Coast

Time Travel to the California Serengeti

Fire up your imagination, and buckle your seat belt. Archaeologist Breck Parkman is sweeping us back 18,000 years to the peak of the last Ice Age.

Deep winter had frozen so much ocean water into glaciers that sea levels dropped by 400 feet. The “California Serengeti,” as Parkman christened it, stretched from Monterey to Mendocino. This vast fertile plain, thatched with grasses and tree-lined streams, “was probably the most spectacular place in the world for wildlife. Think of thousands of animals moving together, living together, feeding together, sometimes feeding on each other.  It would have blown our minds.”

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How the Hole-in-the-Head Gang Saved the Coast

Today it sounds almost unimaginable: A 325,000 kilowatt nuclear plant looming upon majestic Bodega Head, within a quarter-mile of the restless San Andreas Fault. An emissions shaft belching steam. Heated water spewing into the Pacific. Electrical cables draped from steel towers along Doran Beach. Six decades ago this seemed the inevitable fate of Bodega Bay, then a remote fishing port with more seabirds than citizens. What stopped PG&E’s plan for an “Atomic Park” was an unlikely band of citizens-turned-activists who became known as the Hole in the Head Gang.

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Remembering Local Heroes

Thirty years ago, on assignment for a national women’s magazine,  I visited Bodega Bay for the first time to interview the parents of Nicholas Green, a seven-year-old boy who became an international hero and unofficial patron saint of organ donation.

“Piccolo Nicola” (little Nicholas), as Italians call him, was killed by bandits’ gunfire as his family drove through southern Italy in the autumn of 1994. In their darkest hour, Reginald and Maggie Green donated his organs, saving or transforming the lives of seven Italians.

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The Rapture of Raptors

As I swerve along California’s Route 1, a small brown rodent darts across the road. Looking up, I  hear a piercing shriek and see a broad-winged bird hurtling from on high. A few feet above my open-top convertible, the avian assassin, talons outstretched, tail fanned and beak gaping, brakes to a mid-air stop, flounces its feathers and  jets back to the heavens.  I watch, utterly enraptured.

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Sea Stars Rising

They were the aquatic beauties of the Northern California coast: ochre sea stars in jewel-bright colors, web-winged bat stars and the spectacular sunflower sea star that reigned as the Beyoncé of the breed.  Bigger, brighter, bolder and hungrier than other species, these voracious prowlers could unfurl as many as two dozen arms, rocket across the ocean floor and devour a purple sea urchin in a blink.  As an apex predator, the  Pycnopodia helianthoides–sometimes dubbed the Death Star– feared none and was feared by all.

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Notes from an Accidental Ecologist

“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.

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