entirely successful. I radioed for reinforcements, and Clay rushed to my assistance. He employed more advanced techniques like tickling her face and shoulders to discourage her forward progress, which she bore with an exasperated sigh and staunchly held her course. We then had to resort to forcible turning maneuvers. Clay estimates that she was about 350 lbs, and in the low, dense vegetation it was difficult to get any sort of leverage. She fought against us, surging further inland every time we pushed her back. It was clear she was getting tired and stressed, and I grew increasingly concerned that we would drive her to irreversible entanglement. Finally, after over an hour of struggling, we managed to shove her into a clear pathway and she laboriously but steadily made her way back into the water.

It should be noted that all of this patrolling and crawling through vegetation in low red light carries the risk of contact with the Virgin Islands’ dozens of species of extremely spiny and/or caustic plants. “Hey, how’s that rash?” is standard greeting among the interns.

On another memorable night, a leatherback came up to nest. The leatherback nesting season is much earlier—this is when we expect leatherback hatchlings to emerge—so this was a rare treat. She was tiny by leatherback standards, likely very young, which may explain why she was digging her belated nest barely clear of the berm, where it would be washed away as soon as the tides rose. We would need to relocate the nest, so Sarah and I donned rubber gloves and stealthily removed the cue ball eggs from the shoulder-deep nest, working as quickly as we could to get them all before she started burying them. Sarah had to sit on the turtle to take her measurements, fielding slaps from her humongous front flippers as she covered the nest. We brought our stash of eggs further up the beach to rebury them while the leatherback made sand angels as she struggled to find the water a few feet away. The sound of her snorts and groans was incredible: this must be how dinosaurs breathed. The nest successfully relocated, Tessa, Sarah, and I took a moment to appreciate this awesome occasion. Turtle selfies may have occurred. The leatherback stayed on the beach for some time, seemingly unable to identify the water even as it lapped over her. After turning back toward the land a few more times, she made her exit as the sun rose. Exhausted, we returned to St. Croix to sleep away the daylight.

 

Time on the island consisted mostly of sleeping, with late lunches and occasional trips into town for dinner for those with a scheduled night off. Since I was living in different park housing than the other interns, I was given custody of another government vehicle (the G-ride), with which I was entrusted to transport myself around the island. Given my dismal directional sense and chronic left/right confusion I was initially apprehensive about navigating unfamiliar streets on the left side of the road, but I adjusted surprisingly quickly, aided in no small part by finding the local reggae station (WSTX FM 100, the Soul of the Caribbean). Successfully making my way home at five in the morning after the first night of turtles may be my greatest achievement to date.

This concludes my Caribbean tour; I’m headed to the Pacific. Thanks so much to Ian and Clay for letting me tag along on patrols this week, and to the amazing interns for their delightful company and for driving me to the airport, twice.