Greenpeace

Hello, Ocean Defenders!

There is an outstanding piece called the Darkening Sea in the New Yorker on what ocean acidification - caused by the absorption of CO2 by seawater - is projected to do to marine life.  It has only been three years since the term was introduced, and our understanding of acidification will do to marine life is still largely theoretical. Essentially, the problem is that as the ocean absorbs CO2, it becomes more acidic, making it more and more difficult (and eventually, impossible) for organisms to form shells.  This effects everything from coral reefs and clams to many of the species of plankton that form the base of the food chain.

What is at stake is shocking: millions of species are at risk, and entire
ecosystems may disappear.  Food webs would be dramatically altered, favoring
jellyfish and soft bodied organisms over anything producing a shell or
skeleton at any phase of its life cycle.  We may be looking at the greatest
planetary extinction on record (within what is ALREADY known as the "sixth
extinction," a reference to the fact that the industrial period is
responsible for a level of extinction only seen five times in the history of
the earth).  A scientist at U. of California feels it may be analogous to the KT
extinction 65 million years ago, when the earth was hit by an asteroid six
miles across.  Along with the dinosaurs, half of all coral species
disappeared, and over a third of marine genera went extinct.

Check out this quote from the article, from Ken Caldeira at Stanford
University:

"[Members of Congress] asked, 'what's the appropriate emissions target?' And
I said, 'Zero.' "If you're talking about mugging little old ladies, you don't
say, 'What's our target for the rate of mugging little old ladies?' You say,
'Mugging little old ladies is bad, and we're going to try to eliminate it.'
You recognize you might not be a hundred per cent successful, but your goal
is to eliminate the mugging of little old ladies. And I think we need to
eventually come around to looking at carbon-dioxide emissions the same way."

Clearly, it's going to take a real sea change in U.S. energy policy to prevent a disaster.  Where are the congressional champions who will rise to this challenge?  For info on what you can do, visit http://www.greenpeace.org/usa/campaigns/global-warming-and-energy 

John H

This morning we stood on the dock of Pier 9 in Honolulu and watched as the Esperanza appeared over the horizon. I was surprised by how excited I was to see her - this was my first time seeing a Greenpeace ship in person. As she got closer, we waved to the crew, and soon we were able to make out recognizable faces, including Bill Richardson, our Deputy Executive Director in the U.S. office.

Once the Espy pulled into port, I got to meet new faces of the crew, and everyone was so friendly. I also met some supporters who were just as excited to see a Greenpeace ship as I was.

Taking a tour with some of the outgoing crew was almost surreal - this is going to be my home for the next 3 weeks. 

By 2:00, the ship and her crew were welcomed by Hawai'i's Lt. Governor, James Aiona. He stressed the importance of marine protected areas like the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands National Monument, and thanked Greenpeace for our work defending the oceans.

But by the evening, we got to blow off some steam and get to know each other over dinner.  I think this is going to be an amazing experience, and I couldn't ask for a better group of people to share it with. I'm really looking forward to getting onboard tomorrow.

 

 

Yesterday we arrived at Sunset Beach and greeted volunteers for the Surfrider's Foundation for another day of beach clean up. Sunset Beach is where one of the world's largest surf competitions will start at the end of this week. It was such a beautiful beach, and the waves were just amazing. We interviewed several people about their experiences with trash pollution. Rick, has been a lifeguard at Sunset beach for 25 years. He told us about the changes he's seen in that time, and the impact of overfishing and pollution. One of the volunteers I spoke with was telling me about an endangered Hawaiian Monk Seal pup that she helped guard recently, but after weeks of protection, the pup was tragically killed in an abandoned fishing net. This was justone example of the impacts trash is having on wildlife here in Hawai'i and around the world.

After the clean up, one of the local activists, Jeanne, invited us back to her house for lunch. Jeanne has been a Greenpeace supporter since the 70's, and we met her at the Patagonia event earlier this week. Lunch was such a treat, and Jeanne's house just happened to be right on the beach! So of course we took a little stroll and jumped in a few waves after lunch. I mean, once the beach is clean, someone's gotta enjoy it, right?

Today we're off to greet the Esperanza and her crew as they pull into port. More on that later...

 -Marie

A toy soldier, a toothbrush, ribbon from an unwrapped gift, duct tape, a Nestle candy bar wrapper, bottle caps, ropes, fishing nets, and an explosion of plastic bits... not exactly ingredients for a perfect day at the beach. These were just a few of the things we collected on our beach clean up this morning.

We arrived at Kahuku beach bright and early this morning, but not quite early enough - the community-organized beach clean up had already begun. As soon as we set foot on the beach, we started noticing little specs of blue. I bent down, and found fragments of plastic. As I started picking them up, the sheer magnitude of what was happening hit me - these little fragments were everywhere, and they were being washed up from the ocean - from the very trash vortex we'll be investigating when we get onboard the Esperanza. We spent an hour filling our trash bags with pieces of fishing rope, plastic pieces of all shapes and sizes, when we realized the rest of the volunteers were around a bend in the beach. We picked up trash as we worked our way over to them.

As I turned the corner, my heart just sank - the trash was so much worse on this side of the beach. The entire beach was speckled with plastic bits - it literally looked like the kitchen countertop in our office, made of recycled containers. But this was exactly the opposite - evidence of all of the plastic swirling around the Pacific Ocean that hasn't been recycled, hasn't been thrown in the garbage. It was the worst result of littering, and every piece of plastic I saw represented a massive threat to wildlife, like sea turtles and albatross, who eat these pieces of plastic mistaking them for food, and end up starving to death, because they can't digest any of it. I used to wonder how an animal could mistake a plastic bottle for food, but today, as I bent down and looked closely at the debris, it wasn't until I picked something up that I could see the difference between clear or white plastic, and bits of shell that are natural on the beach. Once plastic breaks apart, it's hard to tell what it once was.

Margaret, one of the organizers of the clean up, told me that this part of the beach is worse because of the wind and currents. Here, in addition to all the little bits of plastic, were huge items like a tire, and a huge, heavy tangle of fishing nets. It was so depressing that I really felt like sitting down and giving up. But that didn't last, how could I give up, when the locals here come out all the time, and keep working to clean the beach?

So, we'll be at another beach clean up tomorrow, working with the Surfrider's Foundation, and we'll be back at Kahuku on Thursday, this time with the Esperanza anchored offshore. 

-Marie 

Aloha!

I’m writing from Honolulu, awaiting the arrival of the Esperanza. This is my second time in Hawaii, and I’m excited to be here again. In Maui last year, I was so lucky to see humpback whales during their migration, spinner dolphins, and sea turtles – talk about seeing some of the top animals on my life list. I’ll never forget seeing baby whales learning how to breach, or snorkeling above a green sea turtle.

This time around, I’ll be boarding the Esperanza for 3 weeks, as we celebrate the new Northwestern Hawaiian Islands National Monument, and investigate the trash vortex swirling between Hawai’i and California.

I arrived a couple of days ago with some other Greenpeace folks, including Buffy and Steve who will be getting onboard with me. We’ve been fortunate enough to participate in a couple of community events here in Honolulu, including the Bioneers conference at the Manoa campus of the University of Hawai’i, and a warm welcome at the Patagonia store in Hale'iwa. The people here have been amazing, and what they've managed to accomplish through local activism is an inspiration to us all. My favorite line came from our Bioneers host, Joshua Cooper, when he explained the meaning of the Hawaiian expression, ma ka hane ka ike: in the action, that’s where knowledge is. Well, I think that sums up Greenpeace pretty well, and describes what we’re here for.

I hope you’ll follow our journey and share in the knowledge we discover.

-Marie 

First, the good news: NOAA Fisheries has announced that they are scrapping efforts to promote the disastrous Open Ocean Aquaculture bill.  NOAA's Bill Hogarth says they'll come back next year with a revised proposal that will have more environmental safeguards.

Advocates pushing to open up U.S. waters between 3 and 200 miles offshore to fish farms have argued that this will take pressure off dwindling wild fish stocks.  Unfortunately, large scale open ocean farms are likely to do more harm than good.  These farms tend to use carnivorous fish, which still rely on wild fish for food.  In addition to the obvious problem with catching wild fish to feed farmed fish, there are also concerns about disease and parasites associated with dense concentrations of farmed fish - and about the steps taken to minimize these risks, such as use of genetically modified fish or antibiotics.

So it's definitely good news to hear that the next version of the bill will be more environmentally friendly, but it's pretty likely that the new bill won't fix the problems with open ocean aquaculture either.

On to the bad news:  after catching three billion pounds of Alaska pollock per year, the stock size is starting to decline.  The North Pacific Fishery Management Council announced a preliminary decision to reduce the Bering Sea pollock quota by over 4%, and rumors are flying that the reduction could ultimately be much larger.  Projections for 2008 are worse still. 

If there is a silver lining to this cloud, it comes in the hope that this will serve as a wake up call to fishery managers.  It's time to take a more precautionary, ecosystem-based approach to fishery management.  We need to leave enough fish in the ocean to feed the rest of the marine mammals, sea birds, and fish that depend on them for food - not to mention the fishing dependent communities that are already struggling from the impacts of "localized depletion." 

For the oceans -

John H

Ahoy, Mateys! 

I’ve been called in to shore to honor Talk Like a Pirate Day.  While this naturally offends my delicate sensibilities – what’s next?  Walk Like an Egyptian Day?!? – a few days on dry land will give me a chance to lollygag like a landlubber: practicing my hook shot, watching sea-span, and scrubbing the barnacles out of my beard.  And, as it happens, the old captain has a lot on his mind.  (Pirates have a fondness for referring to our good selves in the third person.  Beats talking to the parrot.)

There’s a pack of scalawags out there giving us pirates a bad name.  I’m talking about the swabs behind pirate fishing, of course!  These guys are raping and pillaging the oceans for a few pieces of eight – it’s practically aaarrrrrmageddon out there!  Check out our Pirates Hall of Fame.  Here are a few of the worst offenders:

1. The Japanese tuna fleet (may they be infested by termites).  As blue fin tuna populations plummet worldwide, the truth has just come out that Japan has been taking about three times their allowed quota and covering it up, stealing $2 billion worth of fish.  That’s a lot of doubloons.   

2. Cod Pirates of the Atlantic (may they be devoured by the kraken).  Once the largest fishery in the world, Atlantic cod stocks have crashed from Newfoundland to the North Sea.  To make matters worse, the chances for recovery of the once mighty cod are dimming thanks to pirates operating in the Barents and Baltic Seas.  Tell Unilever to do their part to keep pirate booty out of your supermarket. 

3. Southern Ocean Toothfish Pirates (may they meet Davey Jones at his locker).  While the Marine Stewardship Council may have certified a small piece of the Patagonian toothfish fishery as sustainable, rampant pirate fishing continues to plague the species, also known as Chilean seabass.  Some governments have been starting to crack down on these scurvy dogs (you might have heard about Australia chasing a Uruguayan flagged ship for nearly 4,000 miles), but there are still too many pirates and too few fish. 

But before you start demanding that all pirates be forced to walk the plank, let me say one word in defense of my fellow sea rats.  Too often the poor souls aboard the pirate fishing vessels risk life and limb on poorly maintained, rusting shipwrecks waiting to happen.  These fishermen are often just a step above slaves, working in dangerous conditions for practically nothing.  The real scoundrels are usually far away, in oak-paneled boardrooms hidden behind layers and layers of bureaucracy.  But it takes a pirate to find a pirate, so we’ll track them down for sure.  Besides, I’ve got a secret map, see…

So weigh anchor and raise the sails, we’re going after ‘em!

 

- John Hocevar

Pirate at Large

It's the final day of the tour. As I start to ready the Witness for her journey back to Washington D.C., I can't help but think back over her many stops throughout this tour. As first mate, I feel very fortunate to have had the opportunity to be a part of such a beautiful vessel and such a successful tour. The Witness is the newest and smallest addition to the Greenpeace fleet. She is also the only vessel under the American flag, which I believe has carved out a very unique niche for her within the organization.

Greenpeace vessels are no strangers to the waters of the Eastern seaboard, however, the shallow draft of the Witness allowed the campaign to come into smaller ports of call, ones that previously would have been less accessible with a ship drawing 16ft. By being able to tie up at local town docks it allowed the campaign to establish a more direct dialogue with the local communities that are most effected by projects such as Cape Wind.

The opportunity to use the Witness as a platform to conduct grassroots campaigns and public education outreach was very evident throughout this tour. Also evident was the need for such tours. I must have given close to one hundred tours of the ship everyday and while not everyone was in agreement on the project itself, all were eager to learn more and anxious to open dialogue that more often than not led to the dispelling of myths and missinformation about the turbines. Provincetown, was a great place to end this tour, the people here are socially responsible, progressive, and understand the immediate threat global warming posses to their precious Nantucket sound.

I am confident that I will sail the Witness through the sound once again, however, next time I know it will be to give the citizens of the Cape a first hand look at their beautiful and productive wind farm, the true keeper of the sound.

- Heath
First Mate
Witness

We have made it to the last stop on the tour, lovely P-town.  Witness has a nice parking spot on the pier and we definitely find ourselves in friendlier waters. Alas the weather is not cooperating with us too well.  It is cold and very windy; they have even stopped the ferry from running back and forth from Boston because of the wind and waves.  But the staff and volunteers continue to be out on the street spreading the word about Cape Wind and yesterday we had over 100 people tour Witness.

On Thursday we said good bye to our Danish friend, Jens Larsen.  Jens is an offshore wind expert that came over for part of the tour to help educate people on the reality of offshore wind success in Denmark. Jens presented to the Massachusetts State legislators, the Massachusetts wind working group and sat on a panel at Cape Cod Community College.  The panel, which consisted of a retired Nantucket Sound ferryboat captain and the public policy director for Mass Audubon Society, got pretty heated with the local NIMBY opposition out in full force. Over 90 people were in attendance and got to hear from the panelists and visit the Rolling Sunlight on their way to and from the parking lot.

This weekend we were also joined by some of the frontline canvassers form the Boston office, they worked the streets of P-town signing on supporters and collecting postcards in support of Cape Wind.

Two more days of open boats in P-town and then the tour ends and we make our way home.  
Cheers,
Kate
Energy Campaigner
Greenpeace USA

Hello from Boston,

It is day 11 on the Witness Yes to Wind Tour.  I find myself in Boston and missing the Cape and Witness.  To recap the last few days, August 25th on Nantucket, we had what the local TV station called the ‘battle of the boats’ as we were at the marina with the group opposing the wind project, The Alliance to Protect Nantucket Sound.  They chartered the Spirit of Massachusetts, a beautiful 125-ft. schooner modeled after a 19th century fishing vessel, to have open boats tours.  Things were fairly copasetic and we had a steady stream of people though the Witness, even though upon arrival we were moved to a different location then was advertised. Little wonder since the Dockmaster sits on the board of the opposition.

After a beautiful sail from Nantucket to Hyannis (no really, we are working hard) the weather turned cool and rainy.  We had three open boats in Hyannis, running the RIBS from a remote dock, another last minute change from a Harbormaster opposed to the project.  But our supporters since managed to find us for tours.

Sunday marked the arrival of Chris Miller and my departure to Boston to met a Danish offshore wind expert, Jens Larsen.  Yesterday Jens’s presented to a receptive group of Massachusetts State legislators at an event hosted by state Representative Matt Patrick.  Today is another day in Boston with Jens’s presenting to the MA Wind Working Group and then back to the Cape to hold an offshore wind symposium and take Provincetown by storm.

Cheers,
Kate
Energy Campaigner
Greenpeace USA 

The following post is from Kate who is onboard the S/Y Witness in Cape Cod...

Thursday, August 24
Greetings from Nantucket,

It is day 7 on the Witness and we arrived on the island of Nantucket yesterday afternoon where the boats at the marina are about equal to the gross national product of six developing counties.

Our tour started over the weekend on Martha’s Vineyard where we had two beautiful days and 200 hundred people tour the Witness and learn about our clean energy work on the Cape. Sunday afternoon Chris, one of the volunteers, discovered that President Clinton was having lunch at the Black Dog Tavern right at the end of the pier where we were docked. We quickly assembled a group of us in our ‘Yes’ shirts which he would see as he came out and tried to deliver him a postcard to sign in the support of Cape Wind via secret service agents. I got to meet him and while he did not sign the card, at least he saw our message.

Woods Hole brought more days of good weather and tours of Witness accompanied by the Rolling Sunlight parked right on Main Street. While there is some local opposition, we also have residents who support our work. A NOAA employee told us she turned all the deck chairs on their vessel to face the Witness with our Yes to Wind banners because Senator Mikulski was taking a tour with them that day. Today and tomorrow we have two more open boats and then we sail to Hyannis.

Cheers,
Kate Smolski

Our ships are having a very busy summer.

The newest addition to our fleet, Witness, is in Cape Cod promoting clean energy.

The Arctic Sunrise is involved in an action at a Dutch Port to stop pirate fishing right now. Trawlers operating in the Berents Sea often under-report their daily catches, and transfer parts of their catch unreported to reefer vessels. Our activists are onboard the Mumrinskiy, a Russian reefer ship that we believe is hauling black market cod.  We are preventing the fish from being off-laoded until a thorough inspection takes place.  The action is being used to highlight steps needed to end pirate fishing.

The Rainbow Warrior is in the Mediterranean, where we have really had our hands full lately. Earlier this summer, our efforts to confront the tuna mafia were hindered by the fact that there are so few tuna that no one was catching any. The collapse of blue fin tuna stocks has developed into a major story - and Japan has been implicated in taking three times its quota (and lying about it for years). The Warrior has also been pushing for marine reserves in the Mediterranean, and also took some time to work with Doctors Without Borders in delivering relief supplies to Lebanon.  And on the way to a press conference in Marseille, we rescued three sailors from a sinking yacht last night. The people are fine, but the boat is lost.

The Esperanza is Defending Our Oceans in the Philippines, where plans to highlight the threat of pollution to some of the world's most diverse coral reefs have coincided with the largest oil spill in the country's history. Greenpeace is working with the Philippine Coast Guard to assess and control the spill.

According to Joaquin Nava, the governor of the afflicted province, the oil spill has ravaged thousands of hectares of fishing grounds and marine reserves - the source of livelihood for a large number of his constituents. "We can only watch in horror how an oil spill can undo in a few days our initiatives which have taken decades to implement," Nava said, choking back tears.

- John 

The following post is from Captain Bob...

Aug 16
It’s 7 a.m. and much nicer this morning with about 6-8 ft swells and 10 kt winds still coming from behind us. It’s mostly cloudy at the moment but looking ahead I can see sunrays filtering down in a few places. Our current ETA Newport is about midnight tonight. We will both sleep onboard the rest of the night and get up around seven to get the day started. I’ll be packing my things up to drive about two and a half hours south in my pick up truck to my home in Coos Bay. Willie will get started on quite a list of things that need to be accomplished prior to us getting the ship underway again. We are scheduled to depart in about 2 weeks heading south in the direction of Southern California. Once there, we will be seeking out Blue Whales and Humpback Whales to tag for satellite tracking. This tagging operation has continued to be a successful tool for the scientific community by providing data on exactly where these beautiful animals go and when. And, there is still so much more to learn.

Willie and I both feel that having been part of the expedition we are about conclude and part of those like this next one ahead of us is a real privilege. There is so much data and information to be gained and analyzed that will all help protect and preserve all the world’s oceans and all life the dwells within them. One can’t help but feel good about this kind of job.

It’s now noon and we are about 60 miles due west of the mouth of the Columbia River which borders Washington state and Oregon. We have about 110 miles left to the Newport Harbor entrance and that still looks like an ETA very close to midnight. The seas and winds continue to go down. That, along with the current going south from the Columbia River may start to help our speed a little. Every little bit helps. We just passed another boat from Newport and he gave us a call on the radio. They are out here Albacore Tuna fishing and doing okay. We frequently see and talk to him on the dock so it was kind of interesting to be this far away and this far off shore and cross paths. It was fun to touch base with him again and get caught up.

It’s 6 pm now and we have been doing 9 kts plus for the last couple of hours and now we are down to 8.4 kts. We have an overcast sky, the swells are down to about 2 feet and winds down to about 5 kts. The conditions are great now and I just saw another albatross. We are 30 miles off shore and 49 miles to the Newport whistle buoy.

It’s now 12 midnight and we can see the lights of Newport. We have 4 more miles to the entrance buoy and we’re both smiling. I still can’t see the light on the buoy but I know it will be any minute and I can hardly wait.

We are back, it’s 1:15 am, we are tied up and we are ready for some sleep. It’s really great to be back in Newport again. It will be even greater seeing my beautiful wife Shirley as soon as I get home to Coos Bay. It is with mixed feelings that I’m about to click on the “send” icon which will be like flipping the off switch to officially end this expedition. I sincerely hope that this is not the end of the story but only the end of a chapter in the story that will continue. Willie and I hope to be a part of the next chapter as well. To those of you I know and those I don’t know (yet) thanks for riding with us to port. It has been like having caring friends along with us even though we haven’t spoken directly.

In closing it is my sincere hope that you and all those close to you do what ever you can, large or small, to help protect our planet above and below the water. I wish you all the best till next time. Good night.

- Captain Bob

The following posting is from Captain Bob...

Aug 15
It’s 7 am and the weather has come upon us. We have an average of about 8 foot seas and 35 kt winds. While we are rolling quite a lot it’s not as bad as it could be. The swell and wind are coming from directly behind us so it’s trying to push our stern to one side or the other. Our auto pilot has to work overtime and is doing great. At least we don’t have to deal with it from the side. That would be dangerous. I would have to change course if that were the case. Also the sun is in a mostly clear sky and that’s nice. This weather forecast said that this will last through tonight. Bummer!

It is often said that timing is everything and most people can relate to that. I went down into the galley, fixed a bowl of cereal (healthy type), came back up to the wheelhouse, did a quick scan of the area ahead of us and about 100 yards off the starboard bow I see a whale spout. After my double take it did it again. With so many “white caps” due to the high winds, it was amazing that I was able to see it. I saw two more spouts and then it retreated to the calm under the stormy surface. If you were 20 feet under water you wouldn’t know there was a storm above.

We just left the “traffic control” area that started when we entered Canadian waters. We had to check in by radio every so often at check points that they assigned to us. Also, every so often they would call to update us about other ship traffic in our course. It’s a nice service especially in congested ship traffic but I’m glad we are finished with the reporting. Now all we have is one waypoint left and that’s the one at the entrance to Newport. By this time tomorrow…we’ll be another day closer.

I sure hope Willie is able to get some sleep. He didn’t sleep well before he relieved me at 3 am so I hope its better this time. Just saw another albatross. I love watching them. He did sleep better and gave me a chance for a little nap. Willie saw some humpbacks while I was sleeping.

It’s 11:45 pm now and the sea/wind conditions are still the same, as expected. We are currently about 85 miles off shore and 80 miles north of the Colombia River. Hope things settle down soon ‘because this is getting old.,br> By this time tomorrow we should be pretty close to tying up in Newport, OR our home port. I’m really looking forward to sleeping in my own bed again but after 8 weeks at sea I expect it will take a little getting used to being on solid ground again. I’ll tough that part out though with no complaints.

- Captain Bob

The following posting is from Captain Bob...

Aug 14
It’s a nice morning again with patchy clouds and some dark ones straight ahead on the horizon. Hopefully they will be gone by the time we get there. We are still on the inside of Graham Island and headed south. We had some heavy rain for a little while last night and I had to briefly change course to pass the north bound Canadian Coast Guard Cutter Vector. The slight wind and wind waves that we have now are coming from directly astern and we are making 8.7 kts. Not bad and I hope it lasts.

9 pm and the day passed as above. It got sunny in the afternoon and stayed that way till sunset. And it was a very nice sunset indeed. We have just passed the northern end of Vancouver Island and set a direct course now for the entrance to Newport, OR harbor. Current ETA 2 days, 2 hours and 35 minutes, but who’s counting? Me!

Since we are back on the ocean side of land we have rejoined the ocean swells. They are coming from the northwest and have us rolling quite a lot. I expect we’ll be tired of rolling like this by the end of these 2 days, 2 hours and 25 minutes. But what fond memories there are to reflect on during that time. Willie and I were talking about some of them today and we are both hopeful we can do it again next year. Many good things were started on this trip and it would be great to see them continue and grow.

