Defenders of Wildlife Blog

©USFWS

Chris Haney, Ph.D., Defenders of Wildlife Chief Scientist 

For such a relatively small bird, the robin-sized red knot (Calidris canutus) has an extraordinary migration journey. Each year it travels more than 9,000 miles from breeding grounds high in the Canadian Arctic down to remote Tierra del Fuego in South America, where it spends the winter. To survive the trip, these shorebirds must be strong, healthy and resilient.

Horseshoe crab (©Spakattacks/Flickr)

But the red knot is struggling to overcome catastrophic population loss. Over the past ten years, the North American Atlantic population of the red knot (Calidris canutus rufa) has plummeted by 80 percent. Numbers of red knots have crashed by as much as 54 percent on their wintering grounds in two years alone. In New Jersey, where red knots stop to rest and eat before continuing their north-bound journey, they have been declining at a rate of 17.9 percent annually. So what is responsible for the species’ alarming decline?

Commercial over-harvesting of the prehistoric horseshoe crab is a key culprit. Red knots must concentrate in huge numbers at traditional stop-over sites to refuel during their migration, because a single non-stop flight can cover as much as 5,000 miles. Delaware Bay is a key staging area during spring migration, where knots come to feed on eggs of the once-numerous spawning crabs. Some estimates place nearly 90 percent of the entire North American Atlantic population of the red knot on the bay during a single day in May.

When red knots descend on Delaware Bay this spring, famished from their marathon flight from South America, they might find slim pickings instead of their expected feast of eggs from horseshoe crabs. Superstorm Sandy last fall scoured away much of the sand that crabs need for spawning. Restoring beaches is a top priority for wildlife groups who wish to repair massive damage to the dunes, beaches and salt marshes along the Eastern Seaboard.

(©Jan van de Kam)

Aided by grants from the National Fish and Wildlife Foundation and others, two feet of new sand covers stretches of beach along swaths as much as 5,000 feet long and 10-15 feet wide. Arriving in 20-cubic-yard dump trucks, one load at a time, enough sand has been dumped to cover about 1,000 cubic yards a day. Sand was targeted for spreading on the most well-known and crucial spots for both the horseshoe crabs and red knot.

This beach replenishment is hoped to provide just enough space for throngs of horseshoe crabs as they crawl out of the bay. Each spawning female will lay up to 100,000 eggs.

Despite the restored habitat, problems for the red knot are not over. Beach restoration will complement other measures, namely a continued closure of the commercial fishery for horseshoe crabs. But with its conservation plight now so well-known and supported, perhaps tide and time are turning for this remarkable shorebird.

Two years later, the Gulf of Mexico is still reeling from BP's oil disaster.

“We’ve never seen anything like this before.” One hears this phrase far too often along the brilliant white beaches, dark bayous, and hidden back bays of the northern Gulf of Mexico. Despite falling off the precipice of media attention, people in the Gulf have not forgotten what happened here in spring of 2010. Even if they tried, nature would keep sending them—and the rest of us—constant reminders.

Two years ago today, BP’s Deepwater Horizon well exploded, unleashing more than 200 million gallons of toxic crude oil into the Gulf. Combined with nearly 2 million gallons of chemical dispersant and 500,000 more tons of gaseous hydrocarbons, a mind-bending volume of pollutants were ultimately dumped into Gulf waters. By far the largest spill in U.S. history, the cumulative size of the surface slick alone was large enough to cover the entire state of Oklahoma.

So, what do we now know about the spill’s environmental impacts? It’s still too early to understand most of the damages (some caused by Alaska’s Exxon Valdez oil spill took a decade or more to detect), but what we already know is unsettling enough. Let’s begin with seafood, a major industry and economic driver in the Gulf. In 2008, the seafood industry drove a robust $5.5 billion economic engine for the region. Yet despite reopening the once-closed fishing zones, and disclaimers after the spill that Gulf seafood is safe, a scientific study found that Food and Drug Administration guidelines allowed up to 10,000 times too much contamination, and did not properly identify the true risks of the Gulf’s contaminated seafood to children and pregnant women.

Oiled pelicans were the most striking, but certainly not the only, wildlife to be impacted by the disaster.

If that were not enough, Gulf fishermen report shrimp without eyes, fish covered in open sores, clawless crabs, and other mutated and underdeveloped catch. Crabbers are harvesting 75 percent fewer crabs than in years before the spill, and the crabs they do catch are often dead, discolored, and riddled with holes or missing sections of their shells. In some places, shrimp and oyster harvests remain low, exacerbating the economic deprivation caused by the spill to Gulf residents.

