I arrived in American Samoa, my last stop of the internship, the night of Monday, September 30^th. The next morning, the federal government shut down. Forbidden to enter the park, use park boats or equipment, or even enter the park office, I had to instead enjoy a two-week vacation on this beautiful island in the South Pacific.

Had Congress agreed on the budget, I would have been helping the American Samoa National Park marine resources team address an outbreak of Crown of Thorns (COTs for short), coral-eating sea stars. Although native here in the Indo-Pacific, occasional population explosions can devastate coral reefs. Historical data suggests that such outbreaks occur naturally every hundred or so years, giving reefs time to recover, but recently outbreaks have occurred across the Pacific every twenty, ten, or even five years, with detrimental consequences for coral reefs already staggering under the burden of pollution, overfishing, ocean acidification, and ocean warming. I had learned about the role of COTs in “natural” destruction of coral reefs from a particularly formative episode of Kratt’s Kreatures, but it wasn’t until now that I found out that there is indeed an anthropogenic contribution to COT outbreaks. COT larvae fare best in plankton bloom conditions, which have been happening more frequently due to increased nutrient input to coastal waters from agricultural and wastewater runoff. Three or four years after a large plankton bloom, COTs reach maturity and a huge outbreak overwhelms the corals. In an attempt to rescue American Samoa’s reefs, the NPS and other natural resource agencies have been focusing on COT removal for the past several weeks. They kill them by injecting them with sodium bisulfate, which disrupts their internal pH balance. So far these agencies have killed thousands of COTs in crucial sites.

With the government shut down, all COT removal activity was put on hold. This was distressing because each day we weren’t removing COTs meant the loss of corals that could take over a hundred years to grow back (if they can recover at all, given additional stressors like warming and acidification). It’s sobering to consider that our two-week government shut down will have consequences on the scale of decades and even centuries, as far away as American Samoa.

The furlough crew made the best of the situation by reveling in the natural resources American Samoa offers outside of the national park. I stayed with NPS Marine Ecologist Tim Clark, the island’s Chief Instigator of Adventure, and merely by waking up each morning and agreeing to whatever he had planned, I managed to fill the days with hiking, snorkeling, kayaking, diving, and general island exploring.

One fun and educational excursion was a tour of the NOAA weather station. American Samoa is home to one of four baseline observatories for parameters like atmospheric carbon dioxide; its fellows are in Barrow, Alaska; Mauna Loa, Hawaii; and the South Pole. It’s from these stations that we get estimates of greenhouse gas concentrations in the atmosphere, which recently made headlines when CO₂ hit 400ppm. I’ve seen the Keeling Curve (link to http://keelingcurve.ucsd.edu/)  in every one of my environmental science classes, but had never heard of the station in American Samoa. Station Chief Jesse Milton was still at work, so he gave us a tour of the instruments and sampling that goes on at the station.

Other highlights included kayak expeditions to explore caves and fun snorkeling sites, a game of island golf, and checking out a flying fox roost at sunset. The National Park was created largely to protect these fruit bats, the only native mammals on the island. We saw both species: Pteropus tonganus and Pteropus samoensis.

Diving in American Samoa was fantastic. This was my first time diving in the southern hemisphere, and I was thrilled to see so much coral: unbelievably diverse, and the colonies were enormous. I was also particularly excited about the giant clams and anemonefish, which I had never before seen in the wild. Our diving adventures included persuading a local ferry driver to drop us off mid-ride so we could dive around Aunu’u island (it’s not everywhere that you can book a $4 dive boat!), and diving via kayak, towing them as we drifted. Tim’s neighbor Nick Saumweber, a soil conservationist with the USDA Natural Resources Conservation Service, took advantage of the time off to complete his advanced open water diving certification with Tim, and I tagged along for his certification dives. I was especially eager to join the night dive, for which we left directly from the beach across the street from their front yards. We peeked at wide-eyed squirrelfish and parrotfish asleep in coral cubbies, listening for theremin echoes of whalesong.

Many thanks to Tim for hosting and entertaining me for two weeks! Thanks also to Nick Saumweber, Alice Lawrence, Wendy Cover, Mark MacDonald, Adam Miles, Christine Bucchianeri, and the rest of the Palagi crew for spending time with me, joining our adventures, and making my island furlough experience so fun and memorable.

I returned to the mainland for a brief freshwater interlude at Crater Lake National Park. At the Medford airport I hopped into my rented VW beetle and together we traversed the Oregon countryside, leaving farmland for forest to reach the lake by mid-afternoon. The research boat had already gone out for the day, so after getting settled in the quaint and charming Naturalist House, I drove the 33-mile crater rim, checking out various hikes and viewpoints. Returning home after sunset, I was pleasantly surprised to find USGS ecologist Bob Hoffman, his wife and all-star volunteer Susan, and USGS fisheries biologist Mike Heck in the house with dinner on the table. They’re from the Corvalis research group and are continuing a long-term dataset on Crater Lake, and I would be working with them to collect water samples the next day.

The next morning, we all reported to the ranger station, ready for a day out on the water. Aquatic ecologist Mark Buktenica, fisheries biologist Scott Girdner, and biological technician Drew Denlinger were packing up sampling gear, and we piled into the park van and drove to the Cleetwood Cove trail. The park does have a dive program, but they’ve finished diving for the season, and I was actually joining them for their final days of fieldwork for the year. Although I’ve heard it’s incredible to dive in Crater Lake’s perfectly clear waters, I was grateful we weren’t diving this week: the forecast for the day was 35 degrees and raining! As we hiked down the trail, the one legal means of access to the caldera wall, the clouds started moving in. We boarded the RV Neuston, the park’s research boat, and set out for a day of water quality sampling. We tied off to the permanent weather buoy in the middle of the lake and began to set up the sampling instruments. Clouds and fog poured over the rim of the caldera and across the surface of the water, shrouding Wizard Island in mist. Famously sapphire, today the lake was pewter. Crater Lake was a mid-game addition to my schedule, and I had only packed clothing for tropical climes. Fortunately they had survival suits and bomber jackets on the boat, since my six layers of t-shirts and assorted dive gear weren’t quite cutting it.

We collected water for sampling with niskin bottles, just as I had done in Kalaupapa. They collect water at depths ranging from 0m to 300m by attaching open bottles to a line, which is raised and lowered with a crane and winch. The bottles are set up so that by attaching a weight to each bottle, one can send down one messenger weight to trigger the shallowest bottle to close and release its weight, creating a chain reaction to close each bottle at its designated depth.   From the niskin bottles we collected water samples in specific bottles to measure parameters like dissolved oxygen content, nutrient contents, and primary productivity levels. In order to measure primary productivity (essentially photosynthesis), we collected water in both clear bottles and identical bottles that had been blacked out with electrical tape. Radioactive carbon-14 is added to each bottle, and then the bottles are put on a line at their original depths and floated in the lake for four hours before being placed in an opaque box and brought to the lab for testing. The idea is that the black bottles will block light and therefore photosynthesis, so only respiration will occur in those bottles. Both respiration and photosynthesis will occur in the clear bottles. In the lab, they can measure the uptake of the C14 tracer, and, by “subtracting” the black bottle from the clear bottle, approximate primary production. Sampling complete, we filled our water bottles with Crater Lake’s clear and clean water, collected at 300m. It’s too early to confirm reports of its life-lengthening properties, but it certainly was cold and delicious.