- Captain Bob

The following posting is from Captain Bob...

Aug 13
Willie let me sleep an extra hour again this morning. As I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes to saw a small island. LAND! What a beautiful sight. As I took over the watch from Willie so he could go down and get some sleep, I saw an albatross, the first one in weeks. Those birds are a work of art in themselves. Their wingspan to body ratio allows them to glide with great efficiency. They can ride the wind currents just inches above the water surface and seldom have to move their wings except to adjust to the gentle rise and fall of the swells. It’s like poetry on the wing.

As we slip into Dixon Entrance, the area at the northern end of Graham Island we are encountering some current. For a very short period we slowed down to as low as 6.7 kts but mostly 7.5 kts plus. It looks like the currents should turn soon and aid us during the next 10 hours that we need to travel before we will turn south on the inside of Graham Island toward Vancouver Island. Once we make our turn south it will be about 230 miles to the northern end of Vancouver. Then we’ll have about 400 miles, (about 2 days), to the entrance to Newport, our home port.

The currents did turn and did help us for a while up to 9.5 kts. As we were ready to make our turn to the south we noticed on the radar a line up of what looked like about 10 salmon fishing boats right where we needed to go. So I slowly headed for one end of the line and then one boat near that end changed course and gave me a clear path through. Nice guy. By the way, fog settled down so not much visibility now.

It’s 10 pm now. It’s dark and I can see a cruise ship on the radar that is headed north and passing about 5 miles off my port side. I know it’s a cruise ship because I heard them talking to the Prince Rupert Ships Traffic Control. As it turns out, because of the size of the ship, I had to go under their traffic control as well. I have to call them on the radio as I reach certain check points that they provide, tell them my current course and speed and then they give me the next check point. I’ve never had to do this before so it’s another new experience to add to this trips “list of firsts”.

The water here on the inside is smooth and the wind is about 5 kts from behind so we’re cruising along at a nice 9.3 kts. It’s a nice evening cruise and Willie just went down to get some sleep.

- Captain Bob

The following posting is from Captain Bob...

Aug 12
Go figure! It’s midnight Saturday morning and we’re 259 miles to our next waypoint at the north end of Graham Island and I have a container ship 1.4 miles off my port side that just crossed my bow. It’s a container ship headed for Anchorage. All this space out here and we come this close to each other. That’s a little bit like walking for hours into the back country somewhere and stepping on a piece of bubble gum. Well, that happened to me once too but that’s another story.

I woke up on my own this morning at 5 am and Willie had let me sleep an extra hour. Nice guy. The sun is shining through a patch of blue sky, seas are down slightly and the winds are down substantially, at least for now. They are forecasting a little higher sea and wind this afternoon but down again for this evening. By this time tomorrow we should be inside Canadian waters and headed south inside the protection of Graham Island. I hope it’s as nice going south through there as it was going north at the start of this trip.

Well it’s 9 pm and getting dark. The winds are down to about 5 kts and the seas down to about 4 ft. The ship is very slowly rolling back and forth and Willie just went down to get some sleep before his watch. He should sleep well. Skies are overcast with some dark clouds but it’s been that way most of the afternoon. Only 90 miles to Graham Island and we’ll be there in the morning. It will be nice to see land again after 3 days in the open waters of the gulf.

- Captain Bob

The following posting is from Captain Bob, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Aug 11
Well, today is a day that sea lovers like me don’t usually care to talk about or think about. The weather system that I was hoping to get a head start on caught us already and it’s a little more than we were expecting along with heavy rain. Poor Willie had the 2 am – 6 am wheel watch and when I woke up at about 5:30, while trying to keep from getting tossed out of my bunk, he was standing in front of the captain’s chair bracing himself on three sides. I say poor Willie because it’s his time to try to sleep and in this weather it will be extremely difficult at best (as some of the expedition crew can attest to). The ship is safe enough but if we need to move around it means holding on with both hands and leaning on the wall all at the same time. I’ve changed course to try to minimize the rolling and pitching. Hope it helps Willie to sleep though it will extend our travel time a bit.

Willie read my blog for yesterday and when he read my comment about “I need a haircut” he made some smart remark about being lucky that animal control in Kodiak didn’t catch me. What a wise guy.

In the afternoon Willie relieved me on wheel watch so I could take a nap. By late afternoon when I took the watch again the sea conditions had changed directions a few more times and Willie had us right back on course and route again. We are about half way across the Gulf of Alaska now and I guess this means that we’re on the down hill portion.(Unfortunately the speed hasn’t improved on the downhill side.) We are just passed a number of undersea mountains referred to on the chart as Gulf Of Alaska Seamount Province.

The seas and winds are still up but the rain is gone and there are a few patches of blue sky to remind us that there are better conditions ahead. I’ll be glad to see them again. However, with the sun shining on the high seas with the high winds pushing the tops of the waves like sparkling white frosting, one can even find some beauty in the midst of a storm and know that this too shall pass.

We have just less than 300 miles to reach the north end of Graham Island in Canada. We should reach there sometime Sunday morning. It’s 8 pm, still light outside and Willie just went into the engine room to do his regular check up rounds. I can see him in the safety TV monitor we have in the wheel house. There are cameras in the main engine room and generator engine room. As I watch him meticulously go through and check everything I realize what a sense of security I feel with him being here and responsible for keeping this ship running. I’m really glad he’s here both as a mechanic and as a friend. It’s like, together, we can do anything and go anywhere the ship can take us. I look forward to those times and places we’ll travel to for research in the future.

- Captain Bob

The following posting is from Captain Bob, who is onboard in the Bering Sea..

Aug 10
At about 10 o'clock last night I quickly brought the engine down to an idle and took it out of gear to just drift and watch 3 Humpback whales up close. I first spotted the blows straight ahead and then watched them as they all, one right after the other as though on queue, arched their backs and raised their flukes and dove like in a graceful water ballet. It was beautiful and Willie and I stared in wonder and both spoke out our Wow's. A couple of minutes later the whales surfaced within 100 yards off our port side and then just laid there and rolled slowly around for a few minutes like they were resting. Then again, as though on queue, they did their ballet and slipped quietly below the surface. I then put the boat back in gear and we move on. I wish that everyone might someday have this kind of an encounter with these magnificent animals because there are no words that can do justice to describing the personal experience.

There are so many treasures that we have in the sea and on land that we simply must find a way to protect and manage them. If we use, and not abuse, the great renewable resources we have on this great earth they will last and support our needs for all generations to come. Finding alternatives to our non-renewable resources should be of highest priority in everyone's mind though I can understand it may be difficult for some living from one day to the next. I believe that our leaders should be held accountable for their responsibilities to protect and govern and if they don't…get someone who will. I know, easier said than done.

I’ll get off my soap box. Last night and today we’ve had some swells come up from our starboard quarter and as those that were on the trip know, that creates a lot of rock-n-roll and can make it very difficult to stay in your bunk let alone get any sleep. This afternoon it came down a lot so it’s much better now. Willie relieved me on wheel watch so I slept great for a couple of hours this afternoon which made up a bit from last night. We’ve got some overcast and a little rain. The weather forecast suggests that we may have a weather system coming up behind us. We still have another two and a half days out in open waters before we get to Canada so I hope we can get at least most of the way across before it catches up. Who knows, maybe it’ll change directions and pass us by. Hope so. We’ve been underway since June 22nd. I really need a haircut.

- Captain Bob

The following posting is from Captain Bob, who is onboard in the Bering Sea..

9am – We are out of the shelter of the islands and are fully exposed to the Pacific Ocean. Surprisingly, what little weather there is happens to be coming out of the North with winds about 15kts, 2ft wind waves and virtually no swell. There are very few high clouds and steering directly into the early morning sun reflecting off the water is hard on the eyes.

As we are approaching the north end of the Semidi Islands, we are about half the 200 mile distance between the shelter of the Shumagin Islands, which we left about 10 hours ago, and Sitkinak Island at the southern end of Kodiak Island.

Willie had the wheel watch from 3am-8:30. He’s getting some sleep now so I’m once again sitting here thinking about this trip. At the moment I'm thinking about the natives that live up on St. Lawrence Island. I'm thinking about how they live in an environment so harsh that most of us couldn’t possibly imagine living in. They and their ancestors have lived there for literally thousands of years where the sea completely freezes around them for many months out of the year. While some of the conveniences of the lower 48 have made their way here like 4 wheeled atv’s (no cars), refined heating oil delivered every so often by fuel barge, weather permitting, electricity and improved housing, they still greatly depend on the health of the environment around them for subsistence. They still have to fish and hunt to survive as their ancestors have for thousands of years. I saw genuine pride in their island home and their traditions. As we are all brothers and sisters on this one earth, it would be a great tragedy if we couldn’t all come together to properly manage and protect the whole earth for the benefit of all who live on it now and in the future. Wouldn’t it be nice?

11am – Just passed Semidi Islands and in just under 24 hours we’ll be tied up in Kodiak. It looks like we’ll be spending a full day and perhaps overnight there. We need to change the oil and filters in the engines prior to heading across the Gulf of Alaska to Canada. I think we’re also overdue for a Chinese food dinner.

The wind has come way down to about 5kts and there are no white caps and very few high clouds left. The sun is much higher now so the glare isn’t as bad. We can still see the snow covered mountains on the peninsula. It looks like they go on forever. Looking ahead, way off in the distance, I can see a fog bank. I’m not pleased with the prospect of fog but we’ve had such beautiful weather so far, I guess I can put up with a little. We had enough fog during the expedition to last a lifetime but here it comes again. Oh well…life happens and we move on. I just spotted another whale about a quarter mile off our starboard side. Life is good.

5:50pm – It looks like the fog is dissipating before we got into it. Go figure.

- Captain Bob
 

The following posting is from Captain Bob, who is onboard in the Bering Sea..

Here it is the second day on our way from Dutch Harbor to Kodiak and we're another day closer to home. Winds are calm and the sea surface is flat. It's almost like a mirror. There are scattered clouds with unlimited visibility to the horizon. It’s another beautiful day going along the Alaskan Peninsula and weaving between the islands and back tracking the route that we took from Kodiak to Dutch. That is with one little exception. I took a little detour of about 4 miles to go through a “real” pass that had 8 full fathoms of water. That's unlike the one that my dear friend George had us go through that had ZERO FATHOMS under the boat. Thought I’d save myself the anxiety.

The shoreline of both the peninsula and the islands are very similar as one might expect. There are places that are sheer rugged and crumbly cliffs that then give way to some flat rolling hills. I'm reminded again of a couple of discussions we had the last few weeks about how there are no trees of any kind in any areas we visited. That includes all the islands we passed when we originally left Kodiak for Dutch Harbor. I think that’s a sign of how harsh things can be at other times while I'm enjoying the sunshine and beauty of today on this voyage home.

As I look out as far as I can see in all directions around the ship, I wish everyone could have the opportunity to see what I'm seeing. There are no clouds in the sky and there is a little fog rolling slowly over the mountains on the peninsula. We are passing about one half mile off the coast if a small but very tall Karpa Island. Its peak shows on the chart at 800 ft. The sides are sheer and there are thousands of birds soaring around the base and on up to the tallest heights. We had the fortune of seeing many of these sights during this expedition. I sit and look in total wonder of how I can see so much right here where I sit and how this is such a small fraction of what we saw and what there is still to see in this great place called Alaska.

I feel a connection to Alaska now that I didn’t have before. Alaska has become part of the fabric of my life and I think it's the color of royal blue. It makes me want to see more and do more to protect this treasure we have called earth. It makes me want to come back again and continue to be part of building on the foundation that was laid on this trip. I hope it works out that way.

- Captain Bob

The following posting is from Captain Bob, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Well, we are on our way back to Newport, Oregon from Dutch Harbor, Alaska. Willie, the ships mechanic, came back to the boat night before last and it was really great to see him again. I’m sure glad he’s back for the return trip home.

Everyone but James flew out yesterday to their respective destinations after finishing up some last minute things around the community. With mixed happy and sad goodbyes the hugs and best wishes until next timewere abundant. James was the last one off the boat this morning and Willie and I got underway about 1045. On the way out of the harbor I called George on the radio to say our last goodbyes. It was good to hear his voice again one last time before we were out of radio range.

The winds were calm and the sky was overcast but the air was crystal clear and t-shirt comfortable. We made our way out of the harbor, around the spit and headed north out into Unalaska Bay. About two miles into the bay we spotted two small humpback whales showing off and waving their goodbyes as well. There was a lot of ship traffic as we were going out so we slightly changed courses a few times. No close calls or problems. The weather forecast for the different areas in our route to Kodiak sounds favorable so that's a good thing. I looked up the currents expected in a couple of the passes and straits we are to go through and they look a little marginal. We’ll have to see.

Later
As expected, going south through Akutan Pass was a challenge. We encountered a 6.3 kt current going north (head on) that had us down a couple of times to as low as 1.7 kts. We got tossed around a bit in the converging waters but not too bad. It took us some extra time through there but we made it just fine. We are now approaching Avatanak Strait and will cross Unimak Pass in about five hours. Kodiak will be our next stop where we will top off the fuel, get some fresh veggies and turn the pointy end of the ship toward Canada, then south to Newport.

We are on the south side of the island chain now and the seas and winds are calm. There’s some high fog that keeps us from seeing the mountain tops but everything is so beautiful anyway. We keep getting puffins flying by and checking us out or sitting in the water in front of the ship until the last minute. Then they start flapping their wings for all they're worth, trying to get airborne, while bouncing their chubby bellies off the water as they go on a heading still directly in front of us. I feel sorry for them having to work so hard while looking back over one side as they are “flying” and then the other and not being able to get away from us. Then finally they turn or land and dive at the last minute.

Passing close to Akutan Island we can see little waterfalls and a coupleof them were coming right out of the side and about half way down the cliff. I've not seen that before. There have been so many new things for me to see during this adventure. They will be like little treasures tucked away in my memory. Then thankfully, as I continue to get older, the photos will help me remember them. There were all the new people, places, cultural experiences and crew to add to my mental treasure chest. Then on top of all that it was a safe journey. There is so much to be thankful for.

We’ve been underway since June 22nd and to be headed home is a good feeling. I love the sea and being at sea and I’m definitely going to enjoy all the sites that we’ll have going home. However, my greatest love is already there waiting for me at home and I'm sure anxious to seeher. On the grand scale of things, it won't really be long now. It just seems that way.

It seems strangely quiet now with just Willie and me on the ship. The sun is still up. The little wind ripples on the water are sparkling like jewels and everything is beautiful. Life is good.

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

It’s six a.m. on August 3, and I’m on bridge watch again as we travel the last few hours to Dutch Harbor and the end of the expedition. It’s dark out, and quiet, leaving me some time to reflect on the last 35 days and 3000 miles in the Bering. 3155 miles to be exact.

When I came out here, I naively expected days of high adventure, racing through the waves in a RIB to get fluke photos of whale after whale. What I found was something slower, quieter, and far grander than I’d imagined. Looking at maps, and flying between continents in hours, it’s easy to believe Walt Disney that it’s a small world. But the world is only small until you get out into it. Spend some time moving at a natural pace, or something approaching one, and you find that the world is truly immense. And in this immensity there still remain some vast expanses where human presence is the rare exception, rather than the
rule, where wildness still holds sway. The Bering Sea is one of those precious, blessed places. And in it, you begin to understand that it is we who are small, not the world around us.

Even with years of experience seeking out wildlife on five continents, I still expected nature to be when and where I wanted it to be, instead of all around me. I expected fireworks, instead of starlight. But nature moves at her own pace and to her own rhythms, and to survive and be content in the Bering Sea you must succumb to those rhythms, become a part of them. I can’t say this was my own discovery. I learned it from the Unangan people of the Pribilof Islands, and the Yup’ik of St. Lawrence—people who, unlike so many of us, still live at nature’s pace, know her faces and her moods, and add their own small, humble voices to her eternal song.

I also learned it from Dave, our onboard scientist for the second leg, who knew the places where we could most reliably find whales because he has spent years, not weeks or days, patiently waiting in those places for the whales to come in their own time, rather than his. I’m sure he didn’t mean to impart any life lessons with his stories, but there you go. The best scientists have, like the islanders we met, accepted the unpredictable comings and goings of their subjects, and adapted their work to allow for that. Working to understand nature on her own terms, rather than their own.

And I think this acceptance and this understanding lies at the heart of what we learned here, and of what we accomplished. We called this expedition “The Bering Sea: A Look from Within” (George’s name. Nice work, George). We set out with the goal, not of confronting villains or righting imminent wrongs, but of developing a deeper understanding of the forces that are changing the Bering, and building bridges to the people who can help enrich that understanding—the scientific community through data and analysis, the local communities through human experience. In our collaborations with Dave and Craig and other scientists, in our community meetings in St George and Savoonga, I think we achieved that. I know we achieved that. And it’s something to be proud of.

We also set out to document the threats to the Bering, and to share what we found with the rest of the world. With you. We certainly saw plenty of trawlers. And we gathered powerful stories about the effects of trawling and of global warming on the local peoples here. But for me, the most powerful evidence of threats, and of the changes going on here, came slowly and quietly, as I compared the names on maps—Otter Island, Seal Island, Sea Lion Rocks—to the empty beaches before my eyes, and the stories of how those beaches used to be. There are still thousands of sea lions and walruses, tens of thousands of fur seals. But once, not so very long ago, there were so very many more. In too many places, the names on empty beaches have become epitaphs to populations that were. I could never have truly understood that without coming here.

But more than proving that there are threats, this expedition showed us again and again just how much remains that is worth protecting. The Bering Sea is home to 80% of our country’s seabirds. And I think we saw all of them. In numbers that would boggle the mind. Northern fur seals in numbers that could survive and thrive if we’d only protect their food supply. Gray whales, and humpbacks, and killer whales and walruses. Stellar sea lions. And right whales that maybe, just maybe, if we’re very careful, could find their way back from the brink of extinction. And human beings, who I now understand are as much a part of this ecosystem, and as dependent on its health, as every other form of life we encountered.

This is what the Bering Sea had to teach us. It was a lesson worth learning.

As we headed into Dutch, much more tired and a little bit wiser than when we began, we were suddenly surrounded by birds. Shearwaters. Hundreds of thousands of them, flocked so close they covered the sea like a carpet, and filled the sky like storm clouds. Not for moments, but for miles. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen, or expect ever to see again. Until I return to the Bering. Happens here all the time, apparently.

As we sailed through the bird storm, a pod of Dall’s porpoises began bow-riding the ship. Beautiful, frenetic little animals darting back and forth under the bowsprit at lightning speed, then breaking the surface just long enough to send rooster tails of spray into the air. They stayed with us for a minutes that felt like hours, then vanished as quickly as they’d come. Leaving no sign of where they’d gone.

And as we entered the harbor and the promise of home, there, at last were our humpback whales. Blowing and diving and fluking in the waves. Nature’s fireworks. At her own pace; and in her own time.

It was a beautiful send off. A fitting end. And a nice way to start my next journey. Three days and four thousand miles to home.

I’ll be home soon, Kate.

Love, Daddy.

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Last night at 11 p.m., I saw the sunset for the first time in weeks. It was a little late in the day for one, but a welcome sight nonetheless, and a nice signpost for the beginning of the end of the tour. We spent last night finishing out our humpback search area, then headed south this morning for a pass between Amak Island and the Alaska Peninsula, our last waypoint before the turn toward Dutch Harbor and home. As we neared the island, we saw a humpback. Then a few minutes later, saw another.

It was nice to spend some time watching real whales. When you’ve been on watch for days on end, staring at the uninterrupted expanse of the sea, the water starts to take shapes of its own. A blow. A fin. The arch of a back. But there’s nothing there. Just ghosts in the waves.

Before we got to Amak, our route took us through the area where most sightings of the critically endangered Northern right whale have occurred in recent years. It would have been nice to see one, of course; but we had no illusions about it. There are no more than 100 Northern right whales left in the east Pacific now, and the true number may be closer to twenty, making them one of the world’s most endangered mammals. The species has become so rare, an accurate count is nearly impossible. Until a few whales were seen with a calf in 1996, there’d been no proof for decades that right whales were even reproducing in Alaskan waters.

The right whale earned both its name and its endangered status from commercial whalers. It was the “right” whale to hunt because the species is slow moving, rich in whale oil, and floats when harpooned. In the Atlantic, right whales were hunted for hundreds of years before being nearly wiped out. In the North Pacific, it took less than seventy. Intensive whaling for right whales started in Alaska in 1835, and by 1900 the species had all but disappeared. And even though the species was completely protected in 1935, it has yet to recover. Although I hope they someday will, the sad truth is the North Pacific’s right whales may never recover. When a population becomes very small, chance starts to play a huge role in its fate: any mortality, any disease, any accident becomes too much. One accident too many, and extinction becomes inevitable. The few animals left become remnants of a species that is already doomed. A collection of ghosts in the waves.

The history of commercial whaling is not a proud one. Blue whales, fin whales, bowheads, humpbacks all were “managed” to the brink of extinction before finally being protected. It’s a story we’ve repeated again and again on both land and sea—with elephants, with rhinos, with crab and cod, tuna and swordfish. Some species, in some places, have begun to recover. Many have not.

In lives saturated with sitcoms and newsflashes and podcasts, we’re trained to believe that problems come and go at lighting speed. The news explodes. The story unfolds. The problem is fixed. Everyone is happy and we move on to the next episode and the next crisis. But nature takes a long time to reveal her wounds, and even longer to heal them. If they can be healed at all.

Each time we mismanage a species or fishery until it disappears, we tell ourselves we’ve learned our lesson. That the next species, the next fishery, will be managed responsibly and cautiously. But then the profits come, and the boom comes, and we don’t want the boom to end. So when little signals arise, when nature starts to show her hand, a litany begins: there’s no evidence; there’s not enough evidence; the evidence is inconclusive; something else is to blame; someone else is to blame…why didn’t someone warn us this was happening? Who took all the fish away? Who took all the whales?

The answer, sadly, is always the same. If you haven’t guessed it yet, I suggest you ask a right whale.

If you can find one.

- Carroll

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...  

2nd August
Near Amak Island
High cloud, gentle breeze, good viz.
After 36 hours of searching through the ocean for humpbacks we finished the pattern and headed south. We had hoped to find whales in that area in order to add whales to the weight of the pollock spawning grounds as an argument against seismic testing and oil drilling in this area already under pressure from over-fishing.

The next day-
Slowly in the south east, around dinner time, an amazing sight began to take shape out of the clouds on the horizon, the massive peaks of Pavlof Volcano, still smoking, and Mt Dana, another volcano but inactive. Below them the silhouette of Amak Island, where we are headed for the pass between the island and the mainland. Craig (the previous whale scientist on board) wants us to have a look around there for killers.
As we approached the island I was out on the back deck having a cuppa watching the world go by when all of a sudden the revs dropped. I stood up, looked over the side and nearly dropped my cup of tea as a humpback surfaced about 60 feet from the boat! We’ve had people up the rig and looking out the windows all day for weeks, and we nearly ran it over! Really goes to show what a difficult creature they are to spot despite their size. This area is well documented and studied re humpbacks though so we took a few photos and moved on.

Only about 20 hours to go now till we reach Dutch Harbour, Unalaska. The crew are pretty excited at the prospect of land, being able to phone family etc. Some fresh food’s going to be a wonderful thing as well. Starting to get pretty sick of freeze-dried broccoli and peas that’s for sure. And to top it all off we get Willie back! Thankfully nothing too bad went wrong with the engine while he was away. We have been religious about following all his instructions and only had to call him with questions once, so we did pretty well I reckon.
With any luck George will meet us at the wharf with a vehicle so we can go into town and shop for the last little voyage of the tour. Either around the island to take samples of the last big oil spill up here, or out what they call the green belt in search of factory trawlers.

Well its back to the binoculars for me, hopefully to find some killer whales that can help us SAVE THE BERING SEA!!!!

Adam

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea... 

Yesterday morning, we left our harbor at Security Cove and sailed around the cape into Bristol Bay. We took a chance on the weather that seems to have paid off. The sea’s been much calmer than forecast for the last two days, allowing us to do our research in earnest. We spent yesterday doing killer whale research along the north coast of the Bay, then headed out to the center of the Bay last night to begin a new search pattern for humpbacks.

