Tales from the Log--Kelp Forest Monitoring in 2000--Part 1

I participated in three Channel Islands National Park (CINP) Kelp Forest Monitoring cruises aboard the vessel Pacific Ranger for one week during 1998, 2000, and 2001.  Below, I describe the cruise from the week of July 17 to 21, 2000.  At the time of the survey, I was temporarily assigned as a staff assistant in the Minerals Management Service Director's Office in Washington, D.C.  I had to fly back to California in order to join the monitoring voyage.  

My supervisor in the Washington office, Deputy Director Dr. Thomas Kitsos, seemed a bit perplexed a few weeks earlier when I presented a dive plan for his endorsement before sending it on to the MMS Diving Officer for approval.  I explained that his signature was pro-forma, but that the bureau's diving handbook required the approval.  I had extended my stay in Washington for the summer months at the request of Dr. Kitsos.  I was glad to do it as I loved the work and the opportunity to see how a busy Director's Office functioned. I explained that I was obligated to participate in the Kelp Forest Monitoring voyage and Dr. Kitsos agreed.  

The cruise participants, some of the finest people I have had the pleasure to dive with, collected data using a variety of established protocols. Researchers use this data to monitor the "health" of the kelp forest ecosystem at established points in the ocean waters of the Park. This effort is now in its 19th season. Eight divers joined the cruise. I made 14 dives during the five-day period. All operations were safety conducted.

Monday, July 17, 2000

We loaded Park Service vessel Pacific Ranger, cast off our mooring lines and departed Ventura harbor at 0930 bound for the "Yellowbanks" area on the south side of Santa Cruz Island. The trip to the area was uneventful. During transit, the more experienced members of the survey party (them) gave the less experienced members (me) a briefing on the research protocols that the monitoring project uses. 

Only a few Park Service employees make this survey. These cruises rely on well-qualified volunteer divers. I dive for my agency, Minerals Management Service, a sister agency of the National Park Service at the Department of the Interior. I am the only non-NPS "fed" on board. The rest of the divers are affiliated with university diving programs or work for the state of California. Most have some formal marine biology background. I am the exception; I am a diving "social scientist" who got my start as a volunteer doing shipwreck surveys for the National Park Service. I realize that I am going to dive with a lot of different people and learn a lot on this trip. I have done one of these trips before, two years ago.

We anchored at Yellowbanks at 1230. I have done a lot of diving over the last two decades at this spot. When we get to a site, two divers go over the side to locate the baseline, essentially a 100 meter steel cable permanently installed on the sea floor (or about as permanent as one can get in the ocean.) Pelican buoys are deployed to mark both ends of the line. Once the small yellow-green float pops to the surface, an empty, economy size, red laundry detergent bottle is attached to the line. This "buoy" is a little easier to see on the sea surface--an important feature when precisely anchoring over the line or for station keeping during live boating. The crew then places a tape measure along the baseline to provide numeric references for data collection.

As the first task, my buddy team conducted a fish survey. The survey uses a straightforward protocol. Basically, the diver swims along a transect line for thirty minutes noting the species and abundance of fish (that is, single, few, common, many). The survey begins on descent in order to cover the entire water column. While we record all species we can positively identify, the protocol calls for paying special attention to seventeen different species. Furthermore for some species we are asked to note the stage of their development--juvenile/adult, and their gender--male/female.

On the second dive, my buddy team task is to remove critters from two artificial recruitment modules or ARMs, essentially wire cages filled with seven layers of  1/2 cinder blocks. The block provides the hard substrate for various organisms to take up residence. Recovering the critter consists of removing the top from the ARM, taking out each of 28, 1/2 cinder blocks, collecting the smallest to largest organism and placing them into a mesh bag, and restacking the bricks into the wire cage. We take care to detect the smallest of specimens and place them in a finer-mesh bag. Back on the boat, we identify and measure the critters by species. On the third dive, the critters are placed back into the ARM and the lid sealed. We reel in the tape measure and recover the Pelican buoys before returning to the vessel.

My log book entries sparsely recorded over the years note that this once was a great spot for pink abalone. Not any more. There is nary an abalone of any color to be found. The reasons are several and complex, disease, overfishing, El Nino. Take your choice. While each is a necessary condition, no one is probably sufficient to explain the demise. It may be that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts or more accurately, the remainder is less than the result of the subtraction.

Tuesday, July 18, 2000

Shortly after first light, we motor west along the "backside" of Santa Cruz Island. The calm seas make the voyage very easy while in the "lee" side of the island. Soon we emerge into the "Potato Patch"-- an area of confused seas between Santa Cruz Island and Santa Rosa Island. This promises to be the roughest part of the passage. 