Bob, Mike, Mark and I then set off in a smaller boat to take stream samples. They’re collecting long-term water quality data from a few of the streams that feed the lake, comparing streams at varying distances from the visitors center and lodge on the crater rim. So far, Bob and Mike told me, they haven’t seen much of an effect of the center and lodge, but keeping tabs on the streams will allow them to address any potential pollution. At the end of the day we hiked back up the caldera, and as we drove back to the station, spotted patches of the first snow of the season.

The next day, Mike, Scott, and the Hoffmans stayed in the lab to process the water samples, while Mark, Drew, and I packed up the boat for zooplankton tows. They do vertical tows, raising and lowering a fine mesh net through 20 and 40m increments, down to 200m. As with the niskin bottles, sending a weight down the line triggers the net to close, so they can sample through, for example, 160-200m without collecting any more plankton on the way up. Crater Lake’s clear waters are indicative of low productivity, but we found a surprising amount of goop (scientific term), especially at the 40-60m layer. Yesterday a distant memory, the weather was sunny and clear, wisps of clouds reflecting in the absurdly blue water.

Since this was the last field excursion of the season, we also stopped at the dock on Wizard Island to collect gear and equipment to bring back up the trail. The park service has a storage facility on the island that also serves as a dive locker, so we brought the niskin bottles in to stay through the winter, and packed up dive gear and tanks to take back to the ranger station.

It was a brief visit, but well worth the opportunity to spend time in this spectacularly beautiful park. It was a pleasure to meet and work with Mark, Scott, Drew, Bob, Susan, and Mike—thank you all so much for everything.

My final week in Kalaupapa went by all too quickly. Sly, Raf and I spent the weekend hiking around the Kauhako crater rim and snorkeling in the harbor. We searched for ancient Hawaiian petroglyphs allegedly hidden along the crater rim (unsuccessful) and nudibranchs in the corals just outside the pier (much more so). After volleyball, we headed to the tiny settlement bar for a lively game of hearts with Uncle Pali.

Maggie Sogin, a PhD student from UH Manoa, joined us for the week. She’s studying coral metabolism in response to environmental stress, and is collecting coral samples from sites in Oahu and Kalaupapa. We spent the week helping her collect samples from twelve of her Kalaupapa sites. We needed all hands on deck since each sample had to be brought to the surface and immediately flash frozen to stop any metabolic activity. Otherwise, Maggie explained, she would just see the stress signal from sampling. Maggie collected two species of coral: six samples each of Pocillipora meandrina and Montipora capitata. She used wire cutters to snip the tips of Pocillipora and a hammer and chisel to remove chunks of Montipora. These samples are small, comparable to parrotfish bites, and are not overly harmful to the coral. She put each sample in a numbered plastic bag and handed it to Sly, who free dived to relay each sample to the boat. Randall and Eric operated the boat, recorded the time the samples were sent up, and immediately placed them in dry ice coolers. My job was to keep photographic data of each colony from which the samples were collected. I took pictures of a slate with the site and colony numbers, and then pictures of each colony. I placed a ruler with red, green, and blue tape next to each colony for scale and color correction. Maggie also retrieved temperature loggers she had placed at each site on a previous visit. An unseasonably early swell came through mid-week, making it tricky to position the ruler and get the colony in focus before getting swept away. I was impressed that Maggie was able to aim her hammer and chisel in the rolling surge!

Thanks to our experienced and efficient team, we finished all twelve sites despite some delays. On Tuesday, we had to wait for more dry ice to come in on the freight plane, but when we finished four sites that afternoon, we knew were in good shape. While waiting for the ice we took the opportunity to tag the seal pup Eric and I had spotted on our last seal walk. This one was smaller and less feisty, and Eric, Randall, and Sly tagged her in just over three minutes. On Wednesday the swell was too high to go out, so we caught up with on-land work. Sly, Maggie, and I buried temperature loggers by the sea turtle nests on the black sand beach and everyone worked on overdue data processing.

With our sites completed, I looked to make the most of my last weekend in Kalaupapa. I savored a delightful and delicious final movie night at Tim and Raf’s house (I’m still dreaming about Tim’s homemade lilikoi ice cream), and accompanied Eric on his monk seal watch. We discovered that pup #9, a male, had been weaned and would be ready for tagging the following week. Maggie’s boyfriend Pat and his family came to visit over the weekend, so Sly took us on another peninsula tour, with some bonus stops. In addition to the crater, arches, and Kalawao settlement, we went exploring in the Old Ladies’ Cave. It is said that during times of war between the Hawaiian Islands, the people of Molokai hid in this cave, but an enemy boat caught a glimpse of old ladies picking mites out of each others’ hair by the cave entrance and knew to attack. Other myths surrounding the cave involve scouts using the cave’s lava tube to send warning signals, or that one old lady used it to cook for her husband, and smoke rising from the lava alerted warring ships to the hidden Molokaians. We also climbed down the lava cliffs to check out some tidepools. Filled by occasional surf, the pools were full of urchins, some juvenile fish, and gobies. The gobies have specialized elongated tails that help them skip out of the water into neighboring pools. On the way home we were briefly stymied by a dead truck battery and worn-out jumper cables, but Raf saved the day with specialized car resuscitation know-how.

We all went for a last snorkel expedition in the harbor. The swell had calmed down, and we found countless eels, nudibranchs, and the rare titan scorpion fish. Sly spotted an octopus, and as Maggie and I crowded in to look a green moray darted out of a nearby crevice and lunged at it, hoping for an eight-legged meal. In a flash of suckers the octopus oozed deeper into the safety of its hole. Tim, Raf, and Sly also took us to one of their favorite salt collecting spots. Kalaupapa is famous for its sea salt, which dries in pools on the lava rocks. With spatulas and strainers, we scraped off the flaky crystals and brought home bags of saline souvenirs.

It was tough to leave Kalaupapa and all my wonderful new friends! Maggie, Pat’s family, and I crammed all of our gear into the tiny plane and said goodbye. As the plane took off, everyone standing at the airport sent us off with the wave, a Kalaupapa tradition. Thank you so much to Eric and Randall for working with me and coordinating my stay! Thanks also to Sly, Raf, Tim, Claire, Maggie, the Currys, and the entire Kalaupapa community for being so warm, welcoming, and generous. I hope to come back and visit soon!

My second week in Kalaupapa has been packed with diverse and unique experiences. We started the weekend with a trip to topside Molokai to get groceries. Sly, Rafael Torres, and I donned our packs and started up the three-mile Pali (cliff) trail, which includes 26 switchbacks and over 1600ft of vertical cliff. The only means of land access to Kalaupapa, this is the same trail that brought mail, supplies, and visitors to the colony in its heyday. Today, the main users of the trail are guided mule trips that bring visitors to spend three or four hours at the settlement. Near the top, we did our part to curb invasive species by snacking on strawberry guavas, and were rewarded by the incredible view of the entire peninsula at the final overlook. In town, we perused the farmers’ market and got our essentials at the various grocery stores, stopped for local flavors of ice cream, and headed back down. We had just enough time to catch our breath and unload groceries before gathering for community volleyball, a twice-weekly event. Eighty-three-year-old patient Uncle Lelepali organizes and referees each game, and his calls are law. Players of all ages and agencies, permanent residents and visitors like myself, assemble each Saturday and Wednesday evening to rotate around the pitted grass court, while spectators chat and pass around six-packs from the settlement bar across the street. Laughter, cheers, and good-natured heckling fill the air until it’s too dark to play and Uncle Pali cries out a final, “Shake hands!”