Our own luck notwithstanding, Bristol Bay is one of the best places in the Bering Sea to find marine mammals. At least nine species of whale and dolphin inhabit the Bay at some time of the year, including humpbacks, killer whales, minkes, and the critically endangered North Pacific right whale. There are seals and sea lions here as well: steller sea lions and harbor seals year round, and ice-dependent species like the ringed seal, spotted seal and walrus in the winter. Most of the ice-dependent species follow the ice north as it retreats each summer, though a few hundred walrus bulls stay in the Bay all summer long. We saw some of them from a distance yesterday as we were looking for killer whales.

But it’s an open question how much longer Bristol Bay will support species, like the walrus, that depend on the ice for their survival. For more than three decades, scientists have tracked the coming and going of the sea ice in the center of Bristol Bay. In the early 1970s, the area between 57-58 degrees North latitude, at the heart of the Bay, had more than 5% ice cover for an average of 130 days each spring. By the end of the 1980s, this had fallen to an average of 67 days. In 1996, a consistent period of abnormally warm temperatures began, and since the year 2000, sea ice has been virtually absent within the monitored region.

The loss of the ice has serious consequences for species that have evolved to rely on it. The walrus is a good example. For the walrus, it’s not just the amount of ice that matters, but where the ice is. Walrus forage on the sea floor, diving up to 600 feet to dig clams and other invertebrates from the muddy bottom of the ocean. As the ice retreats farther north, breaks up earlier, there’s less ice cover over the shallow waters where the walrus forage, forcing them to range far from the ice to feed. Unfortunately, walrus mothers need the ice edge to rest, and to leave their calves while they go in search of food. When the distance between the ice and the shallow feeding grounds grows too great, this becomes impossible. This spring, a research vessel in the Arctic Ocean discovered nine separate walrus calves abandoned in the water, far from shore. The researchers on board found water temperatures in the area 6 degrees warmer than what they’d found just four years before. Warm enough to speed the melting of the ice over shallow water. In areas where the ice remained, the waters were too deep for walrus to feed.

Other pinnipeds that depend on the ice, like the ringed and bearded seals, may face a similar threat. But the changes in sea ice affect not only the walrus and seals, but the ecosystem as a whole. When ice is present in March, it encourages the early bloom of ice-associated plankton. The colder waters of the late winter allow this plankton to fall to the seabed, where it benefits bottom feeders like walrus and gray whales, and bottom tending fish like turbot, flounder and sole. During years without ice, however, including almost every year for the last decade, the plankton bloom does not occur until May or June. Warmer waters trap the plankton in the upper layers of the ocean, where it benefits more pelagic fish, like the pollock.

This might be good news for all the species that rely on pollock as part of their diet, if their other prey species weren’t declining at the same time. And if pollock weren’t so heavily fished. But in reality it is overfished. And this overfishing comes at the expense of an ecosystem already stressed by massive environmental change, itself driven by our overexploitation of oil and fossil fuels.

As we keep drilling and drilling and fishing and fishing, the environment is quietly, persistently telling us something. In Bristol Bay. In the Pribilofs. At St. Lawrence Island. What began as a whisper in temperature gauges, and instrument readings and data sheets is gradually, but inevitably growing into a roar—of vanishing species, disappearing ice, and howling winds. A roar that, like the whisper, carries a simple message. It’s time to Stop. And think. And start again.

Carroll

31st July  
Walrus Islands

It’s a great feeling on the eyes to have something other than sea and clouds to look at. We are weaving our way between High island and Crooked island on our way to Round island, the last in this little group. There are supposed to be bull walrus here at this time of year as well as Steller sea lions, but they must be hiding as we’ve not spotted any yet. The crew are all in the bridge avidly looking around. In the distance is the mainland with its jumble of tall volcanic peaks and cliffs. It’s very beautiful in a rugged isolated kind of way and is having an effect on moral that is palpable in the crew.

Dave the scientist is really happy to be here and getting a feel for the place as he will be coming back here next summer for a more in depth survey of killer whales that he suspects may be here due to the rumoured walrus and sea lion.
The seabed has a lot of features here unlike the endless flat desert bottom we have been travelling over the last weeks and is a major spawning ground for pollock and other fish of the Bering that the fishing industry rely on. There are small 3 mile protection zones around the islands themselves that need to be vastly expanded if the ecosystem as a whole is to be protected for the future. Now that we have been here and documented what we see we will be in a stronger position to fight for what is right for the Bristol Bay ecosystem and the people that survive from its bounty.

On a more practical note- the ship is running well, apart from a blockage in one of the toilets that took a bit of clearing. It was quite funny though. Carroll went outside to take a photo and came running in saying there was an awful awful smell outside and what on earth could possibly make a smell that bad. Well, humans was the answer. Even a rookery with a thousand years of bird poop wafting across us smells better than we do!

Well its dinner time again, and its smelling pretty good (a lot of smells in this blog). We’ll eat and then get back to taking the small steps we have to take on this part of the campaign to
SAVE THE BERING SEA!!!

Adam

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea... 

 

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea... 

Gales and big seas, rain and fog.

We didn’t think we’d be going anywhere today. At 0200 it was really howling, well over 50 knots of wind blowing us around on anchor and making the little ship vibrate. However it appeared to have eased somewhat in the morning so we called up the weather people in kodiak for a forecast and heard 35knots and 12 foot seas easing to 25 and 8 foot in Bristol Bay, so we decided to head on out and see how right they were. They were pretty right except for the 15 foot swells that occasionally put us on our ear and set the bilge alarms off and emptied the galley cupboards onto the floor, they’re all gaffa taped shut now as the little clips they have are obviously not strong enough. I’m having to type with one hand at the moment, using the other to look after my cup of tea and stop myself sliding away from the table.
We’re headed for another little bay called security cove, sounds good eh?! If the weather gets better we’ll head on by and into our search pattern in Bristol Bay. If not we’ll hide in there for a bit and reassess.

The time we have left is getting shorter and shorter so feel free to pray for a break in the weather so we can achieve or objectives for this leg of the tour. We need to find sea mammals to illustrate that they live here in the heart of Pollock fishing mismanagement country, and are part of the ecosystem that relies on the fish that are being taken out by the mega tonne. As well as that if we see any giant trawlers we’ll check out where and what they are fishing, maybe find out how there season is going if they’ll talk to us. I really look forward to the day in the not too distant future when seeing a fishing boat in the Bering doesn’t immediately mean something really wrong is happening. It’s a campaign that will be won if the locals and environmental groups work together well and send a united and clear message to the pollies and the industry bigwigs in the lower 48 that the only acceptable way is-ECOSYSTEM BASED MANAGEMENT FOR THE BERING!!!!!

Adam

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

July 29

We spent another day anchored in Nash Harbor, waiting for the storm to pass.  Even here in the lee of the island, the wind is blowing so hard it makes the boat vibrate. Makes for a refreshing breeze when you step outside, though. Tomorrow’s forecast is for more of the same, followed, Sunday, by more of the same again.  With the weather eating ever deeper into our work plans for the final week of the expedition, we’re strategizing ways to make the best of the situation.  If conditions permit, we’ll up anchor tomorrow and make the 30 hour transit to a cove just north of Bristol Bay, so if and when the weather does break, we’ll be ready to begin work immediately. 

There’s much to be done in the last days of the tour:  photo identification of humpbacks in the northern half of Bristol Bay, killer whale research along the Alaska Peninsula, documenting trawlers in the Southeastern Bering, and documenting the remarkable beauty of this region wherever we find it.  Gale force winds for the next few days will make the job difficult, and maybe a little uncomfortable, but hopefully not impossible.  In the event the impossible comes up, however, we’ve got a plan for that, too.

Carroll

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

28th July
Howling wind and rain

Well we’re still pinned down by the storm that started yesterday. It is on schedule with the forecast and has swung to the south west and picked up in intensity. The front should be passing us about now so hopefully it’ll start to ease up this evening and over night and allow us to poke our nose out in the morning and head west towards Etolin pass and then south to Bristol Bay.

We’ve made today useful by helping Craig get footage of various things on board that are hard to get when the boat is under way. I gave him a tour of the engine room and explained the tasks down there, and Captain Bob is explaining all about the ship and its systems and his responsibilities as captain. James is making samosas again as they were so good the first time, so we’ll get some of that on tape too so people can see how hard we’re doing it here on the good ship pacific Storm.

We’re all itching to get under way and on with the work we are supposed to be doing. The end of the tour is drawing nearer and nearer and the urgency we feel to collect the information we need from Bristol Bay and the northern side of the Alaskan Peninsular is growing.

There’s not a lot to see out the portholes except spray and grey skies and the low green island. We did see a herd of reindeer that had come over near our beach for shelter from the storm. They must be hardy critters indeed to live on this low treeless island that is covered in snow and surrounded by ice for most of the year.

So that’s it from me for today, not a very exciting update, but it is what’s happening. Hopefully people in the south are working hard on saving the oceans and the forests and fighting the water wasting coal and oil burning fools that seem to have so much power at the moment.

SAVE OUR SEAS!!!

Adam

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

We’re sitting in Nash Harbor, on the north side of Nunivak Island, waiting for the storm to pass. There’s no town here. Just a handful of huts that look to be abandoned. At least for now. The deep silence is broken only by the hum of the ship. And by the wind. Even in the shelter of the harbor, protected on three sides from the worst of the weather, the wind is howling, creating white caps on the water, and occasionally rattling the roof of the ship.

Back on St. Lawrence, the wind is one thing the Yup’ik are worried about. The wind blows harder and more often in the spring and summer, they told us, and from a new direction. Whipping up the waves that make it hard to hunt and fish in their tiny boats.

Like the residents of the Pribilofs, the Yup’ik make part of their living by fishing, mostly for halibut, and the salmon that run along the coast. Even so far north, they were concerned about the spread of industrial fishing in the Bering. They are worried that trawlers could come to their island next, once the fish further south are depleted. It’s a reasonable worry. The history of factory fishing is one of serial depletion. When a new fishing ground is opened, vessels converge there, fish ‘til its exhausted, then move on to the next area. This history has repeated itself in the Bering just as it’s repeated itself everywhere factory fishing occurs. And the remoteness that once safeguarded places like St. Lawrence is affording less and less protection as vessels range ever farther in search of unexploited—or less exploited—fisheries.

In Savoonga, people told us that the shallow waters around their island are an important fish nursery, critical not only to their own well-being, but to the health of the whole ecosystem. Many of them felt that those waters, and similar waters around other Bering Islands, should be protected from industrial fishing, not just for the sake of the islanders, but for the sake of the Bering Sea itself.

But they also worry that no one will listen to them. Some of them asked how a handful of people on a tiny island could take on an industry worth a billion dollars a year? But George told them that they are not alone, they are part of a growing community of Bering islands that share these concerns. And unlike the fishing vessels, that come and go from a thousand miles away, the Yup’ik, and the Unangan of the Pribilofs, and the Aleutian Islanders are as much a part of the Bering as the fish and game they hunt. The sea’s fate is intertwined with their own. If they can speak with one voice, it will be the voice of the sea itself.

And hiding out in this tiny bay from the Bering in full roar, I can tell you from personal experience, that’s one very powerful voice.

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Our little protected bay is getting some pretty darn strong winds. I’m super happy to have this snug little tank of a boat to hide in and that we are on the north side of Nunivak. It must be pretty scary over on the south side. We have been monitoring the radio over a coast guard request on the whereabouts of a fishing vessel not far to the north who’s EPIRB (emergency satelitte beacon) went off. We were about to call in and find out if it was near enough for us to give assistance when it was found and all ok. A collective sigh of relief…
Even though we are only a few hundred yard from the beach it’s still to rough to launch the RIB so no island exploration for us. We’ve pumped the bilge and cleaned the heads (Bathrooms), cooked too much food, watched vids etc etc. everyone’s pretty stir crazy and bored. It looks like we’ll be stuck here another day or two as well.

We got some news today on the state of the world. It was scary. Sounds like the middle east is going nuts and that we are along for the ride. I wish they could just can it as it’s making it hard for the plight of the environment to be heard above the war cries.

SAY NO TO WAR! And SAVE OUR SEAS!!!

Adam

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Not much to report today.  We got tossed about quite a bit last night, as we headed south from St. Lawrence toward Nunivak Island and the Etolin Strait.  With no land in sight, and things still too rough for whale spotting, we spent most of the day relaxing, doing emails, and catching up on much-needed sleep.  About mid-morning, as we were still bouncing around, we noticed a spill that had run all over the galley floor.  We had gotten such a shaking that a can of 7-Up had actually exploded.  Several others were about to follow suite.  Not seaworthy apparently.  Who knew? 
It’s been calm and clear since early afternoon, but the radio tells us there’s worse on the way.  The forecast is for a storm tomorrow with fifteen foot seas and forty knot winds.  It’s the sort of weather more associated with winter on the Bering Sea than summer, and a little more than this ship can comfortably handle.  Certainly more than we can work in.  So, we’re headed for Nash Harbor on the north of Nunivak Island, where we can wait out the storm in the shelter of the surrounding hills.  Hopefully, the bad weather will come and go quickly, so we can move on to Bristol Bay.  We’ll just have to play it by ear.

Carroll

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

It’s a day of straight passage making with nothing else on the agenda. In fact we are racing as fast as the big ol’ diesel below me will take us (8kn plus or minus current), to a safe little bay on the north side of Nunivak island, about 170nm south south east of St Lawrence. The reason I call it a safe little bay is that there is a storm approaching from the south west, 40kn winds and 15 foot seas, and we really don’t want to have to be out in that if we can possibly avoid it. When they give those numbers in a forecast it can mean a lot worse. If you have a 15 foot swell that coincides with another swell and the wind waves get piled up on top of that, and at the same time you happen to get a stronger than 40kn gust, it can all add up to mean a terrifying moment for our little ship. A nice deep bay on the north side of a mountainous island is exactly where we want to be. All things going well (touch wood) we will be in way ahead of trouble.
Not much to talk about campaign wise today. It’s a mental day off from the world of climate change and sea mammals. A day for getting the domestics done, maintenance on the boat, reading, writing, and watching vids, catching up on sleep. Sleep is a wonderful thing at sea. The rocking of the boat makes it possible to go to sleep anytime you want to. You can sleep 6 or 8 hours, get up, do a few things and if there’s nothing else to do, lay back down and fall right back to sleep. Something I cant do on land.
Well I guess that’s about it for todays update. If something interesting happens I’ll add it before we do our evening up/download.

I hope the Yup’ik are having a lovely day!

Adam

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Cloud, fog, light winds.

We said goodbye to the good people of Savoonga at 1200 today. Once again I have to say how friendly, wise and forgiving, and amazingly in touch with nature the Yup’ik people are. The stories of change in the ecosystem and climate were too many to count. Ice, winds, temperature, coastline, mammals, birds, fish, bears, even the ground under their feet. . . all changing rapidly over the last few years. If the rest of the world could really hear their story and feel the fear of an invisible and deadly threat so huge it takes hope away, maybe the complacency of the rich comfortable energy gluttons could be exposed for what it is.

We weighed anchor, (which wasn’t easy as we’d been anchored in a 3-4 knot current for 34 hours so the anchor was probably about 6 feet underground by the time we pulled it), and headed east along the north side of the island, the beginning of the final leg of the journey. Nine days left. It doesn’t seem enough to answer all the questions we have and document all that is changing. Once again Greenpeace has opened my eyes to a vital part of the world under threat.
Some would give up at the enormity of the task ahead to protect this place from those that would destroy it, but that’s not a luxury that environmental groups and aware people that take responsibility for their world can enjoy. So unless you live in a war zone or are desperately poor (like no food, water, or shelter), or are mentally insane, PLEASE BECOME ACTIVE!!! Start small, click on the “send an email” request that is on just about every enviro website. Then send another one. Then volunteer a few hours, then a few more. Your planet needs you.

SAVE OUR SEAS!!!!

Adam
Ps we just saw (and of course photographed extensively) a couple of Gray whales.
Pps Also an amazing volcanic plug sticking shear and high out of the ocean with a Mur rookery on it. Very beautiful and dramatic in the fog.

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Savoonga, St. Lawrence Island

Yesterday was a really full day, which is why I’m a little late in writing. We woke up to clear skies and calm waters in a tiny bay off the village of Savoonga, about 30 miles east of Gambell on St. Lawrence Island. After days of fog and rock, the neat houses set against rolling green hills were a welcome, and welcoming, sight. For a long time, we all just stood there, taking in the sunshine and the view.

Around noon, a skiff arrived to ferry us to the island. One of the skiff drivers described a bird—black with orange legs—that his wife had photographed a few days ago, and asked if I knew what it was. They had never seen one before. Later in the day, as I walked up the gravel road to the meeting hall, another man showed me a songbird nest, complete with chicks, a strange bird had built in his eaves. “The mother is a very little bird,” he said, “with a red head. Do you know that one?”

We spent the afternoon, and late into the night, talking with tribal elders, council members and people from the village. Savoonga was founded in the early 1930s, when a handful of Yup’ik families from Gambell moved here to be closer to the reindeer herd that ranges the eastern half of the island. Everyone we met had grown up here. A few of the elders had been in the village almost since it began, making their living by understanding the reindeer, and the weather, and the sea.

Like those in Gambell, the Yup’ik of Savoonga told us about the changes in the ice. And how they sometimes have to travel 100 miles or more to hunt animals they once hunted in the bay where the ship sat. They told us that the currents have changed, making the ice move more quickly and carry game away before they can reach it. For the first time, we heard that there’s been less snow lately, and that for the first time ever they’ve had summer days reaching 80 and 90 degrees.

They feel that the waters are rising and the waves are worse. As a result, their land is eroding, or simply sinking beneath the advancing sea, and camps and houses have been moved back from the water’s edge for fear of being lost. They showed us photos of a wide, sloping beach in front of the village from the 1960s, and photos of the same beach taken yesterday—or rather, the sliver of it that remains. They had photos from the same era that showed a long spit of land running out into the bay. Today most of it is gone.

We talked not just about global warming, but about traditional ways of knowing and how they’d been ignored for so long. They told us that scientists, and western people, rarely listened to them and rarely understood. I agreed with them, and confessed that environmentalists, too, had been slow to recognize the value of traditional knowledge. Slow to recognize that long memory and experience can sometimes give us a far deeper understanding of the world than numbers on a page. But this is changing, I told them. And our presence here is evidence of that.

The Yup’ik had questions of their own—not just about global warming, but about the industrial pollution that works its way into northern waters, to end up in their sea, and in their fish, and in themselves. They asked why the waters around their island were being polluted; and what was being done about it; and why it was taking so long.

They asked the same thing about global warming. To the people of Savoonga, global warming has been real for years, and they wanted to know why our government, all governments, haven’t done more to stop it—to stop their beaches from disappearing; their game from moving away; their houses from slipping into the sea. I offered what answers I could, about treaties, and politics, and signs of hope. But I knew in my heart it wasn’t enough. Not here. Not for them. For the Yup’ik, global warming is not just tomorrow’s problem, but today’s problem, and yesterday’s problem, and last year’s problem. They see their own lives changing rapidly and worry about the prospects for their children. Worry whether their children will be able to maintain the old ways in a world that’s different every day. I wanted to tell them that everything will be alright; that we’ll find a way. But the best I could say, with a clear conscience, is that more and more people understand now, and more and more people are trying. Making little changes that, one by one, add up to bigger changes. And hopefully, before it’s too late, it will be enough.
It isn’t yet. Not by far. They know that better than I do.

We left Savoonga on Tuesday morning with new friends, a deeper understanding, and a pledge to return. As we sailed around the east end of St. Lawrence on the way to our next leg, we encountered a group of gray whales feeding near the coast. Right where the Yup’ik said they would be.

Carroll

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

 
Finally, a clear blue sunny day. It’s been a while and it’s great to be able to see into the distance and feel the sun on our faces.

Last night we got back to Gambell with the two Yup’ik hunters Mike and Clarence that had taken us south of the island to look for whales. When you are with the Yup’ik you are confronted with how far out of touch with nature we from the cities have become. You can see that they are fully connected. They know every bird and animal’s habits. They notice if any animal is not doing what it normally does, if it’s a bit early or late or it’s numbers are different. They notice the wind is different and that the noise of humankind is growing closer and the animals further away. Most of all they know it is warming up, and they are really worried about it. They know exactly what is going on in their world.

About 10pm we got back to Gambell to drop the men off but the wind and the swell had come up, so people on the island were unable to launch a boat to come and pick them up. It was also to rough for us to launch the RIB so we had to motor around the headland to find a lee where we could launch and get the guys home. It all went well until we got trapped in the rocks with the RIB and managed to dent the prop. It was a slow vibrating trip back out to the ship followed by a prop swapping session in which I managed to bash my hand quite hard. Only a flesh wound though so no worries ?.

We left about 11 to do the 40 or so miles to Savoonga arriving there at 3am. We dropped anchor in 6 fathoms about half a mile west of the village and hit our bunks for a wee bit of shuteye. I awoke to the smell of huevos rancheros and coffee, mmmmmm. Can’t speak highly enough of James’ creativity in the galley. Then it was into Savoonga and meetings with the locals to hear their concerns and hopefully join forces to fight the onslaught of factory fishing. Like one guy said to me, it’s like a nightmare. A nightmare that you know is on its way to your home.

Stop the ocean destroyers!

Adam

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea... 

St. Lawrence Island

On the morning of the 21st, we awoke off the southwest corner of St. Lawrence Island to the sound of thousands of birds. St. Lawrence is a major stopover in the flyway between Asia and North America. In addition to the murres, puffins and cormorants nesting on the sea cliffs above us, huge numbers of geese, eiders and cranes stop to rest and feed here each spring and fall before continuing their journey between east and west. As a result, St. Lawrence is considered a globally important bird area. Unfortunately for the birds, and for the Yup’ik Eskimos who live here, St. Lawrence is among the places where the effects of global warming are becoming most apparent.

The history of the Yup’ik on this island stretches back some 2,000 years. Walking through the gravel streets of Gambell, our first stop on St. Lawrence, there were testaments to that history all around us. Bits and shards stuck out from the ground everywhere we looked; and all day long, artisans came in to share their stories, offer carvings, and show us artifacts pulled from the fields and hills near the town. Needles. Harpoon heads. Even a snow shovel made of bone. I was a little dumbstruck that ancient Eskimos used snow shovels. But after a while, it kind of made sense. What with all the snow and everything.

Talking informally with people in Gambell, we heard how their environment and their lives are changing. There are little signs, of course, like the cranes coming earlier than before, and the arrival of new species of birds from the South that hadn’t been seen here before. But there are also larger, more troubling, signs. The ice is coming later now, and retreating sooner, not just on the sea but on the lake behind the village. And the very nature of the ice is changing—from thick, solid cakes pushed down from the north, to smaller, broken up chunks that are not safe to walk or hunt on. For people who make their living from the sea, and the ice, it’s an unwelcome and threatening change.

With the early retreat of the ice, gray whales are spending less time near the island, and more in the colder waters to the north. We asked about the humpbacks, as well, and began to understand the results of our own search. For a long time, in the wake of commercial whaling, few if any humpbacks came near St. Lawrence. Sometime after whaling for humpbacks was banned, the species gradually reappeared around the island, but never in large numbers. Then, about five or so years ago, one man told me, there were a whole bunch of them. But not so many since. People see humpbacks occasionally, but they’re still uncommon. Whatever brought the humpbacks to this region in 1999, they haven’t returned in the same numbers in the last few years. Ironically, while the rest of us were onshore in Gambell, James finally saw a whale—a minke—right from the ship. And two bowheads showed up just around the point. Our luck.

As for the killer whales, they come when the gray whales come, heading north in the spring then south again in the fall. There were lots a few weeks ago, people tell us. Two men from Gambell, Mika and Clarence, agreed to ride along for a day to show us where the whales are. There won’t be as many as in June, they told us. But maybe some. So, with their guidance, we headed down along the west coast then around to the south side of the island, where we’d been just the day before. As we made our way along the coast, through the ever-changing fog, we talked with Mike and Clarence about their environment, their culture and their lives as subsistence hunters. They told us stories about their families, about friends lost to the ice and waves, and their own narrow escapes. About their efforts to maintain a centuries-old way of life in a culture and a society awash in change. And to be honest, I didn’t mind so much that we didn’t see a whale.