And yet the impacts of the spill go even deeper into the Gulf ecosystem. Hydrocarbons from the Deepwater Horizon spill were first trapped in the ocean food chain through some of its tiniest members: zooplankton. Contaminated zooplankton were actually chemically fingerprinted with certainty back to origins from the Deepwater Horizon blowout. And since zooplankton serve as food for baby fish and shrimp, they help move oil contamination and pollutants up the food chain.

Do we yet know the full scope of harm from this oil spill? Hardly. Links between dolphin deaths and the spill are still being investigated. Since early 2010, an unusually high number of marine mammals — 580, mostly dolphins — stranded and died off the coast of Louisiana to Florida. The total number of marine birds killed by the Deepwater Horizon spill is yet to be tallied. Is there hope for recovery in the Gulf of Mexico? Sure. Did we learn our lessons? Apparently not. Despite the intentions to do better in the future after this unprecedented spill, the Oil Spill Commission gave only a summary grade of “B” to the administration, a “C+” to the oil industry, and a paltry “D” to Congress. If the continuing harm from this tragedy doesn’t teach us that the risks of drilling are simply too high, will we ever learn?

 Learn more:

See how Defenders is working to protect wildlife and natural habitats from the dangers of offshore drilling.

Watch an interview with Chris following his first trip to the Gulf post-Deepwater Horizon oil disaster.

Aboard the Gordon Gunter

The research vessel Gordon Gunter is the pride of the NOAA fleet. It routinely and deservedly receives a “Ship of the Year” award from the Department of Commerce. At more than 200 feet long, it rides comfortably in rough seas, and provides me with a wealth of different decks and vantage points from which to gaze out across the Gulf, searching for the next seabird. And for a working ship, I find my berthing accommodations here almost luxurious.

Not only do I get the small room to myself (it sleeps 2); there is a small desk at the foot of the bed on which I can set up two computers, a scanner, adapters, and power strip. There is a small shelving unit to store books, binoculars, a GPS unit, and other paraphernalia. I share a shower/restroom with the berth next door.

Our science complement works around the clock on at least three shifts, with a fourth schedule maintained by most of the Gunter’s crew. Almost all of the plankton scientists work in 12-hour shifts, noon to midnight, or midnight to noon. That’s a long time, but our sampling stations are three to five hours apart, so this transit time can be used to rest and catch meals. A Japanese scientist who specializes in identifying the larvae of the endangered blue fin tuna through a microscope works odd hours, much of it at night from what I can tell. I work from about 6 a.m. to about 10:30 p.m., outside surveying during daylight hours, inside doing paperwork and data back-up at night. The ship’s crew works 4 hours on, 8 hours off, twice each day.

Now on some ships, meals qualify pretty much as sturdy chow. But not here on the Gordon Gunter. Margaret, our chef, does wonders inside the kitchen, constantly pulling out delights. We have a daunting array of entre choices at each meal. We have had fresh fish, caught from the Gulf itself, nearly every day. Some of my contractors rave about the Gunter’s food, and they should know, because they have worked many ships in both the Atlantic and Pacific. Mealtimes, however, are relatively short, at a bit more than an hour, and always with the same fixed times. But Margaret encourages us to prepare and save a plate if we must continue working, then return to enjoy it at a more leisurely pace when we are off-shift.

Chris working at "the bridge," here aboard NOAA's Nancy Foster

Time passes surprisingly quickly working out at sea. A regular and packed work schedule fills my day up – it is impossible to get bored, even when the marine life is slow, because the next exciting find can be just over the horizon. The work is also quite tiring, in unexpected ways, because of all the constant bodily adjustments required to accommodate the ship’s motions. This can make for some interesting sorts of muscular fatigue.

Unlike twenty years ago, when going out to sea was such an isolating experience, there is now a wealth of information constantly at one’s fingertips . The bridge, of course, has all sorts of sophisticated navigation and weather data (see photo left). What has changed so much from the era in which I was schooled is all of the real-time environmental information at our disposal from models, satellites, and other sources. We know instantly what the ocean is doing. And with remarkably good internet service, we can communicate that knowledge to the outside world with almost no delay. If there were actually any free time, there is also satellite TV and a huge library of movies. I find all these amenities reassuring, because I have to ask some of our contractors to spend almost 3 weeks at sea at one time. This 10-day leg I signed up for is a relatively short jaunt.

Learn more:

Stay tuned for more tales from the Gulf! Click here to read Chris’ other accounts of life at sea.

One year later, Defenders continues to fight for wildlife in the Gulf. Click here to learn more about what we’re doing and see what YOU can do to help!

Wilson's storm petrel, courtesy of Lt. Elizabeth Crapo/NOAA

Seabird identification, especially from a pitching and rolling ship, is not easy. First of all, one has to throw away almost all of the tried-and-true methods that we use on dry land. Forget about using color, moving to a better vantage point, or listening to a song or call notes for clues.