Community events don’t stop at volleyball. The (admittedly limited) younger crowd often meets for ultimate frisbee or a game of pool, and everyone invites each other over to watch the University of Hawaii women’s volleyball games or, in the case of law enforcement officer and die-hard Auburn fan David Ellis, the kickoff of the college football season. I was also encouraged to attend a mass in the historic St. Philomena church in Kalawao. Religion is a central part of life for many in the settlement, and the Catholic Church in particular is a big presence here, especially since Father Damien was canonized as a saint in 2009. Saint Damien worked in the settlement in the late 19^th century, built St. Philomena, and was loved for his compassionate treatment of the patients at a time when they were misunderstood and mistreated. St. Philomena has been restored to its original appearance, and the community holds a mass there once a month (there are places of worship for several denominations in the Kalaupapa settlement, but these monthly services in historic structures are particularly special cultural events). Kalaupapa’s Father Patrick delivered a beautiful and lighthearted homily, and a visiting church group provided rousing music. After the mass, patients congregated on the church grounds, and I met and chatted with the aunties and uncles, several of whom shared snippets of their stories.

Over the holiday weekend I learned more about the history of the settlement, reading several patient memoirs and Kalaupapa-related literature. Although today the patients are considered the community elders and command the utmost respect, historically Kalaupapa has been a place of great suffering. Hansen’s disease was poorly understood and highly stigmatized, and mandated quarantine meant families torn apart and victims sent to a life of exile. Most histories also gloss over the native Hawaiian communities that were forcibly removed from their land when the settlement was created. The patients that live here are true survivors, and I’m amazed by the incredible joy, humor, and goodwill they maintain. It is truly an honor to come here and be a part of this community, however temporarily.

The weekend over, I reported to the NPS office at 7am. The first task of the week was tagging a monk seal pup that had recently been weaned. Ten pups were born in the park this summer, a new record. This particular pup was a female, crucial to sustaining the population, and Eric and Randall had been waiting for her to get in a good tagging position for weeks. They want to tag the seals right after they’ve been weaned, while they’re small enough to be restrained, but they must wait until the seal is out of the water and away from lava rocks that could injure the seal or the taggers. Eric and I drove to the beach where the seals usually haul out, and luckily enough our pup was sleeping in the sand, in a perfect tagging position. I kept watch from behind the low-hanging pines while Eric radioed Sly and Randall and they prepared their tagging material. The seal was still rotund with baby blubber, occasionally trying to brush flies from her face with flippers that could barely reach over her chubby shoulders. The tagging team emerged, decked out in blue coveralls, and got to work quickly and efficiently to minimize time spent handling the seal. Randall restrained her while Eric and Sly attached red plastic tags to her tail and took tissue samples for genetic data. Less than five minutes later they released her and she blobbed back into the ocean. “She’s a strong one!” Randall declared. “She’s going to be a good mom.”

Afterward, we packed up the water quality sampling gear and headed to Kauhako crater, site of the previously mentioned deepest pond in the world. The pond is only slightly bigger than a backyard swimming pool, but is over 800 ft deep. To hike down to the crater we had to fight through the heavily overgrown Christmas berry and use ropes to navigate loose rocks and soil on the steep trail. At the pond, which was a curious greenish-brown color, we ran the Sonde device and took water quality samples. The water was so full of algae and particulates that our filters clogged immediately. Eric also retrieved and redeployed temperature and water level loggers they’re using to track long-term weather and climate data.

This was all the first day of work, and we still had a dive planned. Eric first briefed me on their fish and benthic survey protocols. They perform the surveys along a 25m transect, at several fixed sites as well as random temporary sites that vary year to year. The fish diver goes first, identifying, counting, and sizing the fish he sees, similar to the fish counts we did in St. John. The benthic diver, rather than recording data during the dive, takes a picture of the benthic substrate at each meter of the transect, using a monopod and fixed focal length for standardization. The photos are processed on land with a computer program that puts random dots on each image, and the analyzer records the benthic species or type of substrate intersecting each dot. They also measure rugosity, the complexity of the habitat, which tends to correlate with fish size and abundance. For this survey, one diver follows the topography of the habitat underneath the transect line with a 10m brass chain while another diver helps spool out and reel in the chain above him. A greater total length of chain used indicates greater rugosity. Water quality samples and Sonde measurements are also taken at certain sites. To spare me the task of learning all of Hawaii’s incredibly diverse fishes in a few days, I was assigned benthic photography and rugosity assistance duties. We did a practice run on land so I could get used to setting the white balance on the camera and using the monopod, and then headed to the pier for a check out dive and another practice run. It felt a little silly to bring so much gear down and not leave the harbor, but the trial was definitely worthwhile. It took me a few tries to find a strategy for balancing the camera in the slight swell, and after snarling the chain the first time I reeled it in, I learned to coil it carefully to prevent future tangles.

The next day, all the kinks (brass and figurative) worked out, we jumped into our actual surveys. They were on the eastern side of the peninsula, and we passed by Kalawao and Waikolu. The underwater habitat generally consists of big boulders with scattered coral and sweeping schools of fish. Lagging behind the fish divers and focused on the benthic substrate I was often oblivious to the more rare and exciting sightings Eric and Sly would exclaim about on the surface, but I was still blown away each time I looked up, and loved searching for colorful crabs and eels hiding in the coral. On the boat we collected water quality samples with Niskin bottles, which we lower to our decided depth on a line, and then send down a weight to trigger and close the spring-loaded lids. We would stop for lunch by the tiny rock islands scattered along the coast, or tuck into protected coves with striking lava formations and waterfalls.

As we approached our last site on Thursday afternoon, we were surprised to find a boat anchored almost exactly where we were headed, with snorklers and divers in the water. We waited a bit, and as one snorkler surfaced we realized they were spearfishing. While fishing is technically legal in these waters, there is a long history of respecting Kalaupapa’s resources both as protected by the National Park and rightfully belonging to the patients. We radioed in to the rangers and they came to make a “courtesy call” to the fishermen. They were from Oahu and unaware of the customs here, but were cooperative and departed to fish further from the Kalaupapa coast. Our fish count arguably somewhat lessened, we completed the site. As a special treat, Eric then brought us to an incredible site to check out the spread of a non-native snowflake coral, Carijoa riisei. Okala, the triangular rock we had been boating around for the past few days, is actually an archway that creates an underwater cavern. Its walls are covered in amazing sponges and invertebrates, as well as the lacy snowflake coral. After inspecting the snowflake coral and taking in the general grandeur, I followed a Spanish dancer nudibranch as it fell from the wall and unfurled in the sand. It was about eight inches long, by far the biggest nudibranch I’ve ever seen (although apparently they can reach 15 inches!). Sly and I then surfaced in the small air pocket at the top of the cavern, and had a brief conversation, which mostly consisted of reminding one another of how awesome it was to be having a conversation inside Okala. On the way out we circled around the island, a sheer wall crammed with brightly colored sponges and zooanthids, a huge contrast to the bare boulders flecked with pale yellow and white corals of our study sites. I was enthralled by brightly colored fish, tiny neon green gobies scooting along identically colored sea whips, and an enormous octopus that coolly regarded me from within a crevice.  It was without a doubt one of the coolest dives I’ve ever done.