-Carroll

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

St Lawrence Island. Town - Gambell. Weather - still, 45 degrees warm, some cloud and a little patchy fog.

From the beach you can see Siberia, people walk there in winter across the ice to visit relatives and to hunt bear and walrus. The town is built on a gravel spit of land, exposed to the elements, a few tufts of grass the only green in the whole place. The gravel is deep, made up of small round rocks and pebbles that are extremely tiring to walk in. As a consequence everyone drives around on 4 wheel farm bikes, I mean everyone. The population is 600 and there must be about 600 bikes there. We were the only ones on foot.

The one way people can make money here is by selling ivory carvings, and artifacts that are in abundance buried all through the village. Gambell has been here for thousands of years, it’s a good spot for fishing and hunting.

As soon as you step off the boat onto the beach there are people wanting to sell you new ivory and ancient tools, bone harpoon heads, bone needles, fishing weights, bone shovel heads, and many other tools from the past. Beautifully carved whales and bears in gleaming white ivory with baleen eyes and polar bear claw tails.

 Above the beach is the refuse from years of subsistence whale and walrus hunting. Huge bones the size cars, sculls that weigh tons. Walrus hides stretched out on wooden frames, drying till ready to skin the frames of sleek wood frame skiffs. Big chunks of the meat also hang near by drying, the smell is intense.

The people are tough and hardened to life. I spoke to one man who had harpooned a whale from his little skiff with a hand held harpoon, just like the drawings in Moby Dick. He said whales are scared of human hands so when the whale tried to come up under the boat he would lean over and put his hands and arms down in the water where it could see them, and the whale would go back down. This is survival, not even vaguely related to the commercial mechanized hunts that Greenpeace so strongly opposes.

The one thing the Upik are worried about is climate change. I was surprised that this topic was brought up straight away without a word said about it by us. They say the big ice from the north isn’t coming down, and the ice around the island is only as thick as a man's height. They know it’s to do with carbon dioxide and what people down south are doing, but that it's clearly too big to fight. They said what can Greenpeace do?? You guys going to fix it?? What an awful question.

I do not know how Greenpeace wants to respond to that question to these people at this time, so all I could do was commiserate and tell them stories of the native island peoples of the south pacific, where I come from, and the problems they are facing there as a result of climate change. And that all over the world people are fighting the burning of oil and coal. It was a solemn conversation.

At the end of this eye-opener of a day we are back on board. Two men from the village are with us and we are heading down the coast in search of whales. We will hear their tales, and show them how to record what they see, so that it can be useful as data for the science people need to argue more strongly the case of the Bering sea.

I better stop there or I’ll end up writing a book!

SAVE OUR SEAS! For the people and animals that live there.

Adam

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea... 

I could throw an apple into Russia from the back deck at the moment. The water over there looks exactly the same as the water here though. The birds are blatantly flouting international regulations and casually flying this way and that across the line with a total disregard for the law.

The sea came back down during the night (all 3 hours of it) and the dawn brought another calm day on the water, the boat shrouded in fog. Frustrating stuff for all involved. People are starting to get a little annoyed at not being able to see anything.

All that changed though at the end of the last zig, or zag, not sure which, when we approached St Lawrence. The fog lifted and there in front of us was a spectacular sight. Shear and craggy cliffs with snow and ice reaching down to the water in the gully sections that the elements have cut away. Millions of birds swimming and diving and flying along have congregated here from all over the world. That’s how important the ecosystem is here. It’s a major stop over and destination for birds all the way from Tasmania and beyond, its rich waters feeding them and its cliffs giving shelter. All of us breathed a sigh of relief to have something solid to look at. After a week of nothing other than fog and flat ocean (apart from yesterday’s stormy stuff), it actually feels good on the eyeballs to look at a real feature.
There has been no sign of sea mammals on this side of the island so we are headed back out for another night (like day) of zigzags, then in the morning we will head into the northern of the two towns on the island, Gambell. There we will see George again and do some more of the community work that went so well in the Pribeloff Islands. We will also find out what the locals know about whales in the area and hopefully take some of them out so Dave the scientist can show them how to record what they see in a way that is useful as scientific data.

I’m really looking forward to meeting the people here and hearing what they have to say about the environment and how it’s going. What their concerns are and what they think of Greenpeace being in the area. Hopefully we will ally as strongly as we did south of here and build another block in the Bering that wants to see its ecosystem protected from the factory trawlers and ignorant fisheries management.

Let's leave some fish for the birds and the animals and the locals!!!!!!!!

Adam

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Well like I said no day’s a normal one.

Last night the sea came up. We drifted for 4 horrible hours. No one could sleep because waves kept hitting the back of the boat with huge thumps and rattles. It was a relief when we started the main up and got moving again at dawn. It’s been a rough day so we will keep motoring tonight so that people can get some rest.

Dawn came gray and foggy but this time with strong winds and big seas. The 150 ton ship is getting rolled about like a toy in a bathtub. For most of the day we’ve had to ban going up in the rig to search for whales for fear of someone being flung into the ocean.

Of course, seeing as it's rough, the excess transmission oil pump decided to blow up. It didn't do it yesterday when it was calm of course, no, it had to wait till today when it’s a real pain to be working down there. Luckily there were other old pumps and parts on the boat that weren’t in use so was able to put another one in without too much trouble.

With the difficulties of being onboard out here today it really makes you see that the only possible reason anyone would come out to pillage and destroy this ecosystem is for that quick mega buck. That quick, short-sighted, greed fueled, who cares about our kids or the locals, mega buck. They certainly wouldn't do it just for the fun.

Yes we need to protect fishermen’s jobs, but I’m afraid that, quite simply, giant take everything factory style fishing’s going to have to go. It's an ECOSYSTEM we’re talking about here, not a free barrel of money that’s being left unattended by the government.

SAVE THE BERING SEA!!!

Adam

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

We woke this morning…yesterday morning at this point…to 10 foot seas and high winds.  They’d given the boat quite a lashing all night and continued to bounce us around for most of the day.  By dinner time, I was trying to make spaghetti while watching three pots of boiling water and sauce slide around the stovetop like a bad episode of I Love Lucy.  Needless to say, it wasn’t conducive to getting much writing done.  But as luck would have it, the weather calmed down sometime shortly after I finally went to bed.  I’m on night watch now, in the wee hours of the morning; and between glancing back and forth at the windows and the radar screens, thought I’d take advantage of the relative calm and quiet to catch you up on the days events.  Which, in a nutshell, I just did.

It may seem surprising that we can be out here for days on end without seeing humpbacks—or other whales for that matter. In these days of Animal Planet and whale watching tours, it’s easy to get the impression the ocean is teeming with whales. Fishermen often have the same impression about fish populations, and for a similar reason: people tend to focus their fishing efforts, or their watching efforts, on times and places when the animals are concentrated in a relatively small area. While this approach makes it much easier to hunt or see what you’re looking for, it can create a false sense about how much there is to be enjoyed, or taken.  It’s only when those animals are spread across the vast distances where they spend most of their lives that you can appreciate their true scarcity.

It’s like that with whales. In the southern hemisphere, where the majority of humpbacks are found, commercial whalers killed more than 200,000 humpbacks during the 20th Century, reducing the species to less than 10% of its original population. More than 28,000 humpbacks were killed in the North Pacific during the same period. Although the species has been slowly recovering, the current official estimate is that there are between 6000 and 8000 whales in the entire North Pacific—an area stretching from California to Japan, from Central America to the Bering Strait.  Spread out over millions of square miles of ocean, these numbers are still vanishingly small. 

If applied to the whole region, the 1999 sightings that brought us up here looking for humpbacks suggested there could be nearly 1200 humpbacks summering in the central Bering Sea.  But the sightings all occurred in a short time, in a small area, not scattered evenly around the sea.  Just as a whale watching tour off the Baja Coast might lead you to think there were hundreds of thousands of humpbacks in the Pacific, many people think the 1999 survey is a poor indicator of the abundance of humpbacks in the central Bering as a whole.  It is estimated that fewer than 400 humpbacks winter in the waters south of Japan.  If, in fact, it is those whales that are coming to St. Lawrence to feed, that might give us a better sense of how many whales are here.  And that’s why we’re here, of course.  To help make, or negate, that connection. Time will tell.

As I wrote this, the Southwest Cape of St. Lawrence has slowly slipped onto the radar, a collection of green blotches gradually transformed into a solid coastline.  The first land we’ve seen for days.  As we make the next turn in our transit, we’ll spend a few hours following the coast before heading back into deeper waters.  There’s a sea lion rookery near the Cape that makes the area a good candidate for killer whale work.  And maybe, just maybe, Here Be Whales.     

-Carroll 

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

At mid-morning, a ship showed up on the radar: a big one, about 5 miles dead ahead. We hoped the fog would lift long enough for us to get a good view of it from the crow’s nest, thinking it might be a Russian vessel that had slipped over the border to fish in U.S. waters. There’s a large pollock fishery in Russian waters just a few miles to the west, fishing the same pollock stock being fished in the U.S.—the pollock circulate around the Bering in an endless flow between deep and shallow waters, between warm and cold. The Russian fleet has been catching about 500,000 metric tons of pollock a year recently, and much more than that in years gone by. Rampant illegal fishing there means the real numbers are almost certainly much larger. But these numbers aren’t taken into consideration in determining whether the U.S. pollock fishery in the Bering is sustainable. We go on acting as though they are different fish in a different ocean, separated by a concrete wall rather than an imaginary line. And OUR fish are doing just fine, thank you.

When the distance between us had fallen to 4.5 miles, the other ship began to move out of our path, following a track to the northeast at a high rate of speed. We were near the end of a leg, so we cut it just a bit short and changed course to try to come closer. But it was moving too fast. Using the whale research as an opportunity, we hailed it to try and determine what it was doing out here. The operator came back with a heavy accent. Filipino, Bob and Adam agreed. Certainly not Russian. They hadn’t seen any whales, but were otherwise cagey about what they were doing. The heading they gave paralleled the U.S.-Russian border, perhaps 10 miles on the U.S. side. It might have been a Russian patrol boat, except for that accent. It could be a fishing boat, but without a good look at it we couldn’t tell. When the fog lifted, it was gone.

Shortly after that, we entered the heart of our search area, and tightened our pattern to cover as much of it as possible. In an effort to use every whale-finding tool at our disposal, I cycled through my entire repertoire of whale calls, starting with the straightforward “Here, whale, whale, whale!” When that didn’t work, I tried an assortment of seafood-related enticements. “Krill! Get your fresh krill here!...Herring! Cold, salty herring!....Arctic cod! All you can eat!”

I thought for sure the cod call would bring ‘em running (or swimming), since many of the sightings here in 1999 were associated with schools of cod. But no luck. Craig, our cameraman, suggested that the whales couldn’t hear me so well up in the air, and maybe I should try sticking my head under water. But personally, I think the problem was not one of biology but linguistics. English is one of the most complex languages to learn and I have no idea how many whales speak it. I plan to spend the evening translating my calls into Humpback, so we can try again tomorrow. If I can just convince them we have fish, I’m sure they’ll head our way.

The Japanese government has tried to use this obvious fact—that whales eat fish—to justify it’s program of “scientific” whaling. Rather than acknowledge the problem of overfishing, Japan argues that fish are disappearing because there are too many whales in the ocean. That’s right: too many whales. To prove its point, Japan killed more than 900 whales this year in the Southern Ocean, cutting them open to check their belly contents, then turning the rest into steaks no one will ever eat. It plans to add the endangered humpback to its lethal research program in 2007. You know, to save the fish.

The problem I see with Japan’s argument is this: Whales have been eating fish for millions of years. And for millions of years, the ocean got along just fine with them doing it. I wish I could say the same for trawlers. Or whalers for that matter.

-Carroll 

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea... 

Well today has outdone yesterday for fog so far. 1800hrs and still only small patches of visibility every now and then. And cold, like a winters day in Tasmania, although it’s the middle of summer. I went to bed about 0130 this morning and it was still totally light.
The most exciting thing to happen so far today is that a decent size ship appeared on the radar. We tracked it for a while and figured out it was running straight up the borderline. Of course we all speculated on what it could be- a US border patrol? A Russian one? A big trawler? We thought probably not the former or they would have hailed us as we are driving around in zigzags which would seem odd one would think. And we had no reason to hail it either to slake our curiosity, until some bright spark, and I wont say who, came up with the innovative idea of calling them and telling them we are research vessel Pacific Storm and had they seen any whales on their travels? They did not respond on the first set of calls, but about ten minutes later when we tried again they did. Bob, who has extensive offshore coastguard captaining experience sounds very official on the radio and we got back a rather timid response from a Filipino crewman who answered all Bobs questions on their course and destination. They had seen no whales but promised to call us if they saw “any whales or objects floating in the water”, which is great. At least for a little while we have another set of eyes in the fog.

Not a lot else to say today. Well I did spend a fair while pondering how the kittiwakes make a living out here. I’ve never seen one dive for fish or anything. They just seem to fly and fly, occasionally picking a spot on the water with great deliberation where they land and fold up there wings and just float around for a while before taking off again. According to the book they mug puffins for their food sometimes, steal eggs, eat refuse from fishing boats etc but there’s no fishing boats and very few puffins out here. They look healthy enough though so I’m not too worried about them ;-)

As the fog gets thicker the cooking gets better-
James is making samosas.
I made fried rice with vegies and strips of egg in it and a satay sauce
Carol marinated chops in some sort of orangey sugary gingery stuff

Adam

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

This afternoon we entered the southern part of our search zone for humpback whales, in the area northwest of St. Matthew and southwest of St. Lawrence. It’s less than 200 miles between the two islands, but our search will take us back and forth across 700 miles of sea.

It seems like a long way, but it pales in comparison to what the humpbacks themselves do every year. The humpback whale has the longest migration of any mammal, making a ten-thousand mile roundtrip between its calving grounds in temperate seas and its feeding grounds closer to the poles. Even though the humpback is the most studied large whale on earth, our understanding of which humpbacks go where in their annual journeys is still incomplete.

Humpbacks have three major winter calving grounds in the North Pacific—off the coasts of Mexico and Central America; around Hawaii; and in the western Pacific from south of Japan to the Philippines. Scientists have also identified the major summer feeding grounds—off the U.S. Pacific coast from California to Washington; from northern British Columbia across the Gulf of Alaska; and in the Aleutian Archipelago and Bering Sea. But the connections between these areas are still being worked out. Most humpbacks from Mexico and Central America winter off California, Oregon and Washington. But there is a smaller, and seemingly distinct group, that heads farther north to British Columbia and the Gulf of Alaska. Some Hawaiian humpbacks also summer in the Gulf of Alaska. Still others, however, have been spotted in the Aleutians and southern Bering Sea. And what of the humpbacks from Japan? No one knows for sure yet, but one hypothesis is that at least some of these whales travel north into rich waters of the central Bering. It’s an open question, that hopefully this trip will help answer.

In 1999, a whale survey of the region identified significant numbers of humpbacks in the waters southwest of St. Lawrence, near the Russian border. The same waters we’re sailing through now. With any luck, we’ll encounter some of those humpbacks and get close enough to take the photo identification shots necessary to match the whales here to individuals already documented further south.

It won’t be easy. The 1999 survey had 10 humpback sightings in more than 6,000 miles of effort. Nearly ten times the distance we’ll be covering. But finding even one match will help us better understand the movements, and the habitat needs of this remarkable migrant and open an unexplored new feeding ground to humpback research.

It’s worth a few hundred miles at sea.

Carroll

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Another unusual day on the Bering sea. Then again they've all been pretty unusual so far, so that makes it normal I suppose. We came to the stunning conclusion last night that there is no point searching for whales in the dark and fog, so we decided to turn off the engine and just drift for the few hours of darkness, thus not missing a big chunk of the search pattern and saving fuel (think global act local!). The morning started off the same, cloaked in thick fog, visibility down to 20 metres at times. We adjusted our pattern a little to account for the lost time and set off again optimistic the fog would clear for us. Eventually, it finally did at around 2pm.

It can only be described as eerie out here right now. The water is like undulating molten glass. Biggish rolling swells but not a ripple in sight, all the way to the horizon. Naturally the lookout watch has resumed and as I speak Todd and James are up the rig peering into the distance with binoculars. I wish them luck, not just for the

environmental data we search for, but also for their sanity. It can be difficult for busy motivated professional people to be faced with inactivity that they cant do anything about. The ship's clean, engines are greased and happy, skipper's having a nap, all the good movies have been watched, it's so quiet there's not even a single seabird as far as the eye can see. And there's plenty of zig zags to go till we reach St Lawrence in a few days. Everyone's looking forward to that as there will be lots to do and plenty to film and record.

3 minutes to my turn up the rig so I'll finish this update later, after I spot the humpbacks!!!


Some time later...

Well I didn't spot any humpbacks but I did see a few birds, and a plastic wrapper. It's got me thinking that a hundred and something years ago there were something like 90% more whales in the Bering than there are now. Is it possible that a reason we aren't seeing any here is because most of them are gone? There are less than 1% of Blue whales left now, which is a tragedy. One would think that the experience of loosing the whales would make people think twice about fishing out whole fish populations in the region, but sadly it doesn't. That is the challenge environmental groups such as ours face- How to educate the people that they don't have to accept huge companies destroying their ecosystem for a quick mega-buck, and to find a way to stop them, as quickly as possible.

STOP THE OCEAN DESTROYERS!!!

Adam
ps the fog's back

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Sitting fogged in at St. Matthew this morning gave me some time to reflect, for the first time in days, on what we’ve seen here so far and what it might mean. In a famous essay, the ecologist Aldo Leopold wrote of thinking like a mountain—understanding nature not in terms of any one species, but as a whole far greater than the sum of its parts.

I draw a similar lesson from our time in St. Matthew and the Pribilofs. The whales, the seals, the seabirds, the fish, the Unungan are all part of the larger story of the sea itself. To protect those parts, and to protect the Bering, we have to begin thinking like an ocean. We have to recognize that the species of this and other waters are interwoven in a web of relationships we are only beginning to understand. To focus our efforts on harvesting one or a few species, even “sustainably”, without considering the effects on other species, risks unraveling that web.

In science and policy-speak, this consideration of broader impacts is called ecosystem-based management, or EBM. EBM is about humility in the face uncertainty; about acting with caution when we’re unsure what the real-world consequences of our actions will be. The concept isn’t novel. Just underused. Particularly in the context of fisheries management, which is remarkable, because the law already calls for it.

The heart of the federal fisheries management system in the United States is a law called the Magnuson-Stevens Act. Magnuson-Stevens is also called the “Sustainable Fisheries Act” because, when it was adopted in its current form in 1996, Congress expected it to bring about a revolution in the sustainable management of U.S. fisheries. And it did help; though it was more evolutionary than revolutionary. One evolutionary step the law took was to require the National Marine Fisheries Service, the federal agency that governs our fisheries, to develop recommendations for expanding the use of ecosystem principles in fishery management. So, NMFS convened a panel, which developed recommendations, which have yet to be systematically applied anywhere.

As I write this, Congress is debating whether and how to improve the Magnuson-Stevens Act. One thing conspicuously absent from the proposed revisions to the Act is any solid requirement to adopt ecosystem-based management instead of the outdated and disproven single species approaches on which we currently rely. This is a serious oversight. It’s been three years since two major commissions concluded our oceans are in crisis driven chiefly by overfishing. Ten years since Congress recognized the need for an ecosystem-based approach to managing our seas. And more than half a century since Aldo Leopold first thought like a mountain.

It’s time, at last, to start thinking like an ocean.

- Carroll 

The following posting is from Captain Bob Pedro, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

I’m sitting in my chair and thinking. Thinking about how we set anchor last night in calm protected waters with a patchy low fog embracing the peaks of St. Matthew Island here in the middle of the Bering Sea. At this latitude, were it not for the fog, it would have been bright daylight even at 11 p.m.

When we awoke this morning, the fog was heavy right to the water line and at best we could see about 50 yards. This was not at all cooperating with our desires to circumnavigate close around the island hoping to see what bird and mammal life might be living here.

We were a little disappointed, but after a little discussion we decided to move plans forward to the search pattern route we’d set between St. Matthew Island and St. Lawrence Island. We will be traversing an area from about 5 miles from the International date line/Russian waters and 100 miles east of that line and back and in a somewhat north easterly general direction.

This is already the farthest north I’ve ever been and we are going even farther. Thinking about this is very exciting. It’s a new life experience. I keep wondering what I’m going to see next. The lookouts on watch up in the crows nest keep scanning for whales as far as they can see. Every time I see a whale, I am in awe. They are such magnificent animals, and simply breathtaking to see up close. And yet we know so little about them.

As I am learning on this trip, whales and many others of the sea are on a proverbial “tight wire”. There are many good and dedicated people from all walks of life, who are trying desperately to help maintain that critical balance between animal and man.

As I stand and look out the wheelhouse side window and breathe in the cool fresh sea air, I can’t help but think of how lucky I am to be here, and have these great life experiences that most people will never have. And then, to have a job like mine as Captain of this great research vessel, doing what I can to help the efforts going on all around me to make the world a better place.

I look out the wheelhouse window and know words could never describe how it feels to be at sea. I’ve seen severe storms and I’ve seen flat calm with cloudless skies a thousand miles from shore. I’ve seen sunrises that caused my whole being to smile and sunsets that set fire to the sky from horizon to horizon.

I truly have an affection for the sea. Not unlike the affection I have for my beautiful wife. I believe that if we treat each other with the mutual respect that we each deserve, our relationship and love will go on forever. And also with the sea, I believe that there can be a balance where, if well maintained, we can have an abundance of life that will go on for all future generations. Working together we can and will find that balance. Working together we can not only enjoy the fruits of our efforts, but know that future generations will be proud of us for having done it. We must find that balance.

As I stand and look out the wheelhouse side window and breathe in the cool fresh sea air, I know that I am in love with life. My life! And I’m a very lucky man.

Thank you for sharing it with me.

- Captain Bob Pedro

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

There is virtually no wind now and the fog has left us for the time being. We have a low swell so it's a very comfortable ride.

The day started off with us cocooned in fog. It's sort of strange going along on the calm sea in a little circle of visibility about 100m wide. It makes you think the Marie Celeste or some other ghost ship will suddenly appear out of the mist. Nothing to see but the odd Puffin or Kittiwake

Around 1700 the fog cleared so the whale lookout rotations started again. I just got down from my turn. The ocean is flat to the horizon, which is perfect for sighting a whale's blowing, but no one's seen any so far. We are headed into an un-researched section of the Bering where rumor has it that a population of humpbacks was spotted some ten years ago. We are to confirm its existence here and collect some data.

It's a zig zag search pattern we are on now that will take us up to the Russian border and back a few times and eventually to St. Lawrence Island.

Enjoy, wherever you are, and do something to help save the oceans please!!!

- Adam

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

After a 25-hour transit from St. Paul, we reached St. Matthew Island. We won’t put into port here, because there is no port. No airport. No roads. No town. No people… except, temporarily, for us. Nearly 200 miles in any direction from the nearest human habitation, St. Matthew is by far the most remote place in Alaska and the lower 48. This is no doubt a relief to the Steller sea lions that haul out on Hall Island, a few miles away.

St. Matthew is beautiful. Much bigger and more majestic than I’d expected. As we approached from the south, sheer rock walls rose hundreds of feet straight up from the sea. I half expected to see giant stone skulls in the surf and hear chants of “Kong! Kong! Kong!” floating down from the heights. But as we rounded the point and came in near shore, a new St. Matthew came into view, with rolling green slopes that looked more like Ireland than Skull Island.

Heading up the island, we saw our first whale.  We anchored at Bull Seal Point. We didn’t see any seals, but lots and lots of birds. Kittiwakes, puffins, murres so heavy with fish they could barely get airborne.

The waters around St. Matthew are rich in the herring, capelin and juvenile pollock critical to the diet of these birds, just as it is critical to their neighbors in the Pribilofs. Although the Bering Sea hosts more than 450 species of fish and invertebrates, only a handful of these species account for the majority of the seabird diet. This handful overlaps greatly with the 20 or so species that account for 98% of the fish caught by humans in the Bering.

