Seven Mile Bridge in the Florida Keys

On July 18, 1975, the tanker Garbis spilled 1,500 to 3,000 barrels of crude oil into the warm, turquoise, coral-rich waters roughly 26 miles south-southwest of the Marquesas Keys, Florida. The oil was blown ashore along a 30-mile stretch of the Florida Keys, east of Key West. I was 16 and enjoying my second summer at Seacamp, a marine science camp on Big Pine Key. Rumors of the spill raced throughout the campus until finally, instructor James Smithson decided to find out for himself what menace might be approaching. He took a small away team aboard his 21-foot Mako, “Isurus,” and made haste south toward the reef tract. We waited impatiently for word back as the sun fell to the horizon and scattered its tranquil orange glow across the water. What I saw next filled me with dread. The Isurus entered the harbor, its white hull stained with enormous swaths of dark brown oil. In that moment the menace was no longer abstract, and to my young mind, everything we treasured — the corals, the mangroves, the fish, the turtles –was on the brink of extermination.

More bad news: The tides were predicted to bring the oil in toward shore overnight. But what could we do — a bunch of unruly long-haired kids? Simple. Seacamp is a science camp, so we would do science. I was among the older students and felt lucky to be included in a group of students and instructors shuttled to the south side of the island to do transect studies along the south-facing shores and tidepools. With measuring tapes, pencils, clipboard, flashlights and bug spray — lots of bug spray — we’d carefully measure each and every critter in each and every crevice so that if the oil hit, we’d have both a before and after picture. We couldn’t protect our shores, but we could hopefully learn from them. We stayed out the entire evening — it was exhausting and exhilarating.

At morning’s light there was no sign of the oil. It never arrived. I never really learned where it ultimately went. In retrospect, it was the most glorious waste of time I ever spent. I had never felt so strongly focused and such a sense of camaraderie with any group before. We were off our collective asses doing something constructive in the face of a terrible situation, in hindsight a powerful lesson for a teenager. Years later I found a study that indicated that the oil had come ashore in some areas, and several habitats were affected, killing echinoderms, oysters and mangroves.

Blue Hill Consolidated School, Maine

During my “50-States” tour and my meetings with students around the country, I am gratified to see their love and concern for the oceans, even among students who have never seen an ocean before. But I’m also pained that after decades of arrogance, carelessness and treating the oceans more like it belongs to large corporations than as the public trust that it is, it seems that we’ve failed to learn our lessons and have burdened our children with an environmental disaster of historic proportions, the effects of which will no doubt still be felt when they’re raising kids of their own. But if my generation didn’t get it right, I’m still hopeful that the next one will. This is a whopper of a lesson to learn from and change will come from it. But most of all, I’m buoyed by the kids themselves, like the young student at Maine’s Blue Hill Consolidated School who raised her hand during our discussion of the oil spill and, pointing to her classmates, asked simply, “What can we do?

You’ve seen it in the faces of infants when they recognize their mother’s smiling face above. You’ve seen it on the face of an old friend across the room when she suddenly recognizes you…after all those years. And Doug Shulz, producer at Partisan Pictures, saw it clearly on my face, when he tapped me on the shoulder and pointed toward an old friend I hadn’t seen in nearly 35 years.

When we humans recognize a friend, our faces convey it with a distinctive widening of the eyes. Combine that with the surprise of seeing someone we aren’t expecting to see, our eyes grow even wider, often accompanied by a cartoon-like jaw drop. Judging from Doug’s expression while observing my face, I can only imagine how wide my eyes were. Since we were 20 feet beneath Cuba’s Gulf of Mexico waters, it must have been difficult for him to discern between an expression of surprise and delight versus a textbook example of wide-eyed diver panic. My eyes were transfixed on my old friend with a funny name whom I hadn’t laid eyes on since I was a teenager. Larger than life, vibrant, and embracing the sun, my friend was very much alive and healthy, clearly enjoying the good life in Cuba.

Underwater cinematographer, Shane Moore films an enormous stand of healthy Elkhorn coral (Acropora palmata) near Cayo Levisa, Cuba

At times I had doubted I would ever see Acropora palmata again — known to most as Elkhorn coral — but here it stood as dramatically and triumphantly as it had a generation ago, before most of its kind vanished from the Caribbean. Acropora has been described as the “poster child” for decline in the Caribbean, decimated by bleaching, white band disease, hurricanes, and other factors. Recent scientific papers, pointing to the nearly 95 percent loss of this genus in areas like the Florida Keys, have pointed out that such a grave loss has seriously altered “the fundamental dynamics of shallow-water community structure.” So emblematic is Elkhorn coral to the healthy coral reef, and so heart-wrenching has been its loss, that, while Vice President of Ocean Conservancy, I lobbied hard — and won — to have its image included in the organization’s redesigned logo. You can’t miss it, at the bottom, to the left of the humpback whale.

