On a blustery March morning, I crouch at the Pacific’s edge to inspect a delicate white disc tossed onto the beach by the surging tide. Suddenly a passer-by shouts:
“They call them ‘dollars,’ but they aren’t worth anything!”
The naturalist in me bristles. I want to run after the stranger and make him look—really look—at the remarkable creature in my hand. Even in death, the intricate skeleton of a Pacific sand dollar (Dendraster excentricus) retains its elegance and beauty.
The kings are coming. As the new year begins, the highest tides of the year along the Northern California coast surge ashore—swirling across jetties, smashing against cliffs, engulfing beaches, inundating mudflats, pummeling piers. Their watery domain extends so far inland that it seems, for a moment, as if the world is being remade.
When the tide retreats, logs lie tossed like twigs along the shore. Tangles of kelp cling to rocks. The sand where the sea pranced just hours before shimmers like a vast mirror reflecting a silvery sky. In newly exposed tidepools, an underwater realm rarely touched by air or light opens–a window into the secrets of the deep.
As I jog along a local beach, a raucous skirmish brings me to a full stop. In a furious duel for possession, two squawking gulls are tugging a Dungeness crab into the air. When their grip loosens, the hapless victim plummets—upside down, legs flailing---onto the sand....
Native tribes called the Sonoma Coast the “place of churning waters.” The mighty Pacific never stops splashing, crashing, snaking into fissures, wearing away cliffs, grinding rocks into stones, stones into pebbles, pebbles into sand. But the force that parts the seas and moves the waters comes from the wind, which propels the seasonal explosion of life known as Upwelling.
On a blustery March day, a squad of volunteers and researchers from the Bodega Marine Laboratory and Reserve take up grabbers and gloves against a sea of microplastics. Our mission: Clear trash from a local beach and document the prevalence of plastic on the...
The King Tide comes to conquer. Amid fury, foam and thunderous claps, its forces roar on shore and devour everything in their path. White-fringed waves swirl across jetties, smash against cliffs, engulf beaches, inundate mudflats, pummel piers. The unstoppable invader extends its watery domain so high that it seems to be creating the world anew.
As a little girl watching a Blue Planet video, Madeline Frey dreamed of becoming a scientist and discovering a never-before-known animal.
“I wanted to find what no one else had looked at before,” she recalls, “to study what no one else had.”a nice post-turkey-day surprise.
Frey didn’t expect to identify eleven new species by age 20 — nor did she imagine that they would be slippery, slimy, alien-looking ribbon worms at the Bodega Marine Laboratory and Reserve on the Northern California coast.
“So you’re an ecologist?” a doctoral student on a field trip asks.
“No, I’m not a scientist,” I hastily reply. “I’m just trying to get to know my neighborhood.”
With a patient smile, she informs me that “ecology” comes from the Greek words for “study of” and “home” or “place to live.” By this simple definition, I qualify–as, at the least, an accidental ecologist.