In the Pribilofs, the ecosystem’s ability to feed fish-eating birds has already been compromised. In the mid-1970s and 1980s, around the time the major declines in Steller sea lions and fur seal began, there were also substantial die-offs of kittiwakes and thick-billed murres, resulting in population declines of up to fifty percent. As with the seals and sea lions, these seabird declines have been linked to a reduction in forage fish like the pollock. Fortunately for the birds of St. Matthew (and unfortunately for birds elsewhere), most of the pollock fishery is still concentrated in the Southeastern Bering, at least for now. Fishing boats come up this way—a fact abundantly demonstrated by the fishing floats we found scattered along the shore—but the great distance from port makes it a little less appealing. Let’s hope it stays that way.

Reducing fishing impact may not be the end of the story, however. Birds that feed at the sea surface are known to be affected by stormy weather, which makes it much tougher for them to feed themselves and their chicks. If, as predicted, global warming leads to an increased number of storms in the Bering, the birds of the Pribilofs—and St. Matthew, and St. Lawrence, and the Aleutians—may face a new and even more serious threat. Continued heavy fishing in the seas where they feed will only compound that threat.

One solution may be to set aside pristine areas, like St. Matthew, or coastal waters around the Pribilofs, where industrial fishing is prohibited or sharply curtailed. Doing that could not only protect forage for seals and seabirds, it could also create a natural laboratory where we could better assess the relative impacts of fishing and climate change. In high school biology experiments, we called it a control. Which is something human activities could use a bit more of these days.

- Carroll

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

We are now about half a day north of St Paul. It’s a comfortable ride as the swell and breeze are coming from behind us gently helping us along at about 8 knots on our way to St Matthew’s Island. The fog is patchy so every now and then we can see the horizon and people on the bridge pick up binoculars and look around for whales and factory trawlers.

It really feels like we’re on a new stage of the journey as a lot has changed onboard. When you are working with a team doing something as intense as this you really get to know each other and bond, (or the opposite), and we had such a fantastic team on the first half of the voyage that it feels strange now that they are gone and a new bunch have arrived. We will go through the process again though and in a few days everything will feel normal again.

It was sad and a bit scary waving goodbye to Willie and George on the dock. Willie’s the kind of guy that subtly makes you feel safe at sea with his total understanding of, and ability fix, every square inch of the boat. But he gave James and I a very thorough lesson on everything we will have to do for the week he is gone.

We should arrive at St Matthews in about 20 hours or so. It’s an uninhabited (by humans anyway) island and a sanctuary, so we will not be allowed to set foot on it. Luckily there are three or four really good spots to anchor, so whichever way the wind blows we will have a nice lee to be in.

James is cooking what he calls an “experimental dish.”  It’s smelling good though and its still in the pot, which is good because in the last 20 minutes or so the swell’s gotten bigger and changed direction to a bit more on the side so we’re rocking and rolling quite a bit.

Feels like a loooong way from home out here...

- Adam

Note: Adam is a radio operator and RIB driver.  He has worked with Greenpeace in Australia and internationally since 2003.  He is also an industrial rope access  specialist, which involves rigging for skyscrapers and large scale events such as the Olympics, as well as a licensed yacht skipper.

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Today was a day of transitions. We spent today getting a little down time, preparing for departures and arrivals, plotting the next leg of the trip, and watching the fog roll in and roll out at five minute intervals. All my life, I’ve heard the cliche “If you don’t like the weather here, just wait five minutes and it will change,” but the Bering Sea is first place I’ve been where that saying is literally true. It’s sunny. It’s foggy. It’s sunny. It’s rainy. It’s calm. It’s choppy. It’s warm. It’s freezing. The local weather god clearly has a fear of commitment.

We spent the morning charting the course that will take us north to St. Matthew and St. Lawrence Islands, where we’ll begin our humpback research in earnest. We’ll leave tomorrow (weather permitting), spend two days around St. Matthew (unless we only have one), spend the next three days crisscrossing the northern Bering looking for humpbacks (if all goes as planned) and anchor in St. Lawrence on July 21st (um…probably).

Today was also a day for crew changes. Happily, we have two new team members to share the wealth. One of whom is Dave, who will lead our efforts on killer whale and  humpback research and who, we are told, makes killer grilled-cheese sandwiches. So, we got that goin’ for us.

Even with all the comings and goings, we managed to get out to search for killer whales around Otter Island. The frequent fog made spotting difficult, and the calm seas got progressively rougher as we approached Otter Island. At times, the island itself vanished into the fog, so it’s not too surprising that we didn’t see any whales. We didn’t see much of anything. Despite the name, there are no more sea otters on Otter Island. They were driven nearly extinct by commercial hunting in the 18th and 19th centuries. They recovered in much of Alaska during the last century, but never really made a comeback here. The Aleutian populations have been declining again since the 1990s, for reasons that are not yet fully understood.

Nor will you find sea lions, George told us, on Sea Lion Rock. From more than 500,000 animals in 1960, Steller sea lion numbers have fallen to around 20,000 adults today. Overfishing for pollock, a key prey species for the sea lion, is a key suspect.

I’d tell you the story of Walrus Island. But you can already guess the punch line.

All around this remarkable, wild sea, the ecosystem is changing. Seals, sea lions, walruses, even seabirds, are declining at staggering rates. Crab fisheries have crashed in one region after another. Other fisheries have followed the same trend, including, in some areas, the pollock fishery. The causes are complex. Overfishing is one obvious source of problems, but not always the only one. It is beyond doubt now that the climate is getting warmer here, and scientists are increasingly recognizing how that warming affects the wildlife of the Bering—disrupting food webs, causing some species to shift northward, and threatening others, like the walrus and the polar bear, with near-certain extinction. Many fishermen have seized on facts like these to argue that global warming, not overfishing, is the cause of wildlife declines. This tactic, in turn, has made some people who fight overfishing leery of talking about climate impacts. But I don’t think the answer is as simple as one or the other.

The sea lions, the birds and the pollock cannot choose which of these forces to be affected by. They are affected by both of them (and others).  And just as combining two different poisons can result in a new and far more toxic potion, the combination of overfishing and climate change has effects on this and other ecosystems that we’re only beginning to understand, but which appear far more toxic than either force in isolation. The question we have to ask ourselves is not “Which poison is worse?” but “How do we reduce both to make their combination less lethal?”

Stopping global warming demands immediate change, and we should, all of us, work to bring about that change. But even if we reduce greenhouse gas emissions today, it will take decades to work the poison out of our global system. In the meantime, we have to adapt our fishing practices—all of our practices for that matter—to the new realities and great uncertainties of life in a rapidly changing world.

- Carroll 

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

We've been here for a few days now, getting to know the people and the place and sounding out what people think of an ecosystem management based fishery. So far it's clear that it's what people want. I met an old guy the other day who started the conversation by saying "I hope you guys make those draggers go 100 miles offshore." The locals are being forced to go farther and further to get fish while the big factory draggers pillage their traditional waters.

The results of having to go farther were rammed home to everyone this morning. We awoke to the news that the boat George's son was fishing on had lost radio contact and hadn't come back in at midnight as planned.

Luckily another boat found them, 11 hours after last radio contact, upside down, the four young fishermen huddled on the upturned hull, hypothermic and lucky to be alive. George's son was a young hero in the situation. He had clambered over the rail and onto the bottom of the boat as it went over. He was able to haul his buddies up and as he was dry, he blocked the wind with his body while they shivered. Eleven hours in the frigid waters, scared, not knowing if anyone was looking. Good thing the Aleuts are so tough or they would not have made it.

As soon as the crew was brought back in and George had hugged his son, we went out to try and salvage their boat, the tool they need to survive and earn money. We had a rough idea where it was when they were rescued and luckily we found it. We ended up attaching some heavy lines and then dragging her back to the harbor at St. Paul.

The whole town was there to meet us with a big crane on the dock and many willing hands. All were quiet when they saw the damage to the boat and gear and the expressions on the faces of the guys that survived. It was a shocking way for all to see how dangerous it can be to be a fisherman in the Bering Sea. And how if they could fish by the island like they always have, this situation would not arise. Fishing is always dangerous, but you see my point I hope.

Going to sleep well tonight...

SAVE OUR SEAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

- Adam

Note: Adam is a radio operator and RIB driver.  He has worked with Greenpeace in Australia and internationally since 2003.  He is also an industrial rope access  specialist, which involves rigging for skyscrapers and large scale events such as the Olympics, as well as a licensed yacht skipper.

From George:

"I thought I was going to die, Dad." My son Justin told me as I cried and cried, hugging and holding him as tight as I could.

Just yesterday’s blog, I spoke about him going out into the frigid Bering Sea to fish for halibut commercially, farther and farther from the beaches of the Pribilof Islands. Little did I know that I would soon be woken up at 4:30 a.m. and told there was a problem. Their boat crew had not checked in at their usual hour, and were feared missing.

We all hoped and prayed for the best. Thankfully a local fisherman in his skiff discovered all four crewmembers of the boat after 11 hours clinging onto the overturned hull of their 26-foot aluminum vessel. Thankfully they are all doing well.

Nothing can prepare the parent of a fisherman for something like this. Every day that my son, 25 years old, goes out into the Bering Sea to fish, my mind and heart races with thoughts of grave concern. Perhaps I should insist he no longer fish? Perhaps there should be rules on the time of day and conditions of the water a boat can leave the harbor? Perhaps we should stop the fishery all together? Many questions with few answers.  I will talk with him more about the choices and the chances he and the younger people seem to be taking during these trying times in the local halibut fishery. What I will say, I do not know. But I have to. I love him so very much.

All over the world events such as this unfold. Some end tragically, others end with relief. What are we going to do to lessen the dangers of life? Do we need more regulations, more government involvement, more training? Probably each of those would be good. Do we need more conservation of our resources to ensure that small boats are not traveling greater distances to access their resources?

What about the next time he wants to go out fishing again? What do I do? Forbid him from going? Only he can decide. My questions will continue to be about the health of the resources, the safety of the vessel, making sure that all the necessary safety equipment is on board and the crew is trained. Do we, for the sake of safety and the protection of resources work to ensure our children need not take life-threatening risks to find food and make a living? Our work is important and must take on renewed vision and vigor. There is no time to waste, especially since our youth will continue to love the Bering Sea and all her beauty and richness.

I feel much relief now, tired and emotionally drained. I feel much better. The entire crew helped me through this experience. They held me, calmed me, and comforted me. The expressions on their faces of concern and relief when we heard the news told me much, and I am thankful. Mostly I am thankful to the Lord for His help and protection, not only for my son, but for his mother, brothers and sisters. They too were spared on this day.

- George 

The following posting is from Carroll, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Two days flying from Washington D.C. Two days adjusting to the rhythm and routine of ship life. Four days and four thousand miles from home. And I’m finally ready to write my first blog. “This is a good day for it,” I told myself this morning. “We’ve got a lot of great stuff to write about.” Ahh, the best laid plans…

After losing our first rigid inflatable boat also known as a "RIB" or “zodiac” to a mysterious oil leak yesterday, we dropped the second one, “Marrakesh”, in the water this morning and headed out to look for killer whales. A RIB is smaller than a ship and bigger than a canoe, and it’s full of air we’ve got two of ‘em…Or, so we thought. As we passed through the channel into open sea, Adam opened the throttle to give us some speed and …nothing. Marrakesh just kept puttering along, even with the throttle wide open. In five foot seas, this is not a good thing. You need to go fast enough to stay on top of the waves, unless you want the waves on top of you. Less than ten minutes into the trip, we turned and headed for home. We were starting our day 0 for 2 on the RIBs.

This would have been inconvenient even at the best of times. Today was not the best of times. Allan Springer, a research professor from the University of Alaska, was coming at noon to get our help retrieving a killer whale research buoy. The killer whale calls recorded on the buoy will help scientists better understand the volume and nature of killer whale activity in the waters around St. Paul. Assuming, of course, we could get it out of the sea. We needed at least one working RIB to do that. Adam and Willie (the first mate, and fix-it-guy-in-chief) hauled Marrakesh back on board and started pirating parts from inoperable RIB #1 to get at least one of them working again. They were still working when Allan showed up three hours later. Twenty minutes after that, Marrakesh was running and ready to go. Little miracles.

While Adam and James headed out with Allan to fetch the buoy, the rest of us went to a community feast, to which we were graciously invited. The good food, the friendship and the folding chairs would be familiar to anyone who’s been to a small-town potluck just about anywhere. But it was something else that got me thinking of my own hometown in rural Kentucky. Before the meal, two priests led the community in singing The Lord’s Prayer. It was a version unlike any I’ve ever heard, drawn not only from the Unangan’s Russian Orthodox faith, but from their history in this harsh and beautiful land. It was a slow, rich, sonorous sound that rose and fell like the Bering winds, with a deep, thrumming bass line like the crashing of waves. It was the sound of sadness, and stillness, and memory. But mostly, it was the sound of belonging. The sound that comes from being so much part of a place that the place becomes part of you. Runs so deep in your veins that it aches to be away from it. This is what I heard in the Unangan’s song, and this is what I know is at stake here.

Again and again, people on St. Paul and St. George have told us how factory trawlers are ravaging their coastal fishing grounds, forcing local fishermen far offshore in search of a vanishing catch. The explosion of industrial-scale fishing is making it ever harder to make ends meet with the small boats and small crews of the Pribilof Islands. In the face of this economic pressure from industrial giants, more and more people are leaving the Pribilofs in search of new opportunities. Just as people from my county were forced from farms into factories when the growth of massive agribusiness made it impossible to compete. In fishing, as in farming, economies of scale don’t account for family, or community, or belonging—any more than they account for ecology. The trawlers will take from these waters and from these people until there is nothing more to take. Then they will move on to new fishing grounds and start the cycle all over again. Never still, never remembering, never belonging.

Shortly after we returned from the potluck, the Marrakesh returned from her errand. Despite some skepticism from us armchair quarterbacks back on the ship, they’d managed to find and retrieve a 2-foot research buoy hidden under several fathoms of water in a patch of ocean nearly half a mile square. Allan looked pleased.

After the buoy was loaded up an on its way, the sun came out from behind the clouds for the first time in two days, and I decided to take advantage of the rare sunshine to photograph the seabird cliffs nearby. As I clambered over the sofa-sized rocks of the seawall, I saw fat, fast puffins torpedoing across the sky, least auklets feeding their young, graceful kittiwakes sailing the updrafts, and a factory trawler sitting not a mile offshore, transferring its catch to a cargo vessel. Sitting there on the rocks, I found myself quietly singing a song from Sesame Street. “One of these things is not like the others….”

- Carroll 

The following posting is from oceans campaigner George, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Today is the patron feast day of St. Paul Island. The island was named after and in honor of the Apostles Peter and Paul, which were also the names of the vessels in which the Russian Garasim Pribilov used when he accidentally found these islands. I say found because in the Unangan folklore we talk about our ancestors knowing of the existence of these Islands eons ago but never settled here. We never settled on these islands because although for five months out of the year they are teeming with wildlife, the other seven months they are barren. It is almost impossible to subsist here. We had no land animals until reindeer were brought here. We have no salmon streams. Nonetheless, we are celebrating our holiday today, and the island has quieted, at least from the normal activity of other weekday work noise on the street and in the homes. People are going to church. And the crew is invited to their potluck to join in the celebration. It does my heart good.

At supper last evening we watched a documentary, Man’s Thumb on Natures Balance by NBC News, done back in the day, around 1972 when the issue of the commercial harvest of the fur seal was at its peak. It brought back many memories for me. Some good, because I got to see the images of people who are no longer with us and for whom I have a lot of love and respect. And it brought back some not so good memories, mostly because the exploitation of any animal is not good. The killing of any animal is not fun. When done for any other reason but for food, is not something one takes pleasure in. But that is what I thought, and still do, as I watched how the Unangan of the Pribilofs were a captive workforce for the United States of America, Canada, Japan and Russia because of a treaty between these governments to share in the bounty of the Pribilofs, the fur seals, and on the backs of its Unangan people. Thirty-three or so years after this documentary was made it still conjures up many mixed feelings; anger, love, and very little peace.

My son is fishing for halibut here, doing what I did to help supplement my income when I was the Russian Orthodox pastor here for fifteen years, a position I no longer hold. He is hopeful, young and strong. He goes to school in Anchorage during the rest of the year. He is working hard with the rest of the crew in a small 28-foot boat. I wonder if he wonders if I am doing enough to ensure he can catch fish. Maybe that’s my own wondering? I have a need to work hard to do the best I can, as does any parent, to ensure that my children have a choice in life. When it comes time for my five children to want to come home and be Unangan, they need to have something to come home to. It seems a daunting task. The commercial fishing industry and all its culture is so big, wealthy and powerful compared to the people on the Pribilofs. But talking with the other crew on our ship I have hope. Hope that we will prevail in protecting the Bering Sea’s resources. Hope that we can and will make a difference. Hope that one-day before too much longer my son will know that I am doing well in my work.

Again the weather is chilly, for July standards, and misty. Maybe for good reason. The seals need this kind of weather to survive and be comfortable. The birds seem to be happy. And the people are opening their homes to us. We, Greenpeace, are welcome. As we prepare for our community meeting this evening, we cannot know for sure who will come or what will be said. We all need help; help in supporting one another’s work and efforts. A little encouragement goes a long way, and we accept any crumb that falls our way. But today is a holiday, a time to put aside our worries for a bit and meditate on the blessings we have. Tomorrow will soon be upon us, and my son will be going out for another trip. I need to rest today for I know the challenges of tomorrow will still be there and I must be clear of mind and spirit to ensure there are fish to catch and families to feed.

- George

Note: George was born and raised on the Pribilof Islands, is Aleut (Unangan) and has worked on environmental issues with the Bering Sea for almost 30 years.

The following posting is from oceans campaigner John, who is onboard in the Bering Sea... 

Greetings from St. Paul Island, the slightly more developed Pribilof partner to St. George.  There's more of a commercial fishing industry here; Trident Seafoods has a plant right across from where we are docked, and we've seen a couple trawlers pass through.  

The Defender, a large bottom trawler from Maine that pulled up next to us today, said they moved up here eight years ago because the fishing in the northeast had gotten terrible.  This is a common story.  Too often we fish until populations are depleted. Instead of learning from our mistakes, we then just transfer the fishing pressure somewhere else and start the cycle over again.  

Whether you're at the airport in Anchorage alongside scores of camo-clad big game hunters or at a commercial fishing hub like Dutch Harbor alongside factory trawlers out of Seattle, it is hard to escape the feeling that Alaska is where the rest of America comes to kill things.  Unfortunately, the cost for subsistence and small-boat commercial fishermen is pretty steep.

This morning, we had a visit from Phil Zavadil of the Tribal Council's ecosystem office.  We took the boat out and helped him deploy a buoy that will monitor sub-surface temperaturesas part of a project by the Tribal Government of St. Paul and World Wildlife Fund.  This data will be useful in tracking global warming, which, along with fishing, is having enormous (and little understood) impacts on the Bering Sea ecosystem.

Craig-the-killer-whale-biologist has left the boat, soon to be replaced by Dave-the-humpback- and-killer-whale-biologist.  Carroll and James from our Washington D.C. office are now on board, getting ready to take over for Steph and I when we leave in a couple days.  At least that's the plan!  The Bering Sea tends to laugh at travel plans of any kind.  When we got to St. George, they had just welcomed the first flight in after 28 straight days of cancellations.  St. Paul has a bit of a better track record lately, but they still went nine days in a row without any flights making it in.

It's been an adventure.  We've learned a lot, made some friends, and made a good start at documenting the people and wildlife that make the Bering Sea so special.  Tomorrow, we'll meet with the community here to talk about what we've seen so far and get their input on the plans we're starting to develop for the future.

The best thing we've learned on this trip so far is that we've got a lot of people who are ready to work with us here.  That's a good thing, because there's a lot that needs to be done.

- John

The following posting is from oceans campaigner George, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

We all know how difficult it is to say good bye to family and friends. For me, saying good bye or a “see you later” to my home and the many wonderful people of St. George Island this time seemed more difficult than times before.

Maybe its because I don’t know when I will visit next, or maybe its because visiting home and the people just becomes all the more special the older one gets. Whatever the reason, we are leaving St. George Island and all its wonders behind, going forward on our journey. Although the distance between St. George and St. Paul is only 40 miles, in the Bering Sea, those 40 miles are a long way.

I honestly did not know what to expect returning home with a boatload of Greenpeace activists, but I soon found out. As I mentioned earlier, I did get many, many “welcome home” greetings. And to my delight, so did our crew. The people literally opened their doors and invited us in. I recorded five interviews with local leaders while John spent an afternoon with researchers looking at the health of the island’s fur seal population. And in the evening, we had our community meeting. And what a meeting it was!

After brief introductions and an outline of what Greenpeace is here to do, we opened the floor to discussion. The response and questions were wonderful. Along with questions about what Greenpeace is doing here, about the killer whale research, and some concerns about the community’s subsistence activities, the talk began to center on factory trawlers.

What can we do to ensure the needs of the community are met, both our subsistence halibut needs as well as the small commercial halibut fishery? How can we make sure that the factory trawlers keep a reasonable distance off the shores of St. George Island? Is it necessary for them to drop their nets as close as one or two miles from the beach and begin their tows? Is there a way we can respect one another’s needs and still continue to fish? Will we ever be able to see a time when the once healthy stocks of halibut return? Localized depletion is a major concern. Along with this are the ever-nagging questions about the health of populations of birds, fur seals and sea lions that help provide food to get people through the long Bering Sea winters.

There were also questions about toxic contamination of marine life. Are the animals we have lived on for thousands of years still healthy? An elder I interviewed said: “We don’t eat them (traditional foods) any longer. They (outsiders who come to the Islands for research and other reasons) keep telling us about contaminants and other diseases, like the bird flu.” It is so sad. Our traditional foods are much healthier for us to eat than the burgers and other processed foods now taking a larger role in our diets. Hypertension and diabetes are very common in our people, and cancer is increasingly taking a toll.

As the meeting went on, the Tribal President began to voice a litany of concerns and observations about the environment. And then he said something that I did not expect to hear. He said, “let’s work together to try to find solutions to these problems.” Needless to say, John and I were both excited and humbled when thinking about what we can do to help make a difference for our wonderful Unangan family of St. George Island.

As we departed the harbor in the dark of night, with winds blowing from the northeast at about 25 knots, the dim lights on the Island began fading in the mist. St. George Island… What a wonderful place… a beautiful place. What will the future bring? When will we return, and return we must. My home. My people.

- George

Note: George was born and raised on the Pribilof Islands, is Aleut (Unangan) and has worked on environmental issues with the Bering Sea for almost 30 years.

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Foggy and very cold.

We got up early to make maximum use of the calm weather. It was a little daunting heading out in the RIB, knowing we would be at times fogged in and unable to see land or our ship. Safety first though: GPS, compass, radio x 2, water, food, first aid kit, survival suits, basically the works. Plus the ship could see us on radar and we made regular radio calls.

We searched and searched and searched some more, but not a whale in sight. About 1300 we gave up and went back to the ship for lunch. Shortly after, the fog lifted so it was up in the rigging with the binoculars for another couple of hours.

We had just decided to change our search area when there in front of us they appeared: A huge male and three females.

We scrambled the boat again and took off in pursuit, lost them for a while then found them again. Then it was a game of cat and mouse as we tried to get close enough for Craig to get a biopsy and attach a satellite tag.

My lesson for the day was that killer whales are extremely crafty.

I actually felt privileged to be outsmarted a number of times. He would let me drive up nearly alongside then dive and come up on the other side of the boat. He would then cruise along just ahead leading us on so we wouldn’t notice the females had gone, then he would vanish and we’d spot them all together again hundreds of meters away going in the opposite direction. Eventually though I guessed his next spot to come up right and Craig got his biopsy.

After all that this pod of whales was not going to let another be tagged. Their evasive action was second to none and they outsmarted us on every turn. At about 8 p.m. we decided to give up and let them get on with their lives without the pesky RIB chasing them all over the ocean. I’m very glad there are strong rules about not harassing whales. I sent a silent apology and thanks as they swam off on their way. They have helped to protect themselves and the environment without knowing it.

