The streets where I live are named for California birds: Heron, Gull, Osprey, Loon, Kittiwake and, in my case, Pelican. When asked if I ever see real pelicans on their namesake block, I am delighted to say “Yes!”. From early summer into fall, briefs–—also called squadrons, pods and scoops—of Brown Pelicans glide majestically overhead.
The carnage began in 2013. The victims were the multi-armed, jewel-bright sea stars that glisten along the West Coast of North America. They suffered a gruesome decline: oozing lesions, arms twisting into odd shapes and sometimes breaking away, bodies dissolving into a mucus-like white goo.
As vast colonies vanished, ocean floors resembled macabre battlegrounds, strewn with detached limbs and pulpy flesh. Not even those in captivity were safe. Sea stars died in public aquariums, visitors’ centers, university laboratories. By 2017, Sea Star Wasting Syndrome had spread from Alaska to Mexico, with the toll soaring from millions to billions.