At the end of the week, Eric took me on his weekly monk seal survey. We started at the airport and traversed the rocky and sandy coast down to the settlement, identifying any monk seals sleeping on the rocks or sand or playing in the water. By conducting these surveys each week for many years, they can learn more about seal behavior, most importantly how the seals utilize different types of habitat. This will help park scientists determine why the seals are increasingly coming to Kalaupapa to pup, and inform decisions for habitat protection. For example, Eric has found that as pups the seals tend to favor the sandy beaches, but as they mature they’ll branch out to different types of habitat, and are more likely to haul out on rocks. This suggests that if the state or a federal agency were to set aside protected areas for Hawaiian monk seals, they would need to preserve multiple types of habitat. Over the two-hour survey, we saw about a dozen seals on the beaches or in protected pools. If we couldn’t see their tags, we took photographs of identifying features that seal experts topside will compare to existing images. The pup we had tagged earlier in the week was still hanging around the beach, holding her own in a playful and perhaps aggressive encounter with a much larger male. We also did a quick black-tip reef shark count. A large number of these sharks patrol a protected lagoon here, and the park is currently working on studies to figure out why. The sharks are more numerous in the winter months, but we saw three sets of dark fins slice the surface in our five-minute scan.

The days certainly have been eventful! We have the weekend to unwind, and I’m looking forward to another week of diving and spending time with the Kalaupapa community.

 

I left Hawaii’s biggest city for one of the most remote places in the islands: Kalaupapa National Historical Park on the island of Molokai. The Kalaupapa Peninsula is the site of the historic settlement for victims of Hansen’s Disease, or leprosy. Patients from all around the pacific were essentially imprisoned here for decades until the colony was closed in 1969. Many patients continued to live here, and about 16 still call the settlement home. The park is thus unusual for its living history, and very few visitors get the opportunity to come here. The park’s isolation means it also has rich ecological resources, and I’m looking forward to seeing the reefs and fish here as well as learning more about the history and interacting with the residents of Kalaupapa over the next few weeks.

From Honolulu I hopped on a tiny nine-person plane to Kalaupapa. I met NPS maintenance mechanic/biological technician Randall Watanuki and his wife Meli, one of the patients at the colony. They greeted me by name—news of visitors travels fast in the small Kalaulpapa community. The flight offered beautiful aerial views of Oahu and Diamond Head Crater, and soon we approached the striking sea cliffs of Molokai, the tallest in the world. NPS marine ecologist and my coordinator Eric Brown welcomed me with an aloha at the airport and drove me to the settlement. On the way, we stopped to check out a Hawaiian monk seal and her pup who had hauled out on the beach. These are some of the most endangered marine mammals in the world—slightly over 1,000 remain—and they come to raise their pups on Kalaupapa’s beaches. The pup was about a week and a half old but already about the size of the sea lions in the Channel Islands, and we watched from a distance, hidden under pine trees as the pup nursed. Not a bad introduction to the island!

Eric showed me the dive locker and park office, which was conveniently right across from my housing in Bay View Home. We met up with biological technician Sylvester “Sly” Lee, and went to meet the Pacific Network Inventory and Monitoring team: aquatic ecologist David Raikow, biological technician Anne Farahi, and volunteer Barbara Leuhrs. They had flown into topside Molokai and were hiking down the cliff trail. We would spend the next week together camping and performing stream surveys in Waikolu valley. Eric had us over for a fabulous vegan pizza dinner and we discussed the week ahead. The next morning, we loaded all of our camping gear, food, and sampling materials in waterproof bags. Randall, Sly, and Dave took them to our campsite in the park boat, while Eric, Anne, Barbara and I drove to the backside of the peninsula and hiked over, picking our way across loose lava rocks. We helped swim in the bags and coolers of food and set up camp near the mouth of Waikolu stream. Dave Conlin had generously sent over a tent for me, and Eric brought an extra sleeping pad and cooking supplies, so I was well equipped for the week ahead. After a quick lunch, we headed over to the mouth of the stream, our first sample site.

The stream surveys are designed to test water quality, map stream habitat type, and monitor stream-dwelling species of fish and snails. The park boundaries reach nearly to the tops of the sea cliffs, meaning the entire watershed is protected. They sample both permanent and randomized temporary sites every year, and thus may be able to track the effects of weather events and landslides, as well as long-term climate trends. For each site, we lay a 30m transect and characterize the stream habitat type at each meter. We test water quality with a Sonde device that measures parameters like pH, salinity, and dissolved oxygen, and take water samples to be tested in the lab. A flow tracker measures the total amount of discharge in the stream. This survey is tricky because it works best in pure flow without any vertical or horizontal eddies from uneven surfaces. Ideally we would find a perfectly flat spot with vertical walls, but since this is unlikely to exist in a natural stream we have to settle for reasonable spots, or sometimes shift rocks and boulders to dam up any “leaks” and create the best site we can. Another survey is the pebble count, for which we measure the longest diameter of 20 rocks at even intervals across the stream at the 0, 15, and 30 meter mark along the transect. We also do fish counts, for which a snorkeling scientist records numbers of a species of stream-dwelling fish, collectively called o’opu, at 10 randomized quadrats along the transect. In those same quadrats, we measure any hihiwai snails and count all juveniles and eggs. The surveys require a fair bit of scrambling over slippery rocks and walking in the stream, so Eric outfitted me with a pair of felt-soled tabis, which not only allowed me to stride sure-footedly through the stream, but were also undeniably stylish.

The following days, we hiked along the stream to our planned sites. The trail isn’t regularly maintained since it exists primarily for these surveys (visitors are permitted to boat along the coast but not set foot on land), so we often had to crash our way over, under, and through dense vegetation. After the first few sites we fell into a routine, and with our big group we were soon able to finish each site in a little over an hour. On one marathon day we completed three sites, putting us well ahead of schedule for achieving our goal of eight sites in five days. After hiking back to camp, Randall would take the water supplies back to the park in the boat to keep them frozen (this prevents any photosynthesizing organisms from altering the chemical contents of the water), while we organized data sheets and put away sampling equipment. We would rinse off in the stream—turns out wild ginger fruit makes great shampoo—and prepare for dinner, which we took turns cooking for the group. My ambitions for backcountry snacks didn’t extend much beyond trail mix and granola bars, but Sly, a true camping gourmand, treated us to pear and brie hors d’oeuvres each evening as we waited for our camp stoves to heat. One afternoon we got back early enough to fit in a pre-dinner snorkel, and eagerly explored the little reef by our campsite, finding colorful flatworms and a huge moray eel. At night we admired the Milky Way and exclaimed over occasional meteors before retiring to our tents.