Now back to the island, a quick dinner and back up the rigging to do more spotting in the last few hours of light (dark’s at about  1 o’clock in the morning). Make hay while the sun shines as its forecast to blow and rain tomorrow.

Going to sleep well tonight

- Adam

Note: Craig Matkin has Scienific Research Permit No. 545-1761-00. It was issued by the National Marine Fisheries Service (NMFS) under authority of the Marine Mammal Protection Act (MMPA) and the Endangerd Species Act (ESA).

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

We arrived at St. George before dawn. Slight breeze, very chilly... We got in around 7 and were met by the harbor master Andy, who was standing by a big sign on the dock that read "rat infested ships are not allowed to dock". Of course the jokes flowed over who could and who couldn't get off the boat...

Myself, George, and Steph drove across the island with Andy to pick up our gear that had been shipped here, and for George to say hi to his friends and begin setting up a community meeting for tomorrow night. He was born here so they’re many greetings and introductions. They were a friendly bunch all getting ready for a big party night in honor of July 4th (it was raining and stormy so they put it off). I think these people must be among the toughest in the world. This isolated island is bare and windswept, surrounded by cliffs and the Bering Sea. In the middle of summer there is still snow on the ground.

Around 10 a.m. we were all back on board and ready for our first real look for Orca with Craig. I spent several hours up in the crow’s nest in a survival suit hat, scarf, gloves and hood, scanning the ocean for the telltale tall dorsal fins. It was amazing. The cliffs had rookeries with more than a million birds. A few vertical acres of chirping and squawking kittywakes. On the water were another couple of million birds all diving and feeding. It’s hard to express the sheer  scale of sea life here. When we turned off the engines it was like being engulfed in sound. Between the bird rookeries were the fur seal colonies. I reckon between us we must have taken hundreds of photos.

No whales, so we've decided to up anchor and make the 40 mile trip to St. Paul where there are bigger seal colonies and the fishermen have reported more recent sightings. We have found out that there are few fish left in the waters close to the islands, so the Aleuts that are subsistence fishing are going way out to sea to the continental shelf. The big commercial trawlers have done what they do everywhere and taken everything with no thought for anyone else or the future. I hope and pray for the Aleut that the our campaign to bring in ecosystem based fisheries management is successful.

Well I'd better get rugged up and back up to the crow’s nest. We need all eyes on the water for this transit!

- Adam

Note: Adam is a radio operator and RIB driver.  He has worked with Greenpeace in Australia and internationally since 2003.  He is also an industrial rope access  specialist, which involves rigging for skyscrapers and large scale events such as the Olympics, as well as a licensed yacht skipper. 

The following posting is from oceans campaigner John, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

We pulled in to St. George Island this morning, and the first thing we saw was a large sign declaring that rat-infested ships were unwelcome.  Rats and other mammalian predators can wreak havoc on islands ecosystems, and the Pribilofs have worked hard to remain rat-free.  It only takes one pregnant rat to start a cycle that can quickly lead to disaster - particularly for sea birds, which nest on cliffs and are extremely vulnerable.

We planned to just grab a few boxes of gear at the post office before getting back on the water to start looking for killer whales.  Of course, this being St. George, our short trip ashore included walking by a snowy owl and two unbelievably cute arctic fox cubs.  And as much as we wanted to start looking for killer whales, it was impossible to walk by the bird cliffs without taking some time to appreciate the enormous numbers of sea birds.

Populations of fish-eating birds have been declining here in recent years.  Red-legged kittiwakes and murres have not been reproducing well, a sign that they are not getting enough food.  Unfortunately for the birds, fisheries managers do not account for their needs when setting catch limits.  Climate may be a factor as well, but it seems clear that fishing is contributing to the birds' decline.


The weather is good today, with minimal fog and calm seas that are perfect for spotting whales.  We'll keep you posted on what we find!

- John 

The following posting is from oceans campaigner John, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

Among many other things, George (our lead oceans campaigner in Alaska) is a former Russian Orthodox Priest. Yesterday he invited Father Jonah Andrew of the Holy Ascension Orthodox Cathedral in Unalaska onboard to bless the boat. Father Jonah was joined in the conducting of the ceremony by George’s wife Leonella and Rufina Shiashnikoff, a powerful Aleut woman who I first met at our meeting with the community here last week.

After the blessing, Rufina spoke about her experience as a three-time cancer survivor. Two of the doctors that have helped her get through it all urged her to “eat the food of her ancestors.” Rufina said it has been a real struggle, because it’s no longer possible to eat many of the kinds of seafood and coastal vegetation her grandparents enjoyed. The wild beaches of her youth have been replaced by industrial fishing docks, and the marine life that she used to catch from shore has gone the way of “localized depletion.”

Craig-the-killer-whale-biologist and Dave-the-cook came on board in Dutch Harbor, and now we are en route to St. George Island, a 24-hour trip. The wind’s gusting to 35 knots, but it’s coming from behind us and so far the swells aren’t too bad. Early this morning, we had a pod of six or seven Dall’s porpoises riding our bow wave, looking a little like a miniature, more hyperactive version of the killer whales we’ll be studying for the next ten days.

There are two distinct types of killer whales in the North Pacific: transients, which feed primarily on marine mammals; and residents, which are largely fish eaters. The two populations share the same waters, but do not interbreed and are genetically distinct. This gives evolutionary biologists fits, because it looks like we are witnessing the divergence of killer whales into separate species without any geographic isolation or mutation to drive the split. Could this be the first known example of behavioral modification leading to speciation?

That’s just one of the questions we’re here to try to answer as we focus our attention on the transient killer whale population around the Pribilofs. We’ll take photos and record vocalizations to identify individuals, take tissue samples to provide information about genetics, contaminants, and diet, and, if we’re really lucky, attach satellite tags to allow us to track their movement.

How many fur seals and sea lions are killer whales eating? Is that contributing to the decline of these species? Or is the million and a half tons of groundfish we remove from the North Pacific each year causing fish-eating seals and sea lions to go hungry? Most indications point to the fishing industry, but in a system as vast and as complicated as this one, the only responsible thing to do is to err on the side of caution as we work to improve our understanding of what is really happening.

- John 

The following posting is from oceans campaigner John, who is onboard in the Bering Sea... 

In the middle of the darkest part of last night, we relied on the charts to get us through a particularly shallow channel.  According to the charts, there was a narrow pass where it looked like it would be just deep enough to accommodate our boat's 11 foot draft.  Willie and I were on the bridge sweating it out with Captain Bob as we all stared at the depth sounder, which reads the amount of water below the boat’s keel. 

We started out in plenty of water, and then watched it drop off steadily all the way down to zero.  Bob didn’t flinch, and after a few minutes of nail-biting the depth started to climb back up again. And then we continued on our way to Dutch Harbor, with the knowledge that we had a skipper who could make an awful lot out of a little luck.

After a few days of smooth sailing, today the odds caught up with us.  Cold, fog, swells…  It was probably not the roughest weather we’ll face on this expedition, but it was our first test so far and everybody came through in good shape.  In the past three days, I think we only saw one other boat, and only a couple more were even close enough to register on radar. 

For our team, coming from cities like Washington D.C., Austin, Tacoma, and Sidney, this was a kind of isolation few of us had ever experienced.  As we bounced around in the open ocean waves, we passed creatures who felt right at home – puffins bobbing in the waves, shearwaters swooping gracefully by, and humpback whales occasionally surfacing near the boat.  My favorite sighting of the day was a sleeping Steller sea lion, calmly floating on her back in the middle of the swells.

Now we’re finally arriving in Dutch Harbor, where we’ll pick up Craig and Dave and begin the first research leg of the tour: killer whale population ecology.

Wish us luck!

John H

The following posting is from Adam, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

We're really in the heart of Aleut country now. Thick fog and a heavy swell today have made a marked difference to the sunny clear “whale-y” day we had yesterday (although I did spot one big whale fluke through the fog as it dove earlier on.)

It’s been a day of moving from hand-hold to hand-hold, making sandwiches instead of fancy meals. Peering out into the weather marveling at how the people of old didn’t die out from simply getting lost. I can only think that it was because they were still so closely linked to the ecosystem that they were part of, that they could read the water and the birds and the wind like a book.

It’s the modern day disconnect with nature that leads to the shortsighted devastation of life that we are here to try and help bring to an end I think. I really look forward to meeting the Aleut people that see this too, and forming a bond between us that can lead to a broad and comprehensive way of speaking to the problems that face them, and ultimately all of us. Problems that stem from the way this environment
(read resource) is managed.

We’re about 50nm from Unalaska and have just entered Unamak pass, the boat has leveled out a bit and we can get back to doing some normal things like writing blogs and doing chores. We’ve readied the RIBS
(rigid hulled inflatable boats) and all our other gear and cant wait to get the scientists onboard and get out there doing what we came to do!

Adam

The following posting is from oceans campaigner John, who is onboard in the Bering Sea...

We've been making good time, taking advantage of the calm(ish) seas as we cruise out to Unalaska Island. There have been a few whale sightings so far, mostly short glimpses of dorsal fins from afar with an occasional flash of a tail fluke. This afternoon, though, was something special.

A mother and calf put on a real show, with an hour of breaching, flipper-slapping, lobtailing acrobatics. No one knows for sure why they do it, but watching these whales leap and splash for an hour made it pretty easy to believe that they were just having fun.

Meanwhile, Japan is moving ahead with their plans to start hunting these incredible animals, in spite of the international ban on commercial whaling. There is so little market for whale meat in Japan today that much of the meat will end up in pet food. What a pointless and shameful waste.

But for today at least, we can’t get the toothy grins off our faces. We have just witnessed something that will stay with us for a long, long time, and all we feel is grateful.

- John

The following posting is from oceans campaigner John, who is onboard as Greenpeace begins our 2006 tour of the Bering Sea...

We are heading west out of Kodiak Island and life is good. The sun is setting behind the mountains; the sea is silky calm. It's 11 p.m., the end of another long Alaskan summer day.

Our boat is gorgeous, an 84 foot former fishing vessel that has been refitted as a research vessel. Our team joined the boat in Kodiak, after Captain Bob and Willie drove it up here from Newport, Oregon. This was a last minute partnership, so these guys really had to go all out to get the boat up to Alaska in time for us to begin our work.

We're here to take a good look at the Bering Sea, one of the wildest and biologically rich places on earth. Everyone knows that the Bering Sea is changing, but there are a lot of different thoughts on what is causing it – and what, if anything, needs to be done to protect the Bering's ecosystem and the billion dollar fishing industry it supports.

Steph and George saw the first whale of our trip today, a giant humpback that surfaced right next to our boat. Humpbacks are one of the most dramatic of the nearly 30 species of marine mammals found in Alaska waters.

This was the second endangered species we've sighted so far. The first was a male Steller sea lion, probably about 1500 pounds, that cruised by our boat while we were in the harbor at Kodiak. Their numbers declining dramatically over the past 30 years, Steller sea lions are at the heart of the controversy about what is happening to the Bering Sea.

Steller sea lions feed on pollock, a cod-like fish that has long been abundant in Alaska. Unfortunately for the sea lions, humans also feed on pollock, and in numbers that stretch our ability to imagine. Laid end to end, the Alaska pollock caught in 2004 would stretch 957,900 miles, enough to circle the globe almost 40 times. As much of this catch occurs in areas that are critical habitat for the sea lions, fishery managers have recognized the “acute” potential for conflict between the pollock fishery and the food needs of sea lions. Despite recognizing the conflict, fishery managers do not account for the needs of sea lions or other predators when setting catch limits. This is a fundamental problem with the way fisheries are managed in the U.S., and something that Greenpeace is working to change.

Now it's time to grab a few hours of sleep before I need to stand watch at 4 a.m.. After all the months of preparation, I’m going to sleep well knowing that we are finally underway!

-John 

The following posting is the first from oceans campaigner John, who is onboard as Greenpeace begins our 2006 tour of the Bering Sea... 

Yesterday, George and I held an open meeting with the communities of Dutch Harbor and Unalaska.  Located in the middle of the Aleutian Islands, Dutch is the largest fishing port in the USA and home to the factory pollock trawlers that supply fish sticks and fake crab meat to consumers all over the world.  It's a stunningly beautiful location - volcanic islands with snowy peaks and emerald green hills surrounding rocky bays and deepwater harbors.  There were wildflowers everywhere, along with puffins, foxes, and something I was completely unprepared for: bald eagles by the dozens.

But Dutch is a company town, and while we knew there were quite a few people around who were concerned about overfishing and localized depletion, we weren't sure if there would be any who would come out to a meeting with Greenpeace to talk about it in public.  The pollock guys are like the ExxonMobil of the fishing industry, spending enormous amounts of money promoting junk science to shift the blame from fishing to pollution, climate change, or even killer whales.  For over twenty years, it has been a dangerous thing to criticize the pollock industry.  Reputations have been attacked, careers have been destroyed, research funding has been taken away, and scientific conferences have been cancelled.

Even our humble expedition to the Bering Sea this year has not escaped the industry's attention: caving in to pressure from people in Dutch Harbor who said they would not service a Greenpeace vessel, the owner pulled the plug on our contract.  Of course, we are not going to give in that easily, so we scrambled and found a boat that may turn out to be even better (and cheaper).

George and I are both pretty low key, up-beat guys, but all this industry bullying had us wondering what to expect when we showed up at the Museum of the Aleutians to hold the meeting.  When we discovered that the doors were locked, we just laughed and resolved to have the meeting outside.  It was the nicest day of the year, so people were happy to be out in the sun (at this time of year, the sun can stay out until after 11:00 at night).

After a quick interview with the local radio station, George and I told the people assembled in the parking lot about our plans for the expedition. (I'll tell you more about that next time.) We kept it short so we could hear what these folks had to say about the changes they've witnessed in recent years, and it was truly eye-opening.  Many of them were Aleuts, indigenous Alaskans who have been living off the Bering Sea for 10,000 years.  They were dismayed that the days of catching everything they needed right off shore seemed to be ending, as people had to go farther and farther out to catch fish that seemed to be getting smaller and smaller in size. They were upset that trawlers were operating right in their bay, and wondered aloud if we could help kick the trawlers out into deeper water. People also talked about global warming, sharing observations about delayed salmon runs and changes in bird migrations.

Despite being locked out of the building, people from America's largest fishing community stood and talked with us in the parking lot for two hours. All of us had more questions than answers, but we started discussing a few potential solutions too.  All in all, not a bad beginning!

Now George and I are back in Anchorage, pulling the rest of the team together and getting ready to meet the boat on her way out to the Pribilof Islands.

-John 

day 4 now of the iwc in st. kitts - there've been 5 votes, with the anti-whaling nations having won the first 4.  things got quite heated yesterday with all sorts of not nice language being used.  again, i don't imagine it should come as a surprise, but for diplomats, a lot of these folks aren't very diplomatic!

 

i have had the good fortune of meeting a lot of amazing people here - true heroes to me ... some that have almost single-handedly turned things around for whales, the oceans, the planet ... admittedly, a lot of these people work for greenpeace, or have worked for us in the past. 

 

the energy and dedication ... the refusal to be dissuaded ... it takes a lot of heart. i was speaking last night with a couple from guatemala.  they were telling me about how violent it is there, how afraid the people are there to speak out.  60% of the population there cannot read.  they are essentially one of 2 organizations that truly campaigns for change, from what i understand.  they started their group years ago, just the 2 of them, and we can thank them (and their now-expanded staff of 5 total, including them) for guatemala not being here at the iwc, casting votes with japan. 

it's truly incredible, the power of the individual to affect real and meaningful change.  makes me think about my home, the u.s., and our relatively high literacy rate, our democratic government that affords the opportunity for its citizens to speak out and call on our elected officials to represent the will of the people - while it'd be easy to be a little discouraged by the lack of civic engagement, given all this, i remain optimistic - if not us, who?  if not now, when? 

 

so, i'm putting this out there in hopes of reminding myself and others to keep our chins up - and to use our voices to call on our government to back up their words and be real leaders on this issue, to step up and take advantage of the fact that the u.s. will be hosting the iwc next year in alaska, to be a true host to the interest of the whales and our oceans. 

 

here's to our blue planet ...

 

b

 

 

 

 

 

 

[ i'm apparently more web-challenged than i realized, as i think this posted to the wrong page the other day, so am now trying again ... ] 

well, 2 votes in and so far, we're on the winning side ... by the skin of our teeth, as it were.  so far, the first vote here in st. kitts at the IWC was on striking the issue of small cetaceans (dolphins & porpoises, for example) from the agenda.  japan and their recruited allies wanted this to go through, but we scraped by with a 32-30 vote. 

next up was japan's proposal to implement secret ballots.  as this would be a complete violation of transparency and honesty, we are, of course, against such a move.  luckily, 33 votes were with us.  the anti-conservation (aka pro-whaling) side only had 30 votes.  we eked out a victory on this, but MAN - talk about too close for comfort. 

so, the big announcement is that greenpeace will return to the southern ocean this year to once again bear witness and confront the japanese whaling fleet as they return to the southern ocean (including the southern ocean whale sanctuary) to hunt & kill nearly 1000 whales, including 10 ENDANGERED fin whales.  so we know what we're up to - the question is what will the pro-conservation/anti-whaling countries do? 

more later on some of the dynamics here (as in, dynamics, but also the dynamic people i’m lucky enough to work with here … )

b

p.s. if you want to watch the happenings in the official meeting room, you can go to http://www.e-kujira.or.jp/iwc/iwcmeeting.html - click on the 'english' link ... if it comes up blank, that just means they're on break.  or it's not working (which happened as they were taking the vote on secret ballots ... grrr ... )

i knew i’d have a lot of firsts over the last few days – my first time in st. kitts; my first time working with this fantastic team of fellow greenpeacers, all of them from different countries, with something like 60-70 years of experience in the whales campaign between them (i just started at greenpeace in the u.s. a bit over a year ago); and, i thought, i’d also get to be working on a greenpeace ship for the first time.  i was VERY excited about this. i've never even SEEN a greenpeace ship in 3-d – just pictures & videos – and, of course, heard the stories.  i was crestfallen to find out that, for unknown and unspecified reasons, the government of st. kitts had refused our application to come into port here.  even worse, not only were we not allowed to dock, the arctic sunrise wasn’t even allowed to enter st. kitts waters.  so much for transparency & freedom of speech … and so much for my much anticipated first stint as an onboard campaigner.

of course, this won’t stop our work here.  we’re here on the ground (versus the water!) and we’re not so easily discouraged or dissuaded.  we know the truth – that you out there are counting on us to represent you and let the folks here know that the global community is against whaling, as well as against these transparent efforts to stymie transparency!  

ok, sorry. it’s also my first blog.  i got a little carried away, and fear it reads as a bit preachy.  BUT this is definitely the kind of stuff that gets me going – i imagine it may be a bit naïve, but i still find shenanigans at an institutional/governmental level to be … well, incredibly disappointing, if not shocking.  not that i’m not fundamentally disappointed at dishonesty and manipulation at a personal level, but i still believe that those entrusted to govern have a higher responsibility – to their citizens, as well as to citizens of the world.  

speaking of what we expect from our governments, i’m off to a meeting with the u.s. delegation.  sorry for bloggus interruptus, but i wanted to send my first shout out blog-style before it got much later here …

stay tuned – i predict sightings of origami whales on the horizon …

‘til the next,
b

Well a lot has happened since I last wrote... As you all know we have been working with the Guinean authorities to find and arrest illegal or pirate fishing boats. During the night of the 27th we found a group of boats, and at first light sent up the helicopter to identify the ships.  Lian Run No. 14 - one of a family of Chinese vessels we have documented - was not on the list of ships authorized to fish. We then launched the inflatables and after confirming the ship had no license it was arrested.
 
The captain claimed that the documentation was lodged in Las Palmas...it wasn't of course. Also all the boxes on board for packing fish bore the names of other vessels.
 
The ship was a piece of junk and had next to no steering mechanism. We had crew that stayed on board with the Guinean authorities and the Esperanza escorted the vessel into port. It took us well over 24 hours to travel the 60 miles into Conakry (in Guinea).
 
It was a really weird situation and made a lot of us question what we feel we should be doing. Knowing that the crew, probably quite unaware of the licensing or lack thereof, from poor countries, and probably with families to feed, are now imprisoned on their ship in Guinea - for who knows how long is just really sad.

I thought about it long and hard and it now sits okay with me even if it is not a situation that I like.
 
Greenpeace's role is to take action to stop environmental crime - and what is going on here is both environmentally wrong as well as having huge human rights issues entangled with it. In this region the only effective way to halt the practice is to work with the authorities to make arrests... and to get EU to live up to it's promise to help with this problem here.
 
I guess I am babbling now.
 
We have since been all over the place - and are now hunting down illegal reefers (boats that pick up the fish from the ships at sea) - more on this in the next few days.
 
Celeste

March 27, 2006 

We have been off the Guinean coast for the last ten days. We have tried to remain relatively undercover - documenting illegal fishing in the waters of some of the poorest countries in the world. For the last few days we have also had authorities from Guinea on board. They are from the Fishing Authority and the Navy. We are working with them to board and arrest these pirate vessels before they can launder any more of their illegal cargo through Europe's ports.

So far, we've recorded 67 foreign-flagged vessels within Guinea Conakry's 200-mile Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ). Of these, 19 are not authorized to fish at all. Another 22 have known to have been involved in illegal fishing at some point in the past. We couldn't identify nine of them - their names were hidden, or they covered them as we approached. Eight vessels, also unidentified, were spotted inside the Guinean 12-mile zone - waters reserved for local "artisanal" fishermen, most of whom still use small canoes called pirogues.

In the shadowy world of pirate fishing, illegal catches are transferred to "reefers" (refrigerated ships), which then deliver the fish onto the dinner plates of Europe, via the port of Las Palmas in the Canary Islands.

Fish consumption has been rising in Europe and elsewhere, but there's actually been a decline in West Africa - the only region in the world where this is happening. In the struggle to compete with illegal industrial trawlers, local fishermen are losing their livelihoods - and in some cases, their lives. Others are forced farther out to sea - we've seen them working more than 100km from the coast, bobbing around in small boats, at the mercy of the elements. The Guinean authorities have virtually no capacity to combat fish pirates, even when they come within a couple of miles of the shore.

Up to now, there's been lots of talk from governments - including and especially the EU - about tackling the problem. If they were actually bothered about stopping pirate fishing, we wouldn't need to be here, helping out the Guinean authorities. With all their talk about encouraging aid to Africa, it's ironic, hypocritical and downright ridiculous that local sources of food and income are being pillaged for European fish markets.

Amazingly it is estimated that fish stolen from sub-Saharan Africa totals 1 billion US dollars each year! Potentially this income could pass up from local fisherman all the way to federal governments if were not for these pirates - can you imagine the impact that could have for this region?

Celeste

March 10, 2006

We are currently about a day away from St. Helena. We are heading there to find a "smooth piece of water" so that we can check to see if we have rope tied around the port side propeller. By the way, this also marks our entry into the tuna fishing grounds - this is where we will start to look for pirate fishing vessels. We will maintain a zigzag pattern to try to identify and document as many illegal vessels as possible. We will also track ships from this area heading up into Las Palmas, sending their illegally caught fish onto Europe.

But back to the topic at hand - science and rope around the propeller?

Part of the goal of the Defending our Oceans tour is to gain a real understanding of surface waste in the world's oceans. The data that exists at the moment is higgedly piggedly, this research will be a valuable contribution to our understanding.

I'm writing this email from the stern of the ship...wireless internet - cool huh...but what I am actually doing here is looking at this contraption that was built at the Greenpeace science labs in Exeter and shipped out to South Africa where it also joined the Espy. It is bright yellow - and has many different names depending on who you talk to and what has just happened with it, but generally in better times it is the "yellow thing". Essentially it is a steel catamaran that has a net that trails from its middle out behind it. The catamaran allows the net to stay open at the ocean's surface. We have dropped it into the water twice. We used a crane to lift it over the side and then with a RIB in the water pulled it to the rear of the vessel. The first time seemed reasonably successful but modifications had to be made. The modifications were made and in she went again - it was quite choppy and the results were not so good - rope around the propeller - possibly - the net ripped in several places, the catamaran hitting the side of the Espy. Not a good test by any accounts - except a lot was learned.

