A deluge struck California over the holidays. With almost daily downpours, my  rain gauge recorded thirteen inches in less than two weeks. Trees fell.  Cables snapped. Thousands lost power. For a while, our neighborhood became an island, with roads flooded in every direction. During a typical winter, rain collects in shallow depressions in the land, called vernal ponds. This year entire fields turned to lakes.
It’s snow time in  the Northern Hemisphere, the season of winter wonderlands and skiers’ delight. But most landlubbers don’t realize—as I didn’t until recently—that it’s always snowing in the sea.
This underwater snowfall, known as marine snow, drifts through every ocean on the planet. The term was coined in the early 1950s by Japanese researchers who described “snowflakes” swirling in waters stirred by their submersible. Invisible from shore and rarely noticed even by sailors, the silent drizzle helps keep the oceans productive and the planet healthy.
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.
In this season of gratitude, when we hold our loved ones close, blue marbles remind us of our wider home — the blue world that underpins our lives, joys, sorrows, dreams and aspirations. As we struggle to keep our balance in a whirl of social, political and environmental upheaval, a blue marble, shining with the grace of gratitude, can serve as a powerful anchor.
The chartered fishing boat plows through the swells due west from the Sonoma coast with nary an angler on board. Birders—sheathed in slickers, binoculars slung around their necks—line the railing. As my maiden voyage begins, cryptic cries erupt around me.
Mud sucks—literally. On land, it squishes underfoot and slimes your shoes. In seaside shallows, it clutches your feet and tugs with the ferocity of an angry alligator.
I know. Wading back to shore after fieldwork with Bodega Marine Lab scientists in Tomales Bay, I lost my balance and plunged into what felt like slow-hardening concrete. Every time I tried to pry my foot loose, I lurched back into the sludge. A graduate student reached out to help—only to skid into the ooze next to me.
Once again they are on the wing. Along the Pacific Flyway—a 4,000-mile corridor stretching from Alaska to Baja— millions of birds of many feathers and forms are flying south to warmer climes. But none dazzle the eye and stir the soul more than raptors, meat-eating birds of prey that include falcons, hawks, vultures and eagles.
‘Tis the season, not just for spooky ghosts and goblins, but far scarier creatures that  prowl along the California coast. During Sharktober, which  extends from September to November, great white sharks, the largest predatory fish on the planet, are on the hunt.
Every year these lords of the deep migrate more than a thousand miles from a zone east of Hawaii known as the “White Shark Cafe.” Their destination: the Red Triangle, a swath of ocean stretching from Bodega Bay in the north to the Farallones Islands in the west and Monterey Bay in the south. The  cold, nutrient-rich waters of the Greater Farallones National Marine Sanctuary nourish a rich array of marine life, including seals and sea lions that lure great whites eager to feed heavily and build strength and stamina for the winter months.
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.