We were so efficient that we finished our eight sites well ahead of schedule, and returned to the settlement on Thursday afternoon. After some extensive unpacking, laundering, and showering, we were invited to state employees Tim Richmond and Rafael Torres’s lovely home for their weekly movie night. Tim cooked a sumptuous dinner and we enjoyed a screening of Lilies of the Field in honor of Auntie Pauline, one of the patient’s, 79^th birthday. Even in my first few hours of being back in the settlement it was clear how close-knit and loving a community this is. The next day, I happened to be in the communal kitchen when NPS Chief of Natural Resources Paul Holsten and his niece Laurel came in to harvest honey from his bee colony, and got to help collect the honey and do some tasting for quality assurance. Sly then took the I&M team and me on a tour of the Kalaupapa peninsula. He showed us the lighthouse, beautiful tidepools, lava caves, the world’s deepest pond (which he tells me we’ll be sampling next week!), and the churches of the original settlement in Kalawao, on the backside of the peninsula. Each site has associated histories and mythologies that the patients have passed on by word of mouth or in their memoirs. Dave, Anne, and Barbara headed back to the Big Island, but I’m looking forward to two more weeks in this beautiful and unique place. Coral surveys, a climate change project, and, I’m told, lots of community volleyball, frisbee, and movie nights lie in store for the rest of my stay!

I spent the last week in Pearl Harbor at Valor in the Pacific National Park. Chief of Cultural and Natural Resources Scott Pawlowski was my host for the week and guide to the island of Oahu. He first took me to my housing on the Pearl Harbor naval base: Bachelor Officers’ Quarters (BOQ), housing for transient or visiting officers, which also serves as a quasi hotel for government or military affiliated visitors. I rented a car for the week, a tiny light green Toyota Yaris, and felt very safe each night as I presented my special visitor pass to armed guards each time I drove into the base. On my first day of work, Scott drove me around the base, pointing out historic buildings. Women and men of the Navy were everywhere, some in full uniform, others jogging in characteristic yellow shirts and blue shorts. I was taken aback by how young so many of them were: one gangly member of a trio of joggers still had braces.

When I first arrived, the park was still in the process of stand-up, but there was plenty of work to be done topside. I spent my first few days assisting Retired Chief Petty Officer and current archivist/curator extraordinaire Stan Melman with inventorying the park’s museum collection. They have an extensive collection of artifacts, letters, newspaper clippings, photographs, art, and the like relating to Pearl Harbor and its role in WWII, and not all of them can be displayed at the visitors center. They’ve transferred their records to a computer program, and we were retrieving and checking a randomized list of artifacts to make sure they were in their recorded location and free of damage. It was fascinating—each new drawer and box was full of glimpses into the past, many of them reflecting the gaiety and glamour of life on the base prior to the December 7 attack. We checked off letters to families, a ship’s bell, a program from a boxing match between members of the USS Oklahoma and USS Arizona, and dozens of other treasures.

Scott also showed me how to build the coral settlement devices that they’ll use to study growth in the harbor. They consist of two brick tiles screwed into a metal rod, anchored with a lead weight. Larval coral settles between the tiles and the devices can be removed for measurement and study. For this I had to first assemble and then use a tile saw, as well as break out the power drill and masonry bit. Rest assured, I wore my safety goggles

I also had the exciting opportunity to tag along with Retired US Navy Commander Mike Freeman, the former commanding officer of the Navy’s Mobile Diving and Salvage Unit One (MDSU1) and current Harbor Pilot as he and his crew piloted a huge container ship out of the harbor and a naval submarine back in using two tugboats. Stan and NOAA Archaeologist Kelly Gleason joined us for the ride. We pulled up along the Maersk Peary, which distributes fuel among naval bases, and the tugs turned her into the crowded harbor and guided her into the open sea. Stan pointed out various historic and current aspects of the harbor, and as we came out into the ocean we had a great view of Waikiki and Diamond Head Crater. I even got to drive the tug back toward the harbor, and we then met up with the sleek, sharklike black sub (for national security reasons I’m not at liberty to say which one). It had been out on exercises and was coming in briefly to switch personnel and get more supplies, first and foremost about a dozen five-gallon drums of ice cream. The sub headed back out to sea and we returned to the base. Definitely a unique experience!

By the end of the week the park was given the green light to dive, and we prepared for the main activity of my stay: diving the USS Arizona. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, since only National Park Service or Navy divers may dive here. I would join Scott for a routine dive to check and maintain the buoys at the bow and stern, monitor some cracks in the hull, and collect any trash that visitors had dropped from the memorial. There are also ongoing scientific projects to map the wreck and study rates of corrosion, monitor the oil that continues to leak from the ship, and study the surrounding marine ecosystem and harbor as comparable to a protected area, including the coral settlement study I had helped prepare.

Scott first took me on a few proficiency dives on Oahu’s north shore (which lacks its famous surfer-attracting waves during the summer months) so I could get used to the full-face mask we would use in the harbor. Visibility is low in the harbor and getting disorientated on the wreck is always a risk, so it’s safer to be able to talk to one another via the microphone systems in the masks. More importantly the full-face mask protects us from any oil or other carcinogens in the water leaking from the USS Arizona. We dove in protected areas, full of fish, and saw a few turtles and a retreating shark. It took me a while to get the mask to fit, but once it was set I found it very comfortable to have so much of my face dry underwater. Scott also took me to the USS Arizona memorial to orient me, and showed me where we would put together our gear and enter the water, as well as the buoys and features of the wreck visible from the memorial. I had been to the memorial once before a few years earlier, and it was no less moving the second time around to be reminded of the history of the place and be surrounded by visitors paying their respects to the fallen sailors below.

On the day of our dive, we drove our gear and tanks to the memorial and loaded them on the same ferry that takes visitors out to the memorial. Fortunately it wasn’t a terribly busy day—the park gets 1.8 million visitors each year, so the ferries can get jam-packed, leaving little room for dive gear. On the memorial dock, we brought our gear to an out of the way corner to set up. We waited for everyone to go from the boat into the memorial, the returning crowd to go from the memorial into the boat, and for the boat to take off. We then had a few-minute window before the next boat came into view to quickly change into our wetsuits in hopes of avoiding too many pictures of or visitors upset by the bathing suit-clad National Park Service workers. We donned our scuba gear as curious visitors craned around from the memorial to see what we were doing. A kindly WWII veteran thanked us for our work and wished us a good dive as his family wheeled him up the ramp, and with that blessing we were ready to roll into the harbor.