Sometime during the late 1970s, I first learned just how difficult it was to even get a seabird into the field of view of my own binoculars. A friend and I had driven overnight from Tennessee up to Ocean City, in order to go out into the Atlantic Ocean during late May to see pelagic seabirds. Richard Rowlett was then chartering local fishing head-boats, loading them up with enthusiastic birders. (At that time, such excursions were still quite a novelty, whereas today one can select from an extensive menu of seabird trips on both Atlantic and Pacific coasts.)

Typical of the North Atlantic, my first pelagic excursion was a very bumpy ride. When a Wilson’s storm-petrel or Cory’s shearwater came into view, it never stayed in my binoculars long enough. I could not keep my balance; some surprise motion of the boat would knock me off tracking the bird. My main memory of that first experience is giving up, and trying to view the closest birds with the naked eye, hands clasped tightly to the rail, relying upon the word of others as to what I was actually seeing.

But experience finally teaches. For pelagic seabirds, one has to rely mostly on subtle cues. These include the bird’s shape and silhouette, flight behavior, and any contrasting pattern of dark and white. The truth is, we rely a great deal on how a seabird behaves to pin it down to species. Does it fly in a straight line? Or does its path over the sea rise and fall, like a rollercoaster? Does it look short-winged and long-bodied, with a labored flight? If yes, it’s an Audubon’s shearwater. If instead it looks long-winged and short-bodied, with a bounding flight, it’s a Manx shearwater. Is that storm-petrel flapping briefly, and then gliding on bowed wings? It’s a band-rumped storm-petrel. Does it have a more fluttery flight, with almost no glides? It’s a Wilson’s storm-petrel. And so on.

Sooty shearwater, courtesy of NOAA

The best thing I can do, aside from wishing for calm seas, is to first pick my observation point on the ship carefully. In other words, select a vantage point where the lighting best helps give away a bird’s identity. During high overcasts, the lighting is optimal, because the entire bird, top and bottom, can be evenly lit. But if there is any glare early or late in the day, I try to place myself where the birds are back-lit, with the sun over my shoulders. This position is especially good for picking out light or dark-and-white seabirds. For small, all-dark species like storm-petrels, I try to find lighting that makes the ocean surface look relatively even and lighter, the better to pick out these small, dark specks winging their way just over the waves. During mid-day, when lighting can be very harsh, I use the horizon to try to detect any birds that cross the line contrasting sea and sky.

If I can get a glimpse in good light, just a few seconds, I can almost always tell what I am seeing. If all goes well, medium size and larger birds can be identified up to a kilometer away. But there are always some birds whose ID just confounds us…the mystery birds. Like fishing tales, we too have our nautical stories of the “ones that got away.”

Learn more:

Stay tuned for more tales from the Gulf! Click here to read Chris’ other accounts of life at sea.

One year later, Defenders continues to fight for wildlife in the Gulf. Click here to learn more about what we’re doing and see what YOU can do to help!

A cattle egret, courtesy of Bob O'Connor, USFWS

For several days, indeed much of this entire spring season, winds here in the southern Gulf of Mexico have blown strongly from the east. For land-birds that are trying to island-hop back to their North American breeding grounds through the Caribbean, this can pose a bit of a hazard, especially if their normal routing is up through Cuba and then over the relatively short 90-mile gap over to southern Florida and the Keys. Before they reach land, the strong winds can blow them far to the west, where only open water awaits the tired travelers.

Today on the Gordon Gunter we witnessed both tragedy and triumph for these exhausted migrants. After dawn, a cattle egret showed up, its gleaming white plumage, buff streaks, and brilliant yellow bill indicating a bird in full breeding status. After circling the ship, it finally landed, and ducked into a quiet alcove on the forward deck. By mid-day, another cattle egret had joined the first. Whenever disturbed by our work, these two would fly off temporarily, as if on a short scouting trip looking for land, but then come back. At the end of the day, at least three of the white birds had found refuge on our ship. At last they found a deserved rest perched high on the aft superstructure, hunkered down on some railing and faced into the howling wind.

Such an opportunistic strategy goes a long way in explaining how these land-birds got to the New World in the first place. Originally natives of Africa, it is believed that cattle egrets arrived in South America under their own power, and from there spread rapidly northward. Watching these egrets today, it occurred to me that those first immigrants might well have been assisted by the occasional rest (if not an entire free passage) afforded by a ship. My theory got some support the next day: when I looked for our hitchhikers, each had continued on with their flights sometime the previous night.

Those were not our only terrestrial visitors. A few solo barn swallows winged by, deviating only slightly from their route, and kept heading north. One merlin, a species of small falcon, dive-bombed past the pilot-house, then rocketed off. A group of shorebirds flew in tandem low over the water, steadily beating their way to a distant landfall. The high drama, however, was provided when a peregrine falcon stalked a hapless warbler flying low over the water.

