Ocean Journeys: Beginnings
Brandon L. Southall
Copyright © 2012 Brandon Southall
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
The Publisher makes no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any commercial damages.
2012-07-24
Dedication
For Kristin
Foreword
The first third of my time has been defined by aquatic adventures, seemingly accidental steps in experiencing, studying, and embracing marine life. From the earthy southern lakes of childhood to cold, rushing Big Sky rivers, fresh water laid down myriad possibilities leading to the sea. From the black sands of the rich, nascent Big Island to the vibrant, broiling Florida Keys, tropical adventures connected me forever to the ocean. Amidst the fogged chill of the sharp, bountiful Northern California coast and its treasured Año Nuevo, science and love instilled a clarity of focus and passion that has just begun to burn.
I have been blessed at each turn. My youth, built on a foundation of love, was characterized by ever-changing landscapes that revealed the size and richness of the world. I learned not to fear change or diversity, but to lean on strength in rushing headlong into challenge. I have found increasing impatience with excuses, denial, debate, and delay on the many serious problems facing our blue planet. Science drew me to these questions and provided me the tools with which to attack them. But in some ways, especially since leaving the sheltered and sometimes isolated fold of academia, I have found that though solutions must be founded in science, so must they be motivated by popular consent and consistent with fiscal viability.
My ocean journeys have included an array of individual experiences, arising from personal and professional choices. I have been remarkably fortunate in timing. Along with passion and work, this enabled me to overcome the odds so often quoted by the voices advising me to select another field. And, like many of us, my professional growth was strongly mediated by the euphoria, and anguish, of love.
These adventures have molded my present role as a scientist, husband, father, and conservationist. This story represents solely my experiences and my perspective; it is not intended as a hollow exercise of reflection, but rather as an example of the power of our communal ocean to inspire action. Not all the events described here unfolded in exactly the order in which they are depicted. They all happened, but as this story came together over nearly a decade following a late night revelation on Santa Cruz’ Westside before I left California for Washington D.C., certain elements seemed to flow in the manner in which they ultimately affected me rather than the exact chronology in which they occurred. There are so very many people who have helped and guided me at the many places and scenes described here. While (with one exception) I do not name them for many reasons, I know they will know who they are and what they have done to shape the course of this story. I sincerely appreciate the help and support of all those who made the life-changing events described herein possible, particularly my parents, my brother, and my wife. Photos shown later were obtained and are included with all appropriate permissions, including the conditions of NMFS permits #259-1481-00, 87-1743-05, and 14636.
My experiences of the natural and human history in three remarkable places (Hawai’i’s Big Island, the Florida Keys, and northern California) chapters are interspersed with individual events that stood out as bright turning points in my evolution as a person, father, and scientist. None advocate any prescribed agenda, other than the need to recognize the logic of science-based conservation founded in cooperation, responsibility, and fiscal viability. But all lead to the conclusion that we are blessed with brilliant blue seascapes and that the role we have assumed obligates us to a coordinated response of respect and action.
This is a celebration of the beauty and majesty of underwater life, as seen through one small lens. My vantage has revealed convergence in disparate places on similar problems arising from our universal exploitation and/or lack of regard for, the ocean. I have been blessed with research endeavors on many shores, amplified by life-altering diving and fishing encounters. A resulting comparative perspective, thinly overlying irreverent skepticism for authority and complacence, has afforded proactive realism. Acknowledging the magnitude of issues like global warming, overfishing, incidental bycatch, ocean acidification, marine debris, and the industrialization of the sea to transport goods, acquire energy, and conduct war, I believe there is simplicity in how we must proceed.
We must continue to understand and accept the real hardships we have imposed on the global ocean. We must embrace the fact that the only constructive future involves novel, proactive, social and economic collaboration that bring together researchers, industry, conservationists, managers, and the average citizen in the common language of an energized science. We must move beyond fabricated polarization, arcane bureaucracies, insincere agendas, and simple greed. We can overcome these seemingly overwhelming obstacles, individually and collectively, ever-accelerating our efforts, and never giving up, no matter how bleak the outlook.
My love of the ocean began on east Texas bass lakes. On still, mist-coated mornings, fishing with my father and grandfathers, I developed a deep and enduring love of water. It was reinforced along glacier-fed trout streams in the mythical Missions, morphed to blue on the largest of the Hawaiian Islands, accelerated in the Florida Straits, and honed in the crown jewel of the mighty northern California coastline. Whether the gentle lapping of tea-warm water on rusty boathouses, the rush of a late spring mountain river, or the explosive power of a Pacific winter storm, I have found the universal rhythms of wild water to be perfect expressions of divinity. Journeys among each set the stage for all I have found, and the bright possibilities and welcome challenges that now lie before me.
Largemouths & Bluegills
Steaming coffee, black as the four o’clock morning, waited in the speckled metal mugs Grandmother brought for the boys on fishing trips. Grandfather had been up an hour. Thin smoke hung around a naked bulb lighting the simple cabin. I fumbled into fishing clothes, still smelling of worms and bug spray from cat-fishing on the creaky wooden dock the previous night.
I pretended to like coffee with my pork chops and eggs. I had never eaten bean pie, fried chicken, T-bone steaks, or chili and eggs with jalapenos for breakfast, but we had them all in the tiny cabin, on matching blue-and-white-speckled plates; they planned the menu months ahead. I was seven – finally old enough to go on early morning fishing trips. Little did I know how powerful those early times on fresh water would be in shaping my life around the ocean.
East Texas August mornings were fat and sultry. Warm-bellied, we slid into the heavy darkness holding rods and dim flashlights you had to smack a few times before they worked. The pre-dawn air grew thicker as we clanked down the slats of the old dock. Trying to control my excitement, I tied on a lure in the yellow glow at the end of the dock while Grandfather worked the engine. He tucked me into a too-big life jacket, pulled it tight, and eased the boat back from the halo of light.
Smoke gurgled from the 65-horsepower Evinrude outboard and mingled with mist hovering on the bath-warm water. The smell was magical and earthy, swirling in the boat’s green and red running lights. Once we idled past the boathouse and out of the quiet cove, tiny waves lapped at the hull and a hint of pink flirted with pine trees on the eastern shore. Grandfather looked back at us and opened the engine.
Everything tranquil about the morning ceased as the motor exploded into a deafening whine. The bow pointed momentarily at the tops of the brightening pines and gradually settled as the boat planed. To a seven-year-old, 35 miles-per-hour in an open boat felt like a rocket sled. I beamed at Dad and we exchanged thumbs-up,