We swam over to the wreck and descended into the murky green water. I’d known this dive would be on my schedule since early June and had thought a lot about how to approach it, unsure how I would feel to be diving at a site that is the tomb of over a thousand Navy sailors, and represents the sacrifices and loss of thousands more. As features of the ship’s hull came into view, I was reassured by a sense of peacefulness. The wreck is covered in soft sponges and delicately swaying feather worms, everything quiet under the water. Scott pointed out both ecological and historical features of the wreck as we swam along the hull to the buoy at the stern. They’re trying a new strategy to protect the buoys from encrusting organisms and the oil that continuously leaks from the wreck: wrapping them in saran wrap. So far it’s proving effective. We continued along the starboard side, and Scott pointed out the intact guns of turret no. 1, which were long thought to have been salvaged but the Submerged Resources Center discovered in the early 1980s when they initially mapped the wreck. We then moved into the blast zone. Here the violence of the explosion was apparent in metal twisted beyond recognition, everything confused and mangled. Having been surrounded by such young Navy faces at the base and recently dropped off my eighteen-year-old brother at college made it especially sobering to consider the 1,177 lives cut short here seventy years ago.

After inspecting the bow buoy, we did a quick sweep underneath the memorial for anything visitors had accidently dropped. All we found was a pair of sunglasses already coated in coralline algae, although Scott tells me the record is four iPhones on a single dive. We broke down our gear and caught the last ferry back to the base along with the final load of visitors who had come to pay their respects that day. I’ve felt somber and reflective after diving before, generally about the state of the ecosystem, but never before had I emerged from a dive so grateful to be alive and have my family intact.

Scott was kind enough to give up his Saturday for me, and took me for another dive on the USS Utah. The Utah was a training ship, and one of the first hit during the attack on Pearl Harbor. She lies canted on one side where she was moored near Ford Island. The Utah isn’t as heavily visited as the Arizona, so our preparation and entry were much more relaxed, save for one delighted little boy who exuberantly pointed us out to his family. The Utah was also hushed and serene, and had more recognizable features: a ladder here, a hatch there. Since this wreck is in a more remote location and not constantly staffed, there have been some problems with fishing and looting. Scott and I got tangled up in an abandoned fishing line early in the dive, and Scott pointed out a silver handle that had recently been stolen off the wreck.  He told me that they’ve even had problems with theft of the ashes of the survivors who request to be interred with their shipmates. I was astonished that someone could be so disrespectful. We ended the day with some beautiful snorkeling on the north shore and a delicious visit to the famous Poke Stop.

My heartfelt thanks to Stan for all his expertise on Pearl Harbor, Mike for taking me out on the tugboat, and Scott for taking such care to provide me a varied and rich experience here, as well as to our veterans and the men and women serving our country.

You might think living on an island of 0.06 square miles during a dive stand-down could get tedious, but my DRTO days have been astonishingly eventful.

We continued our turtle monitoring each day, on Loggerhead as well as on Garden Key and the smaller sandy keys. Luckily we didn’t find as much activity as we did that first day, but it was nevertheless exhausting, sweaty work. I’m getting more familiar with how to distinguish between the tracks of green and loggerhead turtles—loggers have more comma-shaped front flipper prints and crawl with an alternating gait, like a trotting horse, while greens have straighter, choppier strokes and move with both foreflippers at once. On slopes and turns, however, it can be difficult to distinguish between the two, and naturally our dear turtles move exclusively in turns and on slopes.

Ever hopeful of imminent stand-up (this is actually the official opposite of stand-down), we also scoped out potential dive sites using GIS and tide information, and prepped OSHA-mandated pony bottles, tiny auxiliary air tanks for out-of-air emergencies. We also wrote and revised emergency procedure documents and safe practices paperwork for the park to be completely ready to go at a moment’s notice. The long days at home after turtle walks gave us plenty of time to think about and enjoy our favorite mid-morning meals, second breakfast and first lunch.

A USGS group has been here tagging turtles all season, and is at the stage of retrieving tags to download and process the collected data. Turtles nest several times during the nesting season, returning every few weeks, so they can track their movements and catch them after they come ashore to nest or rodeo them as they surface in the water. Their field mission had come to a close and two turtles with accelerometer tags still hadn’t returned, so USGS biologist Kristen Hart asked if Kayla, Ryan, Lee Qi and I could monitor East Key for the night and collect the accelerometers if the turtles came to nest. Tagged turtles are given unique names, and we were looking for Luly and Mossey, both loggerheads. The accelerometers measure turtle movements at an extremely fine scale—90 data points are collected per second—and are used to record the turtle’s behavior and movements during the nesting season. If not retrieved, the tags (which don’t come cheap) and all their data are lost when turtles naturally shed their scutes (the “scales” on their shells), so finding and retrieving them was extremely important to the project. If we found a turtle with an accelerometer we were instructed to record her movements to the second as she nested before removing the tag; this information would be used to help interpret the massive amount of accelerometer data. For this we synchronized our wristwatches to time.gov, a task that required an unanticipated level of agility and wit.

We then geared up for our scientific slumber party, packing red headlamps, snacks, and beanbag chairs and boat seat cushions for sleeping. As the sun went down, law enforcement officer Wayne Mitchell kindly took us out to East Key and dropped us off on the small sandy island. We divided the night into four two-hour shifts, during which the person on-duty would walk the perimeter of the island every half hour. As the brilliantly pink clouds faded into gray and before the half moon rose in the wee hours of the morning, the sky was lit only with the faint Fort Jefferson harbor light in the distance, occasional lightning in the distance, and the incredible multitude of stars. Lee Qi, on the first watch, quickly found a green turtle on the beach, and since Ryan and I had never seen a green nest before we headed over to watch. Turtles, greens especially, will spook easily and may false crawl if they see or hear people as they look for a nesting site and start digging, but can be closely approached as they lay their eggs provided we stay behind them and remain reasonably quiet. We kept our distance, turned off our lights, and hunkered down as quietly and motionlessly as possible to wait for the appropriate time to approach. Just as we started discussing in low whispers that it had been a while since we had heard digging and could probably try to sneak a peek, Kayla radioed that the green had crossed to the other side of the island to nest, and we realized that the dark lump we had been so assiduously and cautiously monitoring was actually a small bush. Luckily we were soon distracted from our embarrassment: within a few minutes, Kayla excitedly radioed that Mossey was on the beach! By the time we grabbed the corrals and came over, she had started to lay her eggs. We were able to approach close enough, always staying behind her so she couldn’t see us, to actually see the eggs dropping into the nest. Kayla meticulously recorded her every movement as sanctioned by time.gov.

Abruptly, Mossey finished laying her eggs and started burying the nest. She first used her surprisingly dexterous rear flippers to delicately fill in the egg cavity for several minutes before incorporating her larger front flippers, vigorously spraying us with sand. As she turned to go, it was our time for action. Ryan and I grabbed the heavy corrals, hinged plastic squares that form a box around the turtle and are connected with plastic stakes. Loggerheads can weigh upward of 500 lbs and corralling can be a strenuous, frantic, and sandy activity. Luckily Mossey is on the smaller side and Ryan, Kayla, and I were quickly able to restrain her, but I could feel how strong she was as she lunged at the corral walls. Kayla removed the accelerometer with a hacksaw while we scraped off the barnacles growing on her carapace. Mossey alternated between doggedly straining at the corral and appearing to nap, emitting little grumbly turtle snores. We released her, cleaned and streamlined, and she hastily made for the water without so much as a backward glance.