Peregrine falcon in flight, courtesy USFWS

I saw the falcon first: a stocky profile bulleting around the stern of the Gunter, its flight path twisting and turning. As it came up the port side toward the bow, I saw it was actually chasing something. A tiny olive bird, a warbler flying only inches off the waves, was in its crosshairs. For a while the warbler’s tighter turning radius kept it out of the predator’s reach; I silently hoped it would stay that way.

But the peregrine climbed higher, zeroed in, and then shot down, striking a blow that knocked the warbler into the water. The falcon then circled around, deftly plucked the warbler off the ocean surface, and then flew past the pilot-house bridge. Right in front of me, using the wind for lift, the falcon flew so as to plane its wing into a near stall, and then proceeded to first pluck and then eat the warbler grasped in its talons. All of this occurred in flight, on the wing, over the open ocean, a hundred or more miles from land. And not content to stop there, the peregrine started diving-bombing the ocean again, scaring the flying-fish into a potentially fatal mistake of flushing out of the safer water below and into the far more dangerous air above.

Even now I can scarcely believe what I saw. Peregrines are famously powerful flyers, not at all intimidated to cross very large expanses of open sea. And why should they be, if they can hunt, capture, and eat on the wing?

Learn more:

Read Chris’ first entry about returning to the Gulf to survey seabirds just a year since the BP Deepwater Horizon oil disaster.

One year later, Defenders continues to fight for wildlife in the Gulf. Click here to learn more about what we’re doing and see what YOU can do to help!

The Gordon Gunter

I glance out the porthole and see the pier disappearing rapidly. We are underway. Just over one year since the Deepwater Horizon oil disaster began, I am headed back out into the deep Gulf of Mexico, this time on NOAA research vessel the Gordon Gunter. We have been studying seabirds and the impacts of the Deepwater Horizon oil spill for 10 months now. Eight of us have traveled tens of thousands of kilometers crisscrossing the ocean looking for clues, evidence of harm to seabirds.

This was to have been an eleven-day trek, the third leg of a long, two-month project that NOAA devotes to studying larval bluefin tuna and other fish plankton. But we have been delayed a day for mechanical reasons. Fortunately, being stuck an extra day in the port of Key West, Florida, seems to not bother anyone very much. We are moored at the western end of town, near the Navy Annex and the beaches of Ft. Zachary State Park. Some of the scientists use the extra time to make an excursion over to the Dry Tortugas for snorkeling. I took a pass, staying behind to back-up and transfer data from our first two research legs.

Least tern, courtesy Mark Pavelka, USFWS

As we steam southward through the shipping channel, the wind and waves pick up. Here the water is a brilliant turquoise-white. Tiny least terns flit and dive for unseen fish, and a few magnificent frigatebirds soar lazily far overhead. We left mid-afternoon, so a quick mental calculation tells me that I ought to have at least 4 hours of time before sunset to run transects and count seabirds. I take up position on the port-side wing-bridge, just outside the pilot house. Although some of us like to go as high as possible on the ship for the view, and there is a shaded flying bridge one level up on the Gunter, I like being nearer to the water — it helps me pick out birds on the distant horizon.

Ahead the turquoise water abruptly ends. On the other side lies water with a more violet hue. Several terns work back-and-forth along this boundary, looking for prey. Two roseate terns head to our stern, the first of this species I’ve seen during the entire survey.

Heading almost due west, the glare intensifies as the day wanes. I turn to my left, the sun backlighting the ocean in front of me. The ocean here is alive. Frightened by the ship’s passing, huge elliptical schools of very small flyingfish leap out of the water in unison, glide on the brisk wind, and fall back into the sea. In the air, the sun turns them silvery-blue, sparkling. A giant hammerhead shark surfs one of the waves next to the ship.

Sooty tern in flight

Then I see an alternating flash of dark-and-white dart pass the bow. This is an Audubon’s shearwater, its flight pattern arcing low over the waves. This seabird has a long body and relatively short, narrow wings. The wind gives it a boost from what is normally a labored flight, and the backlighting helps me pick out first one and then more as they all tack the wind heading south. A little later, I see a milling flock of sooty terns, wheeling in circles high over some distance school of fish. A jaeger tries to harass a tern, and nab its catch, but the tern is a better climber, and the jaeger eventually tires and glides back down to the surface.

Almost no clouds in the western sky impede our view as the sun drops into the far horizon. I finally stop at sunset, completing 27 transects and tallying scores of birds. A successful afternoon – it is good to be back in the Gulf.

Learn more:

Stay tuned for more from Chris on his journey back into Gulf waters.

One year later, Defenders continues to fight for wildlife in the Gulf. Click here to learn more about what we’re doing and see what YOU can do to help!