Today the fitter on board is going to make a boom for the catamaran so that it will be fixed by steel to the side of the Espy - no trailing it behind us. We will run another test deploying and retrieving with this new system tomorrow while we are in the calmer waters of St. Helena.

Once it is rigged correctly it will sample surface debris as the tour makes it way around the world over the next year - providing Greenpeace and the scientific community with some real understanding of pollution in our oceans from which to start to effect change.

Well it is nearly eight - time for me to head to the galley for a galley maid I am.

Take care,
Celeste

March 3, 2006 

Well, I am currently about a third or so of the way up the Namibia coast - though no land in sight of course.
 
It is great to be on board. The weather is perfect, and I am finding my way around my new little world. I am about to embark on my fourth day out - but I guess my day's are  typical already. The wake up is at 7.30 though I am usually up long before (the sunrises have been magnificent). Work starts at 8. I usually spend some time down in the stores in fridges. When we set sail everything was everywhere so I have been organizing the food into some order. We have two large walk in freezers - one for veg and one for meat. We also have two large walk-in fridges - a cheese/tofu/milk etc. and one for veg. there is also a cold lobby area for all of these fridges.
 
We then also have two dry stores - one for things like rice, flour, beans and the other for canned goods, sauces etc. Then by ten I start to cook. Lunch is at 12 and every other day I clean the galley afterwards.  I then have a small break and get back into dinner - which is at six - and do the clean up on the same day as I cleaned lunch. So usually I'll be finished by 7.30 - 8pm.

Miguel, the cook, is a great guy - very funny and good to work for.
 
I am sharing a cabin with a deckhand, Marta, who is probably the best cabin-mate to ever have. Our cabin is so beautiful, we have rugs on the floor, plants and flowers, a music system, oil burning and beautiful pictures everywhere - it is almost the lap of luxury!
 
So I will keep it short and sweet and write more tomorrow, about life onboard and the campaign. It is almost 7.30 and I need to eat and get dressed still. Tonight one of the engineers is taking me on a tour of the engines - my big Friday night out on the town  ;-)  - so hopefully I will learn some interesting stuff I bribed him with cheese!). We are using the e-drive - it is the diesel-electric engine. It consumes about a third of the amount of diesel as the regular engines. With it we maintain a speed of around 9 knots.
 
Take care and more soon!
Celeste

After 74 straight days at sea we arrived in Cape Town under a hot, sunny African sky, greeted by the continuous chatter of gulls, an escort of harbor porpoises and the ambivalence of sea lions. Our entry was easy and we breezed through immigration and customs. We are now tied up alongside a dock within a short walk to the public waterfront, which bustles with shops and restaurants. The Arctic Sunrise and Esperanza are tied up together so for the first time since we left in late November, the two crews can finally, fully mingle.

Returning to land was a welcome event and all around it seems that spirits have lightened. The local pubs have no doubt noticed the sharp decrease in their draft stores and the increase in their coffers as returning sailors are doing what sailors are known to do. However, the delight in having a real beer or cocktail was heavily overshadowed by the happy riot that broke out when the fresh fruit and vegetables arrived within hours of the gangway landing: after more than five weeks without any fresh fruit and only the random fresh carrot or cabbage now and then, crisp, cool lettuce and crunchy grapes sparked a celebration on the foredeck. I kid you not. It took most of us hours to even bother setting foot on land due to the joyous labor of attempting to eat all the lettuce that was brought aboard.

All's well overall, and already the crew change is well underway, as folks trickle off in a slow but steady stream and others arrive. Business carries on as stores are loaded on, recycling, garbage and such are unloaded, briefings with replacement crew are conducted and various equipment specialists come and go. The Arctic Sunrise will go to dry dock for major repairs soon then leave for the Amazon; the Espy will stay in port for several more weeks before heading up the west coast of Africa, continuing the year-long ocean's campaign. For us, the Southern Ocean expedition component of this year's ocean campaign work will end as most expeditions do: with a quiet grin and a wave more than a bang and shout, the crew splits up and slips off quietly towards home as the work carries on in the hands of the next crew.

The Billy G. is ready to ship home, back to the states. She's been given an inside and out fresh water rinse and dried in the hot summer air. She's been lifted from her portside sea cradle and set on her shipping cradle, which has been built on the helideck. Her sponsons have been fully deflated and lashed in tight and the equipment has all been cleaned, inventoried and packed. In the next few days the container truck should arrive to start her trip to the Port of Baltimore, for hopefully a hero's welcome (she's been among the most valued and reliable tools we had) as well as some much-needed repairs and well earned TLC.

So, well: that's it. It's been a great honor to work alongside this crew and my deepest respect and gratitude goes to all those who made this campaign possible.

-Nathan 

We're almost back to Cape Town, almost back to land.  We're maybe 800 miles south of the southern tip of Africa, making roughly 10 knots an hour in remarkably easy seas so far: we've had the good fortune of transiting across a high pressure zone.  We've just left the 50's and have entered in infamous "roaring 40's" latitudes, so we'll see if our fortune holds...we hope to cover the distance in less than a week.

Good fortune blessed us with the sighting of either fin or blue whales the other day.  Phil and I were able to spot them clearly in binoculars heading opposite our bearing; they were clearly VERY large whales with the distinctive small dorsal fin in relation to their body size, and by their color, the texture of the skin on their backs and the nature of their spouts it was clear they were not humpbacks nor sperm whales.  Blue whales are, of course, the largest and one of the most rare creatures on the planet (that latter fact thanks to past whaling efforts) and fin whales are second to them in size and also small in number (thanks again to the whalers).  Seeing them roaming free and easy in the wide sea was indeed a special moment.

On the same day, we were visited by a fully-grown Wanderer albatross, accompanied by an adolescent Wanderer and a bit later, an adult Royal albatross.  When young, these birds have a white and black mottled appearance, but upon adulthood they blossom into a lovely white bird with distinctive black wingtips on top that taper down the trailing edges to the base of their backs.  They are also massive birds, stretching over 10 feet between their wingtips, and they rarely flap their wings - they deftly use the winds to soar and arc their way back and forth across the sea, the image of strength in the service of grace.

We have also welcomed the return of night, which has been shyly but steadily creeping into the middle of the wee hour watches.  You would never know how much you miss darkness until you live without it for a few months, but still, it is a good thing that it is ebbing in gently on us; for honestly it feels strange and disorienting. It's odd that you can't see the sea. It's odd for the bridge to be dark at night.  It's odd to notice the navigation lights, which have been on during the whole voyage...

And in the past day we've crossed the Antarctic convergence zone, where the cold air and waters of the Antarctic ocean meet the warmer seas and winds from the North.  As before, the zone takes the form of a band of fog, days in crossing.  As we exit it, we are gradually beginning to experience yet another new sensation: the return of warmth, and, eventually, a hot sun over Africa.  Unlike it would be at home, we have witnessed hardly any variation in temperature: it's hovered right at zero degrees since we crossed the convergence on the way south.  For the most part, we've just got used to it and sometimes I've found myself working on a leeside deck in an insulated cotton coveralls with just a t-shirt under it, not feeling the absence of the other layers 'til either the wind came 'round or we changed course.  But that's rare, and only while keeping moving: usually COLD has been a constant theme of this trip.

But it has become an accepted theme.  Many of us from Northern countries have talked about, if we had out choice, we'd rather skip the coming warm weather and just move right into our winter back home, so strange does the idea of transiting a few weeks through a hot summer seem at this point.

Over the past few weeks there's been a lot of talk about what it will be like to return to land, part company and head back to our 'normal' lives after a trip like this.  Of course, no one really knows.  Most of think we'll be fine, 'no worries mate', lookin' forward to getting back home, but that is said without having entered a major grocery store in months, or found oneself in a tight crowd of strangers, or hit rush hour traffic, or seen a television.

Post-trip depression is not something to discount lightly: it's quite common after intense experiences, especially involving a group of people who have experienced a lot together in relative isolation.  Part of it certainly has to do with parting company and leaving the ship: though living aboard a ship can sometimes feel cramped and it feels like endless work that you can't wait to leave, in fact Greenpeace ships have always felt like magical entities to me, as the spirit aboard is strong and you can feel yourself becoming a small part of a long, deeply meaningful history woven into the lives and journeys of these vessels.  Though I've had the good fortune to work and stay aboard many of Greenpeace's ships over the years, the Esperanza was the first one I've actually sailed on the open seas.  But she shares what they all have in common, down to their core: the feeling of a well-loved home created by a community of fellow well-intended people from around the world.

I'm not a romanticizer of the animate by habit: to me, the ship is a complex object that simply unaware of and has no regard whatsoever for her human occupants.  This certainly seems true in her movements as she plies the sea, tossing you about as you try to rise from your bunk in the morning, being completely rude to you when all you want is a bit of steadiness - just five minutes or so please - to wake up and find your balance, to not bang around your cabin when you've only got one leg in your coveralls, to just let that teacup stay put while I run over to make sure the toast isn't burning (please don't let the crew on the Arctic Sunrise read this: they'll have no sympathy whatsoever), only to watch it slide towards the rail of the table...to me, she's certainly a creature of the inanimate world, wanting to do only what all machines want to do: to yield to the power of entropy and slowly, peacefully fall apart into the arms of the elements and be ground back to the dust it was before some folks rudely heated and pressed, formed and weaved all these strange materials together into the form of a ship.

She wants to go where the water and winds want to push her, not necessarily where you want to point her.  Her myriad engines, motors and machines want to fly into a zillion parts and call their job finished.  Her steel doesn't want to fight the salts and she probably finds it cute and humorous that you do.

But because of her crew she's a living entity. She's safety, she sustains and supports.  She's home, even if it's only your home for the length of your stay aboard, she's OUR home, a collective home.  This is what you feel aboard these ships, and you become deeply attached and loyal to them. You fall in love with them, you become dedicated to them, and because you know full well that you are here and on this ship because people from all over the world have given Greenpeace the resources needed to create and operate these vessels, you will do whatever you can to keep her at her best all the time.  Even if the job of the day is gonna really suck, you'll do it because the ship needs it, and therefore we need it.

That's not an easy thing to leave, but for the knowledge that your departure means a new crew will take over and carry out the next part of the journey with the same dedication.

Your crew becomes like your family, as the faces that were so new and strange to you three months ago are now deeply familiar, as you've seen them at their best and sometimes worst, seen them unable to hide their grief and shock and pain after witnessing their first harpooning of a whale, unable to hide their giddy joy at seeing their first iceberg or penguin, unable to hide from you their moments of homesickness, of loneliness, of great irritation about themselves or another member of the crew, unable to hide from you their breaking points, their point of exhaustion, and, eventually, unable to hide the great love and respect they've come to have for you, despite how cool and collected they want to be.  You don't travel over 10,000 miles over more than 70 days on a ship at sea and remain just a colleague to your crew.  Certainly it will not be a casual affair to wave a faretheewell and walk off the dock towards home.

But perhaps the most difficult thing to wrestle with may be for a continuing sense of purpose.  As horrible as it was sometimes to experience, I admit there were moments of great satisfaction and accomplishment that came from frustrating and thwarting a hunting ship from carrying on an easy slaughter upon the whales. I felt very much alive and useful in the world.  As the harpoon shots got closer to us each day and the realization of a true, present danger became deadly serious, the sense of the value of the work became even more clear.  There are so many easy ways to die in this world; being taken down while trying to save a truly innocent, magnificent being from a pointless death seemed a far more preferable way to go than most I can think of, and it still feels that way.   Moments like that, when things are crystallized, your decisions so simplified and consequences so obvious, are rare in life.  I have been forewarned by others more experienced than I to expect a moodiness and muddiness to come with the return of land.  Clearly, it's sagely advice.  That, and avoid television for a while.

But I'm not too worried about it.  I'm deeply thankful to have had such a rare opportunity, such a unique experience, one I dreamed of so many years ago but presumed would never happen, simply because I naively thought that whaling was finished, that humanity had moved beyond it.   Sadly, like so many horrific affairs we humans get involved in, it is not so easy to finish off such clearly unnecessary, cruel and wasteful practices when money and power are behind them.  But back then, I thought the most satisfying thing would be to be in that boat myself.  Now, older and hopefully a bit more wise, it's very clear that the most satisfying thing has little to do with the boat nor the whaling grounds: the most satisfying thing has been witnessing that people still really care deeply about this issue, that all they needed was for it to be brought back to their attention for them to be stirred to passion and effort.  This is what we've seen as a result from this journey: an outpouring of intense, deeply moving messages from around the world and a clear answer to the call to action.  A deep desire to act and a commitment to act.

This morning I was up at 4 a.m. to participate in a very unique event back home in the USA. I had two 40-minute calls in the middle of the night, conference calls back to the states with a whole bunch of 'house parties'.  It was a new idea to me: folks agree to host a party in their homes for friends and neighbors who care about this issue, as a means of talking amongst themselves to agree on some local things they can do on behalf of this campaign.  In each call, there were something like 70 parties on the line (there were 145 parties signed up to participate, from across the country so the calls were divided into a east coast time call and a west coast time call) mostly listening to the campaign present informative material and making a request of what they want the activists to do. I spoke for five minutes or so about what it's been like being down here. (I'm finally being able to figure out how to do that, though it's still strange to try to speak aloud about all of it.)  Then some questions and answers followed.

I expected the questions to be directed to me, asking more questions about what it was like to be down here.  To my surprise and delight, they weren't. Folks had seen the images from here; it was readily clear how unacceptable and brutal the hunt is.  They went straight into depth about the issues, asking for more information about the strategy, about the International Whaling Commission and how Japan can get away with whaling under the guise of 'science'.  Asking about the economics of the issue, the structure of the companies. Asking what they can do and if they can do more...

That, to me, is what this is all about in the end. This is why bearing witness is so effective.  As I've written before, I did not come here expecting that we would literally put an end to whaling physically this season.  There is no way to do that without endangering lives or utilizing tactics many in the world would find ethically unacceptable.  I came here with the hope that we could inspire folks to pay attention to this issue and direct their passion and their outrage towards a real end to whaling.  To take up this campaign with their own hands. When people feel moved to act locally, working together to take the legs out from under the economy that supports the whaling industry, then we'll see the end of this.  And that is exactly what seems to be happening.

And I am looking forward to getting home to take part in that myself.

-Nathan 

Well, the time has come to leave the whaling grounds and head homeward. We left the Nisshin Maru and her hunters a few days ago and headed south into the ice towards Antarctica, the white continent, to take in the wonders of the waters and the seascape there. After all the violence and grey steel we've seen, it was nice to have a little time to pay full attention to the marvels of this magical, beautiful, terribly inhospitable place. I have never been at such a loss of words, struck so speechless... words and language seem limited, insufficient for capturing this place, as I suspect the images we took will prove as well, for this is a place that fundamentally defies capture.

The Arctic Sunrise is an icebreaker; the Esperanza is ice class but not an ice breaker, so the Espy stayed just inside the ice field edge, among the flat plates of ice rising and falling softly on the slight swell of the Antarctic ocean, rising and falling as gentle as a person breathes in a peaceful slumber. The presence of the ice breaks any momentum the wind or currents have built on the ocean, so the waters are just this side of stilled and for once it seemed we could begin to exhale. The Sunrise slowly carried on, easing it's way cautiously but steadily deeper in the field, weaving her way in and among the thousands of iceberg islands scattered in all directions, doing the work she was made to do at the hands of a captain born for this work: Arne is considered one of the best ice captains alive.

The Sunrise worked her way through the drift ice until she reached the fast ice of Antarctica, the apron of ice extending and spilling out onto the sea from the land itself, just above the continental shelf. She nosed into the edge of the apron and came to rest aside a vast, flat, frozen plain rising five feet or so above the sea and extending inward to the continent, flowing around and encircling icebergs between the ship and the shore.

The next morning, under a brilliant sun and clear horizons we ferried over from the Espy and joined the Sunrise crew for some fun on the ice and some cautious exploring, as ice is always something to be wary about, regardless of how solid it may appear. The pilot door of the ship opened onto the vast table of solid white, extending, rising ever so gently up and South, all the way up to the exposed faces of the coastal range of the continent, which rose jagged and sharp and untouchable into the deep blue air. And there it was: Antarctica, in person.

Again, words really fail me here. I suspect it may be years 'til I can figure out how to describe it. It's just that magnificent.

From the first step onto the first motionless place we've been for over two months, the day unfolded with one wonder after another. The penguins arrived, little guys, Adeles, who have a childlike movement and curiosity about them: they stagger around like a toddler who's just learned to walk, and they will cross the entire ice field to come right up to you, stopping about two or three feet away, then they'll just stand there and hang out, giving you a thorough eye a for a bit then going about whatever penguin business is, which appears to me to be napping, picking at their down, shaking their heads and funkin' and groovin' to some tune in their heads. A little wing flapping here and there, occasionally a squawk or a rotation or two. Sometimes they'd come in crews of a half dozen or so, sometimes just a sole ambassador. As we wandered around, to stretch our legs and just take it all in, usually we'd have an escort or three. They simply didn't worry about us at all.

The Emperor penguins were more aloof and less curious (or, at least, less willing to show it), choosing to come ashore but just hang on the edge and chill out (or warm up: whatever. like I said, words fail) so we would keep a considerate distance and just sit by them and admire their great size, their powerful feet and beaks, and the beautiful bright yellow plumage on the sides of their necks and the line of their beaks. They, in turn, would mostly ignore us.

For me, however, just finding myself wandering around at the edge of this land was the biggest thrill of all. The land and seascape of this part of the world suggests terms like "moonlike", or "alien" or "otherworldly" but that's exactly the oddity about it: it's none of that - it IS of this world, our world, and very much a real and vital part of it. Assigning it to the conceptual realm of Otherness because it's so unfamiliar to us, so unsupportive of our kind, is to deny it, not respect it, not give it the value we give that which directly nurtures us.

And thus, Antarctica and the sea and the ice that she influences inspire reflection on a greater level of this journey: the value of Antarctica, her waters and the lives of those she nurtures, and the waters that extend from her in all directions upwards. Ultimately, the fate of the true wilderness left: the oceans and the last continent. Our efforts against the whaling fleet mark the beginning of a year long tour to call attention to the health of the world's oceans in totality, and now that I've been here, it makes sense to start here. All of us live north of here, making it seem as if Antarctica is the bottom of the world, yet it strikes me now that perhaps this is where the oceans are born, at least in spirit if not in fact. For here the world is still wild, waters truly clear, the air clean and pure. Words were never designed for this place, and we were not born to live here, yet perhaps we can still learn a vital lesson from here.

The whales are born to come here, and if left in peace, perhaps they can thrive here again. They have existed twice as long as we have on this planet and they didn't manage to make such a mess of the place. And though they are not the only residents here, they are the grandest, as they are among all creatures anywhere, and they serve as symbols of what the oceans mean to us: they reflect the strength, grace, innocence, gentleness and majesty of the seas in an animal form.

The ocean does not serve us, it sustains us. If we, as a species, do not grasp this lesson soon and do what we can to protect the seas from further harm, reverse current harmful practices and begin practices to heal them, we will suffer the lesson upon us in the worst way as fisheries will continue to collapse, species disappear and great systems change irreversibly.

And so the campaign shifts now: the whalers had the arrogance and determination to continue slaughtering whales right before us, amidst us, and hopefully that will be their own undoing. They showed us the true nature of their work, their bullshit "research": the terror inflicted on these creatures as they exhausted themselves trying to flee the hunters, the terror exploded into their bodies as they surfaced, the terror of a long, bloody, miserable death. Among all we tried to do, I believe the most effective act was the most fundamental to Greenpeace, the most basic of non-violent activism: bearing witness.

People are now aware that whaling is still being practiced on a growing, commercial scale and is indeed a potentially rising industry again; from what folks have posted on the internet sites and have sent to us directly, the passion people have for this issue is clear and governments have been sensing it. When the people lead, their leaders will follow. Now it's time for those who profit from whaling and those who prop up the whaling industry by feeding their profits into the huge conglomerates to feel this passion and be forced to follow as well, for unlike politicians, they are not elected, they cannot be thrown out of office by their public. That's the harder task.

The sad thing is that it takes a lot of time and effort to change these things, and meanwhile the whaling still goes on, and we leave knowing the hunt will carry on and now we know exactly what that looks like.

We knew this when we left Cape Town. We knew the limits of our capacities and when we'd have to break off from the fleet, but more importantly we also knew that we wouldn't end whaling outright by coming here, that it would have to be won far from here. For me, that's why I'm feeling alright about leaving, because I think we did all we could do and from what we've seen happening since, it seems like it is having an effect.

So we're heading north and looking forward to coming home. We're expecting to get into Cape Town in a few weeks. We still have the roaring 40's and the howling 50's to cross as we're still deep in the notorious Southern Ocean, down in the 60's, far below the convergence zone. There is a lot more sea to cross and there is a lot to be done on the ship before we go to port, so no one is expecting it to be an easy cruise home. But today the water is flat and it's a full day off, so the ship is pretty quiet as folks start turning their attention to returning home and considering their transitions back into their lives.

I sure am looking forward to getting back home. I miss my friends and family and there's a certain dog back home whose paws I'd like to smell and who's fat ass needs a good run in the woods. The Maryland woods will hopefully have snow in 'em. I'll be driving to Kansas a few weeks after I get back and the Great Plains are so mind-blowingly beautiful in the winter, so quiet, so endless and there's a noticeable lack of big grey ships killing whales there. It's been just long enough now that I'm thinking of things like the smell of fields, the sounds of babbling creeks, the feel of having strangers around, the smells of the city and the country, and the ability to go for whatever kind of food ya want. A pulled pint of good beer sounds divine and sidewalk cafes sound like paradises. And a big bed. And rocks and dirt.

So I dunno know if there'll be another update from me or not, as I hope it'll be fairly routine on the return, but who knows: routine has been a rather rare thing to come by down here.

-Nathan

(photo ©Greenpeace/ADavies)

For the past several days, since the African Queen had the harpoon fired over her and the rope came down into the boat, the fleet has broken up and the mothership has picked up and run around erratically, as we've seen before. We have not had to launch the inflatables because the seas have been up and rough, which isn't good for hunting whales nor driving small boats.

So it is as before: right when we needed it we get a break to get some rest and make repairs, and although that means the ship is bobbling around, it's a very welcome development.

Why did they pack up and run? Who knows, but it does fit a kind of pattern we've seen. After the first two days of action, where the Kyo Maru rubbed sides with the Esperanza, we made it hell for them to do transfers and then we showed them the sprayer invention and the fact that they couldn't shake us in the ice because of the jetdrives, they raised tail and ran for a while, perhaps to give things a think and talk to their handlers back home after the story hit large in the press. When they did resume whaling they stayed out of the ice but we stayed out in front of the harpooners. They attempted the transfer of whale meat to the Oriental Bluebird which earned that ship a new paintjob, then the Nisshin Maru intentionally collided with the Arctic Sunrise and the Sea Shepherds appeared. Again the story went wide and again they packed it up and ran, perhaps to have another think? The third (and last) time they restarted their efforts they seemed intent on whaling regardless of our presence, until the harpoon crossed over a boat and again there was intense coverage.

Perhaps now they've decided to wait until we chose to leave, as we've made it known before that we haven't intended to stay with them the whole season, for practical considerations.

If so, I take it as a huge victory in terms of action tactics: they couldn't intimidate us out of the effort down here and, perhaps under a spotlight a bit too intense for them, had to cease whaling? For the first time they can't outrun us, can't outmaneuver us, and, forced to carry on their work in front of us, can't hide the graphic truth of their activities from coming to light.

While there is no way to know for sure about any of this, the fact remains that they have stopped whaling and that was our goal.

61 days we've been at sea, 28 of which we've been with the fleet. I haven't done a count of how many of those days with the fleet were days where we launched the boats, but I expect it may be roughly half, at one point sustained everyday for a week. It has been quite a haul but again I'm just amazed at the tenacity of the crews down here and their focus and determination, and their ability to remain inventive and actually improve our equipment when making repairs. We've broken every boat we've launched at some point, but all save one will still be running when we return to port (hell, I won't be surprised if they find a way to get that one back on line too) and there have been no major injuries.