Triumphant, we returned to camp to get some sleep before our assigned watches. My walks between 1am and 2:30am were brilliantly illuminated by the moon, making my headlamp unnecessary. Patrolling every half hour means the tracks will be fresh, so we walk at the water’s edge and can quickly identify new tracks. On a few surveys I stopped at fresh tracks by the water’s edge, glanced up to follow them, and was startled by a turtle only a few feet away. I saw a few more greens making their way up the beach, but no Luly, who did not come nest that night. Between walks I would nestle into my boat cushion and life jacket pillow for a few minutes of sleep before heading out for the next round. Wayne came to pick us up around 6am, and as we packed up to leave a bold green crawled up right by our camp! Seemingly unperturbed by our loading activities, she continued to heave herself along the beach as we headed back to our waiting beds on Garden Key. Kristin is going to keep coming back in hopes of catching Luly, who is still in the DRTO area; meanwhile, Mossey is hightailing it to Mexico—you deserve it, girl! You can track Luly and Mossey (and the other DRTO sea turtles) at seaturtle.org.

In the last few days of my stay at the fort, we got word that we would be able to dive! We would follow OSHA standards as commercial divers, but could ignore the stipulations about outdated equipment per “accepted community standards.” There was much mirth and rejoicing. Briefed and checked out, laden with our pony bottles in addition to the dive flags, flashlights, data clipboards, lionfish spears, and buckets we needed for data and lionfish collection, we were overheated and clumsy in the boat and oddly balanced in the water, but we were diving! Per OSHA standards we conducted the lionfish surveys with one buddy team in the water and two people topside, one Designated Person In Charge and one fully geared standby diver. For the surveys, one diver would carry the spear and a bucket to hold the lions, and the other carried a clipboard to record the time, depth, habitat type, and behavior of each lionfish captured. He or she would also time the survey with a stopwatch, stopping the clock from the second the lion was spotted to the time the search resumed. They’re using shorter spears here, which make it easier to nab lions in tight spots, and I’m getting handier with headshots. We were even treated to a day of the perfectly calm weather we had been so loathe to miss last week. It was pure joy to skim along flat water in a fast boat, the only movement on the surface the ripples of flying fish skipping out of the way of our bow.

On the way to our dive sites a small pod of dolphins, mothers and juveniles, graced us with a visit. They approached us and came right under the boat but declined our offer to play in our wake. They definitely brought us good luck—when Ryan and I went in we caught a record fourteen lions! Sitting topside was a pleasure as well: there is nothing so peaceful as floating on quiet water, circles of placid bubbles telling you your friends are happily breathing below the surface.

Back at the dock we would record initial data for our catch. In such a remote location with our supply of groceries dwindling by the end of the stay, there’s no sense in wasting a source of free protein, so the DRTO interns put an additional step in lionfish processing: measure, weigh, fillet. Carefully avoiding the venomous spines, we filleted our larger catches, throwing scraps and skins to the three goliath groupers that lurk under the dock, knowing that the fish cleaning station means free meals. Gut content analysis was left for a potential future bad weather day, a decision to which I was not opposed. Over the next few nights we enjoyed grilled lionfish and fresh lionfish ceviche.

To round out my turtle nesting experience, I also jumped at the chance to accompany Kristin to excavate a hatched loggerhead nest. Three days after someone observes hatchlings or their tracks, the nest is excavated to collect data on how many eggs were laid, how many didn’t hatch and why, any evidence of predation, as well as to release any lagging hatchlings. We returned to East Key, which in the daylight resembles a sandy pincushion so crammed is it with PVC-marked turtle nests. Kristin expertly dug through to the nest, and found two tiny hatchlings, while Lee Qi sorted the hatched shells and pipped eggs (hatchlings unable to make it out of the egg shell). We packed the hatchlings in wet sand and took them home with us to be released from Garden Key later in the evening. This turtle was productive—she laid at least 116 eggs. Kristin collected the yolks of the ten unhatched eggs to be taken back to the lab for study. There is still ongoing research on how the Deepwater Horizon spill is affecting turtle nesting, and Kristin explained that DRTO essentially acts as a control site since it’s far from the spill.

I’m getting into the swing of things here with turtle protocol and the fort routine, which must mean it’s time to move on. It will be interesting to see how the stand-down has affected the rest of the National Parks that I’ll visit. I’m glad that I was in DRTO with so many terrestrial projects going on, and also that my being here permitted everyone else to dive—with the rotating schedule, Kayla doesn’t always have the requisite four people for an OSHA commercial dive team (three-person dive teams are permitted if the diver is tethered to the boat, but this is impractical and even dangerous for hunting lionfish in complex habitat). We were lucky: in parks with smaller dive programs they might not be able to dive at all or get any work done until this gets sorted out. Thank you so much to Tracy Ziegler for coordinating my stay, Kayla for supervising me and doing everything she could to get us in the water, and everyone at the fort, particularly my fellow terns. You guys are awesome, and I hope you get to dive!

After saying goodbye to Mike Feeley and Lee Richter in Miami, I hopped on a flight to Key West to start the next leg of my journey to the Dry Tortugas. I had been to Key West once before this January, for a field trip on the SEA vessel Corwith Cramer, and I can confidently confirm that the fake people standing atop the airport are even more disconcerting at night. Dry Tortugas National Park lionfish interns Ryan Lind and Lee Qi picked me up from the airport and brought me to Key West government housing. Everyone at Dry Tortugas (which those in the know refer to by its NPS abbreviation DRTO, pronounced “dirt-o”) works a ten days on, four days off schedule, and Ryan and Lee Qi were in the middle of their time off. We would have the next day in Key West to get groceries and pack, and would head out on the ferry early the following morning.

After a Publix run and poaching wifi from the tiny Key West Public Library, we went sightseeing: after determining that the Hemingway house tour was outside the scope of our intern budget, Ryan and I visited Fort Zachary Taylor State Park and associated beach. Fort Zach served as a teaser to my next ten days, as its design and construction are nearly identical to those of DRTO’s Fort Jefferson, albeit on a much smaller scale. Afterward we met up with Lee Qi for some people watching on Duval Street before heading to Mallory Square for the sunset celebration. As we stood entranced by the contradictory incantations of the French Canadian Cat Man, I got a call from the ferry announcing that due to a steering problem we wouldn’t be going out the next morning. The interns needed to use this as a work day for data entry, so under the supervision of DRTO Biological technician Kayla Nimmo we headed to the NOAA-Mote Marine Eco Discovery Center for a work space. While they worked I did some eco discovering, and Lee Qi lent me her bike to check out the Key West Aquarium. That night, Ryan sautéed some lionfish they had brought home from the park. I hadn’t gotten to try it in Biscayne and have nothing but positive reviews. Seafood doesn’t get much more sustainable than this!

The next morning, the ferry Yankee Freedom II was up and steering so at dawn we loaded our dive gear and coolers of groceries. As we clustered around a table and chatted to the crew, a flood of visitors in various stages of snorkel preparedness filled both decks of the ferry. After two and a half hours of open water, the brick walls of Fort Jefferson appeared on the horizon. This Civil War-era fort would be my home for the next ten days.