For an hour we make headway, but our progress in measured not in nautical miles per hour but in the pitching fore-and-aft and the rolling side-to-side of the vessel. No one has yet devised an amusement park ride that will replicate this sensation, probably because no one would go on a ride whose main purpose is not to terrify, but to produce mal-de-mare or seasickness. Sleeping through it is the best way to take the Patch, but this is an elusive a state of semi-consciousness few can achieve when anything that isn't nailed down (and a few things that are) are shifting, banging, clinking, and clanging from the movement. Enough time at sea, gaining your "sea legs," helps render the contrary motion tolerable. I have almost reached that state, but the Patch can put this immunity to the test. Doping oneself up on motion sickness medicine is not an option. 

The seas soon overwhelm any pill's ability to deaden the impulses from the middle ear that tell your brain one thing while vision tells it another. Experienced sea voyagers suggest that you watch a distant point of land as a way of helping resolve the dispute between sight and balance. In the Patch, all that advice does is let you know what an island jumping up and down looks like. Eventually, we cross the Patch and are in the lee of Santa Rosa Island. I recall one more adage that describes seasickness, "first you are afraid you are going to die, then you are afraid you ain't."

We approach Santa Rosa Island's South Point. We plan to work two sites at Johnson's Lee just east of the point. The first site, Johnson's Lee South, is a deep site in about 50 feet of water. The second, more shallow site, Johnson's Lee North, is closer to the island in about 30 feet of water. For diving safety, the general practice is to make the deepest dive first and then make subsequent dives progressively shallower. 

We suspect that a strong current at the South site will prevent diving at that location. The strong current is evident by the kelp, which should be thick on the surface, is nowhere to be seen. Our suspicion is further confirmed when we anchor. The boat should swing into the wind. Rather, she swings into the current and a wake appears aft of her stern caused by water movement against the hull, as if the boat is underway. It is essential that the vessel be anchored close to the transect since surface-supplied air diving is done under one of the protocols. We can't work under these conditions so we move in toward the island to do our work at Johnson's Lee-north.

The first dive at this site replicates the initial dive at every site, we do a fish count. Each site has a slightly different distribution of fish. Each night, members of the survey crew examine the various species identification books brought aboard in the "KFM library" a blue ice chest filled with a variety of references on marine life in the area. The boat becomes a floating classroom with divers talking about various critters, their characteristics, and behaviors. I find myself referring to these documents from time-to-time. 

After diving in these waters for nearly more than 15 years, I am familiar with all common species of marine life, but a refresher is in order every year I do a survey, so I bury my nose in the books between dives. Most divers recognize the charismatic macrofauna. You know, those big fish that we attribute mystical powers to or are especially enamored by; the rest of the ecosystem be damned. These include whales, dolphins (of whom many impart a great spiritual significance), sharks, lobsters, halibut, sheepshead, and so on. But, if these are all you know, lumping all other species together as "fish" during the fish count doesn’t quite yield the precision in the data that we require to do monitoring.

Getting back onto the boat is a matter of timing and represents a combination of a "spy hop" done by whales and a "haul out" done by sea lions. First, we remove our weight belts or weight packs to lighten the effort and take off any gear bags or equipment clipped to our gear to prevent snags. Both hands are placed on the teak swim platform and the diver raises him or herself onto the platform. Imagine a gymnast in a wetsuit and full dive gear (sans weight belt) mounting a pommel horse and you kind of got the picture. This is the "spy hop" portion of the maneuver. The diver is half out of the water with arms fully extended. He or she then kicks and rolls their legs onto the platform to do the "haul out" and complete the move. Imagine aforementioned gymnast starting the routine on the horse and you kind of got the picture. Now, to make things really interesting for the gymnast, start rocking the horse fore and aft. In a swell, the stern dips slightly. 

The dropping stern also provides a bit of leverage as it rises. While dropping only a few inches at most, those inches can seem like miles at the end of the dive, especially if the maneuver is mistimed and started as the stern is rising. We then kneel as if in prayer, thanking the deity for our safe return from the dive. We then grab the top of the rail and pull ourselves upright, remove our fins, and waddle onto the deck, completing in a few seconds that which took our forebearers millions of years to achieve through evolution.

Getting back on the boat sometimes takes a try or two, or three. No one thinks to shout an encouraging "alley oops." The older and fatter I get (also part of evolutionary progression), the more tries it might take or the more groaning there may be if the try is successful on the first attempt. All those push-ups during the year mitigate, but do not eliminate, the effect of progressing years.

 As the sun heads behind the hills of the island, diving operations end for the day. Its time to get warm. The water seems cold, but a hot water hose is always available. Appendages, such as feet, are warmed by direct application of hot water. Gee, thawing feels great.