I'm not sure exactly what will happen next, but will write more later then things become clear. It appears we will return to Cape Town eventually after all, because of the demands on these ships for their next endeavors. At this time, however, I'm not sure of the expected schedule and above all on this trip, I've learned that you can only take it day to day because the unexpected seems to happen here as the rule.

-Nathan 

(photo ©Greenpeace/Sutton-Hibbert)

Today I woke as usual: clueless to the state of the water and sky. Our porthole lids are down so we can sleep because of the unending light.  A great surprise was waiting for me on the deck: the sun.  We have seen the sun late in our evening a few times, poking below the cloud line at the horizon, distant and cold, but for the most part we haven't really seen or felt the sun in nearly two months solid.  Long ago we resigned ourselves to the overcast, rarely even seeing distinct cloud forms. Today the sun was up and out in full, framed by bands of thin, long, vertebral-shaped cloud spines floating slowly in a gentle wind above a sea made deep blue from the sky above, the sharp horizon broken and defined only by distant brilliantly lit icebergs scattered in all directions and the silhouette of ships.  And a living sky of pure white Snow Petrels on the wing.

And into this we launch again.  I take the helm at noon, after a morning effort where someone runs in and reports that two whales were spotted breaking off the hunter's course and heading our way. The hunter didn't see them because the sprayer was soaking their spotting nest.  THIS is the news that makes your day.  Eventually they made their kill but it took them over three hours and we know others got away.

When we launch the sea is picking up from the morning breeze which has been slowing building.  It's going to be a rough ride.  Again we head towards the Kyo Maru, again we rinse her flying bridge and crow's nest.  And after some time, it's clear the hunt is on.  We spot two large minkes side by side ahead and move to block, but the sea is heavy and once again we're pushing the edges of the boat's limits.  Stuff is crashing around in the boat, straining at their lashings.  A fire extinguisher nearly goes off.  The safety kit's lid is being battered and breaking loose. You can hear the sound of crunching and stretching all over the boat. The boat wants to leave the water on the tops of the chop.  Water is flying everywhere as we try to keep ahead of the Kyo Maru; these large animals can make great speed and it's clear the Kyo Maru is going for a quick kill.  But Andrew is directing the sprayer well considering the wild seas and the harpooner has to step back out of the mist several times.  Again it feels for a moment like they might lose them among the whitecaps and waterwall we're making, but eventually the all too familiar boom splits the air as the pair rise to our right and the one closest to us takes it inline right in the back. Once again the shot is just along our starboard side, striking the whale as it's alongside our bow, no more than ten feet to our side.  This time there's no commands necessary: I've already got the wheel hard over to port as the cable descends and snaps the water as the whale makes for it's last dive.

We stay out and follow the hunter to the mothership, but it's becoming clear that the sea conditions are making another attempt questionable.  Just as we begin the assessment of conditions we are called to return to the ship; news from the Arctic Sunrise is that a harpooner has shot over one of the inflatables and the boat was caught in the rope from above, and that there is at least one person in the water.

We are plucked from the sea on the crane amid confusion about what's happened. As we lift the boat over the railing, it's clear we've sustained more damage, this time from the sea: the bow protection we rigged before has been punched in from the hard pounding we took at the peak of the hunt and we've taken a lot of water into our forward compartment from a previous crack in the hull that's been aggravated wider. It will be long hours again tonight to make the boat ready by morning, involving welding, draining and the dreaded fabric repair.

News from the Sunrise is that no one has been seriously injured, but it is still unclear where things stand.  Until more is known, we will stand down: since they control when they take the shot, deliberately shooting over a boat is a new, dangerous development and we have to consider what it means, to what extent they're willing to risk killing someone to kill their whale.

From what I can see, it looks like the fleet is standing down too.  It appears that all boats are stilled in the waters now but I can't account for all the catchers at the moment.

And all the while the sun stood as witness, staying out with us all day.  Amidst all of this, the crew is in good spirits: the sun has that kind of effect.  It almost feels warm out there, even though we're all still in several layers and it's only the lee side that sees any crew on it.

At this point, there are four fuels that power me: the unrelenting beauty of this whole ecosystem that pleas for peace and solitude, the messages from you folks back home, the determination of this crew to carry on and the knowledge that we in America are directly connected to this, not through me but through Gorton's. 

It can be easy to forget the bigger picture that frames all of this down here: we KNOW that whaling will not come to an end directly from what we're trying to do here alone, while we are here, but it's still easy to get drawn into the blood and the steel here. I know that the Gordon's aspect probably doesn't seem as compelling or dramatic as the scenes of suffering and death, but the name Gorton's keeps rising more and more to the fore of MY mind.

They're an American company connected to this mess and damn it: if an American company is involved then we all are involved.  It simply strikes me as, yes, UNamerican for them to say that you can't do anything about it, or that it's not your problem, or say nothing at all.  We know that in America people are overwhelmingly opposed to killing whales, and yet, despite a direct connection between an iconic American company and these harpoons, the company stays silent. It's outrageous, really. 

I want to bring them back the hearts and intestines and carcasses we're having to weave around in these boats, I want to bring them the harpoons and the hauling lines.  I want to bring their executives here to see it for themselves, to hear the grenade explode and see the burst of flesh in the air. I want to bring them to within a dozen feet of a harpoon striking hard into a whale and I want them to drift in the wake of blood afterward. 

But that is not going to happen, so the link feels more abstract between them and this.  But it's not.  This fleet runs on money: it takes a lot of money to bring these ships here, fuel them, re-supply them. These boats run on money.  The only way to quiet these vessels for good is for that money to stop flowing.  So long as Gorton's is making money for their parent company, these boats will carry on their grim work, and the pure waters of Antarctica and those she nurtures will know what should be theirs by birthright: peace, beauty and solitude.

- Nathan

Yesterday, the Billy G and the big orange unnamed boat (that's another story there) launched in support of something the Sunrise wanted to try on the mothership during a transfer. I helped 'em launch from the deck then went to work on doing a little camera work on board for the campaign. The boats stayed near the mothership, but there was not a lot of activity. After lunch I suited up to join Zeger in the orange boat so that our bosun, Phil, could take a turn at the Billy G with a hunter. So the orange boat came back, we made the crew change, and drove up to pace just off the side of the mothership. The Sunrise was cycling her boats and crews as well so we hung out for a while, no hunters coming in for a transfer. Eventually a hunter did come in with a whale to transfer, and we decided to monitor the transfer (if practical we check each transfer to see if any fin whales have been taken; they're the second largest whale species and are endangered. The fleet is planning on taking 10 this year, which is a new development).

While we CAN interfere with the transfer, it's a VERY wet proposition, because you have to put your boat just off of the whale tied alongside the hunter's port side, who has five or six water cannons going full blast at you to discourage you. When she pulls up and off to the stern of the mothership after receiving the transfer cable, you have the added four or five cannons on the mothership to deal with, two of which are just unbelievably HUGE in volume and pressure. To block the transfer, you have to make it so they can't release the weight of the whale onto the transfer cable - when they do, the whale moves backward until it's weight is on the cable, so if you're to the side, the whale would come into and potentially under you, which could result in damage to the boat as well as the whale what with all the cable, whale and boat all moving around.

As aggressive as the fleet crews have been at times, they're not going to do this because it would certainly end in tragedy, but, more importantly, may very well end up damaging the meat they've worked so hard to get. It is amazingly difficult to keep your boat into position in all that watery mess, because you literally can't see anything but water (but I wrote about all that before). Point is, if we wish to go thwart a hunt, it's generally better to not start off soaked to the bone in freezing temperature sea water from the cannon. Trust me: this I've already learned from experience.

But Phil hadn't, so just as the hunter was lining up, in comes the Billy G, blazing right on into the cannons. They foiled the transfer for a while to get a taste of what it's like in there. In the middle of it all an opportunity presented itself and off the whale went. Then the hunter peeled off to the starboard; the Sunrise wasn't ready to try their idea, so off we went in pursuit of the hunter, the Kyo Maru, who we now know very well.

Shortly afterward they fired up the water pump on the Billy G and went to work on giving the open bridge a good soaking. The first thing the hunter ships do is start scouting for signs of a pod. They do this from a high 'crows nest' as well as from a wide, open bridge. They all use binoculars. Once they see a pod, then they send up the harpooner. If we can get our obscuring spray high enough it makes it pretty hard for them to see any whales. They spend a lot of time wiping down their binoculars instead. If they can't use their binocs, then they won't see the whales and won't be able to send up the harpooner. We know when we're being successful because you'll see water streaming out of the bridge scuppers, the instruments will be covered with tarps, and you won't see any heads popping up out of the monkey island or the bridge, as they're all taking cover. THAT's when you know they're not going to be able to hunt. And that makes all this work worth it.

Phil was doing a pretty good job on the ol' Kyo Maru: they just kept a straight course amid a steady artificial rain storm and hardly had a chance to see anything. Our job in the orange boat was to help spot him with the water's direction, look for ice or other hazards in the water before him, and generally be his eyes for everything beyond what he was immediately dealing with.

Hours passed. The hunter led us into a scrappy ice field composed of slushy, repeatedly-reformed chunks of ice, so we had to fall in behind for a while. Shortly thereafter we began to experience problems with the 'bucket' on our jet drive in the orange boat. The lever was becoming more stiff and the bucket less responsive. Eventually, we lost control of the bucket altogether, and thus had no forward thrust.

The way a jet drive works, in the most simple terms, is this: the engine turns an impeller that draws seawater into a device that pressurizes it and sends it shooting out the back of your boat. You can determine how much thrust you want by how much throttle you give the engine, thus pressure. A big metal object, called the 'bucket', hangs above the stream of water coming out the rear of your boat. If you lower this bucket, the thrust will be slowly directed downwards and eventually forwards if you put it all the way down, because it's roughly shaped like a scoop. With this, you can bring the boat to a standstill, called "stasis" (bucket directing thrust straight downward) or go backwards by bringing the bucket fully down. The steering controls tilt the bucket to direct the stream to one side or the other. In our situation, something failed in the bucket controls, leaving it hanging fully downward. Thus, we could only go in reverse. We could still steer, but not go forward.

Generally, it's a bad idea to drive a boat in reverse out on the ocean.

Zeger and I decided to see if we could fashion a rope to hold the bucket up to allow us to go forward. If so, we'd resume the chase if we could because, if you've got reliable thrust and steerage then hey; you can keep on going. We had two other folks in the boat, Jeremy, a photographer, and Yuko, a campaigner, so Zegar hopped into the sea at the stern of the boat while I got the rope. There is a platform as the sternmost part of the orange boat (as in the Billy G) which covers the bucket mechanism, so I stayed up on the platform to work from above. In our survival suits, with all the layers we wear inside them, their ability to trap air and thus allow you to float, and their watertightness, it's quite safe to hop in the water. When I looked at him, I noticed just how stunningly clear the water was; I could see his boots so clearly down below the surface it gave an indication of just how pure these waters are. Since it was awkward to deal with the rope from the platform, I decided to just hop in as well. I wouldn't have wanted to stay in for too long, but it was pretty sweet to get into this ocean we've spent so much time on top of and getting tossed around on.

Eventually we couldn't get a rope to stay on the bucket due to it's shape, so I just lay down on the platform, one hand up on the transom to keep me on while I leaned over the edge and held the edge of the bucket with my gloved hand; we could move forward so long as I lifted the bucket all the way up, and with Zeger telling me when to ease it down to halt forward momentum, we were able to bring her back alongside the Esperanza and get lifted back aboard for repairs. We weren't going to be chasing hunter boats with me hanging halfway out the back of the boat with half of me in the water.

I didn't like leaving the Billy G out alone, but the Espy serves well as one great big rescue boat, so we realized our day on the water was probably done. In the end it got a bit hairy, but everyone came home safe.

This is a tough place for humans and human-made things to be asked to work hard. None of these things should even be here at all; none of us should be here. From the sublime grace of her whales and winged creatures, her wild waters and cloak of winter permanence, and her cold, cold sun, Antarctica whispers a mesmerizing yet clear mantra: LEAVE ME AND MY SEAS IN PEACE.

I hope someday soon she gets her wish.

- Nathan 

When I last wrote, we were a few days into a heavy rotation of driving off the bows of the catchers to thwart the hunt.  Then, right after I sent the last update and went to bed, some rather strange events happened in the "night." (If I didn't mention it before, we've been in 24 hours of light for the past month.  Night is almost a vestigial reference at this point.)

While I was sleeping

First of all, the Oriental Bluebird, the bunkering (refueling) ship for the whaling fleet, reappeared on the horizon.  We were quite south of the border of the Antarctic treaty waters (which prohibits bunkering at sea below 60 degrees south,) so at first we were a little surprised to see them again. The Bluebird and the Nisshin Maru (the mothership, or processor boat) then tied up together.  We sent the heli up and found out that the Nisshin Maru was transferring pallets of boxes labeled "whale meat" to the Bluebird.  Further investigation revealed that the bunkering ship is actually a specialized bunker/reefer ship, tied directly to the fleet and is based in Japan even though it's flagged out of Panama.  Conjecture here is that since the fleet doubled it's quota of whales to kill this year, they need the reefer ship to take some of the meat back to Japan because they don't have the space on the single processor ship, despite her great size.

I don't think we've ever seen this type of activity, so we documented it.  It drives home the sham of the “scientific” mission of the fleet and exposes the endeavor as what it is: commercial whaling.


While the transfer was happening, the Arctic Sunrise crew pulled off an impressive impromptu labeling of the Bluebird. They hopped in their boats, loaded up the paint and rollers and wrote "WHALE MEAT FROM SANCTUARY" on the side of the boat in large letters and "WHALE MEAT" on the stern as well.


While finishing this up, the Sea Shepherd ship Farley Mowat appeared on the horizon.  About this time, the Nisshin Maru hurriedly dropped her lines, pulled away from the Bluebird, made a full turn astern of the reefer and set a collision course towards the Arctic Sunrise.  This was quite unexpected. The Sunrise kept her slow speed and course as per the maritime rules of the road, but then went full astern when she realized the Nisshin Maru was bearing down on her, in an attempt to avoid colliding.  But the ships collided, bashing the Sunrise in at the bow pretty hard. Then the Nisshin Maru steamed north at near full speed, with the Esperanza in pursuit while the Sunrise assessed damage and made repairs.  The whole thing appears to us to have been a deliberate act on the part of the Nisshin Maru captain, staged in a way to make it look as if the Sunrise rammed the processor.  Given these guys some credit: they're a clever and treacherous lot.


Then I woke up

We followed the mothership north all the way to 62 degrees south, the upper limit of the 'box' they set to whale in before the hunt began.  Then we traveled west a bit, then eventually turned to southwest and have returned to the waters just off Antarctica, below 65 south, last night.

I have to admit, it was nice to have two days off from boat driving; it was wearing us out pretty thin.  Our "days off" are spent repairing boats, cleaning the ship and working on new things while the ship pitches and rolls and corkscrews around, meaning you get tossed around into the walls and don't get much real sleep.  

Then when we return to the whaling grounds, we're right back in the boats.  This is pretty fatiguing stuff; you just never get a break one way or the other.  That said, the stamina of this crew has really been impressive and the focus remains tight. All are committed to staying as long as we can to carry on the activities of the campaign.  This is certainly the most physically sustained effort I've ever been a part of, and I'm just astounded about how capable this crew is, and it seems to just get better and better as we go.  

We've got our launch and recovery maneuvers down so well it just flows with efficiency, feeling a lot like a pit row operation at times.  Meanwhile, if you're not on deck or otherwise involved in whatever activity of the moment, you're bringing people tea and hot chocolate or doing their laundry or picking up the daily cleaning chores, or helping the engineers.  All the while the boats are out on the water, all this other stuff is always going on.  And you can still find someone in the lounge from time to time, having a beer at the end of the day, swapping stories and jokes, playing the guitars.  While we pursued the mothership on her most recent run, the captain graciously gave us a full day off; I took the time to fashion a mount out of scrap aluminum for the harmonica I brought along so that folks can play the guitar and harmonica at the same time.  For those of you concerned about our mental and emotional states, we are still having fun, still keeping sane, still keeping a good eye on each other and still hungry to do what we can to stymie this fleet.

- Nathan 

from Nathan in the Southern Oceans

The last two days have been horrific down here; yesterday evening we were trying to hold off the harpooner in very, very rough seas, heading at nearly 20 knots directly into the wind. We were in the upper ranges of the throttle in rugged, wind-driven chop on swells, at the brink of what was really safe and possible in the boat, a bit off their bow to starboard when they fired their shot off along our port beam and sent it through the back of the minke just behind its dorsal fin. We saw a burst of blood and flesh before the whale dove under and we all realized the harpoon went through the animal and didn't lodge.

Whenever they fire we back down immediately to give them room to finish the kill as soon as possible to end the suffering. We (the "African Queen" from the Arctic Sunrise, us in the Billy G and the hunter ship, the Yushin Maru No.2) all cut our speed and looked for the injured whale. We were about 40 meters off the hunter's starboard beam when the whale rose up just off our bow, breathed, bled and went under again. There was so much blood in the water I was presuming it was going to roll up dead right in front of us. But it surfaced again. They sighted it and started to follow as we paced at a safe distance along their beam so they had room to maneuver...

I can't remember the exact sequence of events, but over the course of the next 20 full minutes they searched and lost the whale and searched again, firing another shot and missing. At one point the whale came by the starboard side of the Esperanza and our captain angrily hailed them on channel 16 to tell them to come over and finish their job. Then eventually lined up behind the whale and finally striking a solid shot on their third attempt. The whale was still alive, still struggling as they winched it to their bow. Blood everywhere. Even then they had to fire a high caliber shot with a rifle into its head. More blood. It was twitching a little here and there as they tied off the securing line around it's tail, slid it along side and started off for the processor mothership, leaving a bloody wake.

Glance up at the clock and start timing out 20 minutes. Do nothing for that 20 minutes. Now imagine taking that long to bleed to death or be drowned. It's a long time.

It was the most tortured, prolonged death we had seen yet. I just don't have words to fully describe it. The only thing I can feel good about is that they had to work long and hard yesterday to get the few kills they got.

But today it was even worse. I wasn't out on the water today because I was too beat up from the day before; not emotionally so much as physically (the boat took a beating a several things broke that needed urgent repair, so I was up 'til near midnight repairing and re-securing stuff) so I watched from the bridge once we heard the hunt was in high gear, and the shot seemed close. It all unfolded just in front of both our ships; we could see it clearly. Two inflatables were working in a bit fairer water off the bow of the Yushin Maru No.1, the third hunter and the only one we hadn't focused on yet. During the course of the hunt, the harpooner fired twice but missed. Then a harpoon glanced through the back of a whale, more forward of yesterday but still not lodging. The harpooner would fire three more times over the course of the next more than 20 minutes (again), the whale bleeding all the while, surfacing, diving, slowing...finally the harpooner shoots and puts the harpoon into the flank just before the tail of the whale - a horrible place to spear the whale, as we were about to witness. They winched the whale to the bow which lifted the tail upward. The whale was thrashing all over the place, blood smearing on their bow sides, as the whale was slowly being drowned because it could not arc it's body to breathe. This went on for what I would guess was something like 10 minutes, the violent, miserable struggle. The rifleman took two shots but in the end, it appeared the whale was drowned after being brought along side. I've never seen anything like it, even though the previous day I thought I'd seen the worst. Everyone on our bridge were just disgusted, horrified and stricken, and already in this voyage we've been around a lot of dying whales.

There is no acceptable explanation for why both these whales took so long to die; why a professional crew of whalers, could do this. The whalers boast of their professionalism and efficiency in doing their grim work, and they claim their methods are humane and the whales die quickly. Our footage should prove the lie to that. One can only wonder how often this happens; in our experience, it appears it's not uncommon. Two crews on two whaling ships couldn't put a mercy shot into a slowly moving, bleeding animal for over 20 minutes when it's out in front of their boat. I cannot think of a word for it, at least not any suitable to print.

An update from Nathan

I drove the second shift of the day (so far we split the day between two groups of driver and crews); each shift thwarted the hunter for several hours until they finally exhausted the whale to the point that it was almost constantly surfacing for air. The water pump on the Billy G worked for a while this morning then had to be refueled. The harpooner makes his kill while both boats were dodging and weaving about; he shot very near the Mermaid. The whale was a small one, presumably a calf that just couldn't escape. I was on the bridge for a bit and could finally see the Billy G in action from a distance. It's pretty exciting to see, like a gnat on a very irritated beast.

Our experience was pretty similar to the morning crew. When we started out, the water pump belt broke on the engine and we had to shut the boat down so it wouldn't overheat and bring it back up for repairs. Jetske in the Mermaid did a great job off the hunters' bow until we could return and give them a break by giving the hunter a good long soaking - the harpooner got a lot of mist and had to continually wipe off his goggles and gun sight. Then we had problems with the pump (a bolt broke internally due t but the steering is highly erratic. The whale can surface within feet of your boat and the harpoon will swing around to see if he's got a clear shot. To look up and see that grenade-tipped weapon pointed directly at your face by a guy with his hand on the trigger, seeking the shot, well: honestly, it's startling.

While we were out there he took a shot and missed. He fired right between our boats. The boom of the explosion that propels the harpoon from the cannon is deafening and the projectile strikes the water with a violent force. It takes a minute to realize they've missed; even they thought they got the whale initially. At least for a brief moment, the realization that they've missed brings pure elation. Then they reel it back in fast and are ready to try again so you have to jump back on their bow.

Seeing that first shot close up makes you realized that to be hit with that harpoon is a no-f*king-around dangerous thing: I'm confident it would tear right through the console of the boat and anything in it's path. I'm not trying to be too dramatic here, but it's an odd feeling to know that the lives of you and your crew rest in the fingers of this guy up there. He's amazing at what he does, no joke; I respect his skill immensely, but it's a dangerous needle being threaded here...while I've done work for Greenpeace that I knew carried some serious risks in the worst case scenario, this literally feels like putting your life in a clear, tense danger.

For long spells of time the whale(s) would be surfacing right next to us and if we hadn't been at the right spot it would certainly have been a kill; the boat crews did an excellent job of spotting the whales break the surface before the ship could turn to line up the shot for the harpooner. Several times we caused them to lose the whale altogether and have to find another one. I am sure of this, because of the behavior of the ship. Once they actually slowed to a crawl and wandered around in circles for Eventually he took his second shot and made the kill. The whale dove and resurfaced right in front of us, no more than a dozen feet forward of us. Blood everywhere, it's head emerging out of the water for a second before falling back and going under. A fluke breaks the water a moment later and the harpoon cable starts reeling the whale in. It's done. The harpoon had gone all the way through the whale; the whale appeared to be not much more than maybe fifteen feet long or so. Another young one. Science, my ass, taking down the young of the herd like that...

Then they reel the whale all the way up to below their bow and winch it to the surface and you see it: the entirety of the whale, beautiful smooth blue and white skin except where this jagged dynamite knife blew right through it, it's cable unnaturally tugging this creature of the deep towards the sky, rolled over on it's side, eye dead, a picture of exhaustion, beauty and shameful waste of life.

The helicopter reports later that during the chase, they could see tens of whales breaking off from the pod and getting away. THAT was most satisfying to hear because you simply cannot see that from the small boats; they're too low in the water. On a normal day in these grounds, that hunter would have had quite a day I think; over the course of today, while we were out there, they got only a few small whales and had to go through a LOT of trouble to kill them.

So it feels odd: many got away, but we lost the last one we were fighting for, and we really tried the best we could. We KNOW that they're going to get the whale in the end and it's a matter of how many get away that counts, but suddenly it seems a long distance between what your head is telling you and what your heart is telling you. It's a mixture of emotions, hard to find words for. Perhaps I shouldn't try to write this stuff when it's 19 hours into the day of my first up close experience of such a thstand how much we cherish them; our best way of showing it would be to leave them alone and at peace.

I stumbled across this a little while back, from my book of Emily Dickinson poems:

Whole Gulfs - of Red, and Fleets - of Red -
And Crews - of solid Blood
Did place about the West - Tonight
As 'twere specific Ground -

And They - appointed Creatures -
In Authorized Arrays -
Due promptly - as a Drama
That bows - and disappears -

- Emily Dickinson, 1862