Dry Tortugas National Park is almost too beautiful. I’m living in a cliché of soft white sand and turquoise waters, with sunsets that set the fort’s brick walls ablaze. Spanish explorer Don Juan Ponce de Leon discovered this collection of seven islands in 1513 and named them for the abundance of sea turtles he found there. The “Dry” clarification was added later to warn sailors that the islands lack a source of fresh water. Incorporated into the United States with the Louisiana Purchase, the islands were clearly a strategic fortress area for their location and natural protected harbors. Construction of Fort Jefferson began in 1840 on Garden Key, and the still incomplete fort became a Union stronghold during the Civil War, used to cut off supplies to the South. Never fired upon, it became a military prison for Union deserters. The fort’s most famous prisoner was Dr. Samuel Mudd, whom fellow non-history majors may recognize, as I did, primarily from Nicolas Cage explaining the origin of the phrase “his name is mud” in the classic film National Treasure 2. Dr. Mudd set John Wilkes Booth’s broken leg after Booth assassinated Abraham Lincoln, and while his degree of involvement in the conspiracy is unclear, he was sentenced to life imprisonment at Fort Jefferson. After an initial rocky start involving an abortive escape attempt Dr. Mudd rose to the ranks of Most Valuable Prisoner after his heroic assistance with a Yellow Fever outbreak and was eventually pardoned and freed. Franklin Delano Roosevelt pronounced the fort a National Monument in 1935, and the surrounding rich ecological resources were also protected in 1992 when the area became a National Park. Due in large part to its remoteness—the closest land is Key West, 70 miles away—the area is a haven for birds and marine life, with biodiversity and abundance that provide the same glimpse into the past as the historically preserved fort. For the last month everyone has been telling me how wonderful and healthy the reefs are here compared to the relative desolation of the VI and Biscayne, and as we arrived I was itching to get into the water.

As we bustled about unloading the ferry, transferring our belongings to our fort housing, and preparing our dive gear, Kayla approached us with somber news. Following a dive incident involving rebreather equipment malfunction last November (from which thankfully everyone fully recovered), the National Park Service had issued a scientific diving stand-down, effective that morning and holding until the NPS scientific diving policy was rewritten and approved, and individual park dive programs underwent the necessary changes and training to resume diving. Kayla explained that the possible way around it would be to dive under the stricter regulations for government commercial diving, but until we were trained and approved and had all the necessary equipment for commercial dives, there would be no diving in DRTO. Crestfallen, we looked longingly at beautiful conditions—no wind and the sea glass to the horizon, the first such good weather the other interns had seen all season. While we of course recognized the importance of revising the dive policy to avoid future incidents and keep everyone safe, we couldn’t help but feel disappointed and indignant about the timing. As I’ve seen over and over in the past month, the vagaries of weather and technology make field days precious. Losing good weather days in the height of research season was a blow, not just because diving is more fun than office work but also because it limits data collection and may keep projects from completion. The stand-down may last anywhere from a few weeks to months, likely throwing a wrench into science diving programs across the National Park system.

Kayla was incredibly on top of doing everything she could to get us commercial dive certified. Within the hour she was inventorying the equipment we would need and collecting anything that needed to be inspected or serviced, and she spent the next day putting together our training course and exam. We picked up sea turtle intern Marc Fruitemi from his housing on Loggerhead Key, and spent the afternoon immersed in the delights of OSHA (Occupational Safety and Health Administration) regulations. We all of course passed the certification test with flying colors, but were again stymied as subsequent communications revealed that although for purposes of practicality the NPS usually ignores outdated OSHA standards that require the use of specific equipment that is now no longer manufactured or serviced, for the stand-down we would need to be strictly OSHA-compliant and thus lacked the mandated equipment to dive.

Determined not to squander the gorgeous weather and our limited time in the park, your plucky team of ‘terns scouted out shallow sites to hunt lionfish via snorkeling and free diving. I had never officially tried free diving before other than short dips while snorkeling, and was eager to give it a whirl. We went to check out some isolated coral heads, or as we call them, “nubbins,” in 20-40 feet of water. The visibility wasn’t great, so on my first foray in it felt a bit like going down the rabbit hole to swim blindly through clouds of particulate until suddenly the reef sprang into view, vibrant and clear. There is something magical about moving silent and unencumbered through the water on a free dive, experiencing the world below in brief vignettes. I’m not sure I’m completely sold, though—I do enjoy breathing! What is certain is that DRTO lives up to the hype: this is fish heaven. Here are all the missing snappers and groupers from the VI, and they’re enormous. Curious red groupers come right up to us, and on a few sites I was ecstatic to come face to face with a goliath grouper. Five hundred pounds of fleshy, thick-lipped, beady-eyed fishy goodness—what could possibly be more lovable?

The DRTO lionfishers have been using timed surveys to collect data on catch per unit effort, and unfortunately free diving wasn’t compatible with this survey type. We weren’t able to systematically look for lionfish, it was difficult to estimate the timing, and with poor visibility we couldn’t see one another well enough for safe diving. We sadly concluded that free diving would not be the answer.

Fortunately, there’s plenty of work to be done on land. The Dry Tortugas continue to live up to their name as a hotspot for sea turtle nesting. The park is trying to make Loggerhead Key an index beach for loggerhead turtles, which means it must be monitored daily. Marc usually patrols the island in the mornings but is on a different 10-4 rotation than Ryan and Lee Qi, so on his lieu days we would take over. Marking nests is a more casual affair here than in Biscayne since there are so many and raccoons aren’t an issue. Rather than digging up each nest to confirm eggs and covering it with screens, we simply mark each possible nest with a PVC pipe stake identifying the nest with the date, species, and likelihood of a nest on a scale of 1 (a false crawl, which doesn’t merit a stake) to 6 (when the observer sees the turtle laying the eggs). Stakes are also marked with colored tape indicating the month and week of laying to quickly identify nests that may have hatched. We record the GPS coordinates of each nest, and keep track of how nests have been affected by waves, other turtle activity, and invasive plants like Australian Pine. Also unlike Biscayne, it’s easier to find nests and false crawls here because turtles leave identifiable tracks on the continuous sandy beaches, and lots of them: on our first morning we found eleven nests! This was an unusual amount of activity, but this has been a record year so far, and patrolling for turtles is never a quick stroll along the beach. The expansive sand seems to encourage some particularly finicky turtles to travel up, down, and across the beach in meandering turns and loops, sometimes digging several cavities before nesting.

Following their tracks in and out of the water can be quite a trek, and as the blinding sun rises higher in the sky we aren’t above berating the turtles for their incompetent nesting. The heavy turtle activity adds a quasi-forensic air to the walk as we attempt to discern who nested where. As turtles deliberately mask their tracks as they cover their nests, and often cross and mask other turtles’ tracks in the process, this can be a difficult task! On the eleven-nest day especially we spent nearly as much time puzzling as we did walking. As we head out and load the boat we usually take a few minutes to watch the tarpon and cobia that cut sharp lines through the swirling bait ball surrounding the dock, now and then abruptly accelerating into silvery attack.

We’re eagerly awaiting updates about the stand-down and crossing our fingers that we’ll be able to find a way to dive! In the meantime, we have plenty of crazy turtles to keep us busy, sunrises and sunsets to watch, and another week of fort life ahead.