Healthy brain corals were abundant near Cayo Levisa, Cuba

I knew from data and photos taken by colleagues that such corals flourished in Cuba. And on previous expeditions, I had even glimpsed small patches of Acropora, clinging to reef crests, standing tall before the breaking turquoise waves. But in my wide-eyed encounter, I was breathless. I beheld not just a small patch of healthy coral. I saw stand after stand — a forest of glorious, healthy mustard-brown Acropora, as far as my eyes could see in the fading afternoon sun in the blue-green beneath the waves. Doug, along with renowned cinematographer Shane Moore, had found it before me and were already capturing frame after frame of video for the PBS series, “Nature,” an episode on Cuba scheduled to air sometime in 2010. But all I could do was sit and stare…and occasionally breathe.

Denuded mangroves evidence the power of 2008's Hurricanes Gustav and Ike, which passed through here within a week of one another

Producer Doug Shulz of Partisan Pictures (L) and Underwater Cinematographer Shane Moore (R) on location filming for the PBS series, "Nature"

What made this sight even more incredible is what we had just seen above the surface. Nearly a year ago to the day, not one but two major hurricanes — Gustav and Ike — converged on this area within a week of one another, causing tremendous damage. The storms tore millions of leaves from the islands’ protective mangroves, leaving a tangled fringe of rotting, brown branches along the coastline. What were formerly aids to navigation are now, as Shane pointed out, hazards to navigation, bare wooden posts protruding from the channel, stripped by the winds of their painted markers and lighted beacons. And there was damage underwater, too. The storms toppled dozens of corals, especially Acropora, which lay on their sides or broken into small piles of coral rubble. Some of them were massive, surely many decades old. But even among such wreckage there was cause for joy. Already the Acropora were growing back, and rapidly so. Many of the dark-brown, algae-covered dead branches were tipped with bright, mustard and white extensions several inches long, healthy, young coral exhibiting a quality that conservation biologists long to see in organisms like corals: Resilience. The ability of species to rebound from untold stress, to endure while others perish, we look for areas in the world where corals are resilient. Sadly, despite our efforts, the situation for corals will likely get worse before it gets better. Finding and protecting resilient areas is akin to emergency room triage — protecting those areas with the best chance of survival that may, in turn, help neighboring and downstream areas to recover when conditions eventually improve.

So why Cuba? Why do corals here flourish while just 90 miles to the north in the Florida Keys, and points east throughout the Caribbean, corals lie dead and dying? There are theories, which I’ve covered in an earlier post, “Can Cuba’s Mysteries Help Save the World’s Coral Reefs?” Decyphering this mystery is central among the goals of our ongoing collaborative research efforts with the University of Havana’s Center for Marine Research (Centro de Investigaciones Marinas), where nearly 20 graduate students are using this research as the basis of their Master’s theses and doctoral dissertations.

A lobster fisherman near Cayo Paraíso (Paradise Key), so-named by Ernest Hemingway

It’s also a top priority identified by a unique tri-national (Cuba, Mexico, USA) effort I’m helping to lead to elevate international collaboration in marine science and conservation to a new level. (See related articles at 1planet1ocean and the New York Times.)

As we rested aboard our boat between dives, a lobster fisherman paddled into view in a tiny pneumatico rowboat buoyed by rubber inner tubes. Gliding upon the warm emerald waters against the backdrop of a small, tranquil key, beneath the dramatic mogotes of Pinar del Río province along the mainland, it seemed a scene conjured up by the pen of Ernest Hemingway. As if reading my mind, our captain and guide, Rolando, pointed toward the key and identified it as Cayo Paraíso, Paradise Key, so-named by Ernest Hemingway himself. It’s not the official name of the tiny island, but the locals and the nautical charts all refer to it as Cayo Paraíso. Rolando reminisces about camping on the island with his father. The hurricanes of the past year have washed away nearly half of the island, and I detect a bit of sadness on Rolando’s face. But at the same time I can’t help but think about the paraíso I had just seen beneath our feet. It might be one of a handful of places in the Caribbean that still looks as it did when Hemingway plied these waters. I imagine him returning, wide-eyed, to greet his old friends.

Remember Eastern Airlines? I do. And I’m forever grateful to the long-gone carrier for transporting me to a new world exactly 35 years ago, a world that I’ve never left. On June 24, 1974, I boarded Eastern Airlines flight 35 in Philadelphia, sat myself in seat 12A, a window of course. Scheduled departure was 900am. The Boeing 727 rumbled down the runway, and two and half magical hours later, a 15-year-old teenager from Philly found himself in Miami, Florida, eager with anticipation of catching his first glimpse of the Florida Keys, wherever they were. I didn’t know. Someone had to draw a map for me on a napkin.

The destination was Seacamp, a marine science camp on Big Pine Key, the largest of the Lower Keys, roughly 35 miles east of Key West. As the chartered bus headed south over the old, narrow Overseas Highway, I marveled at the turquoise waters below me. I also marveled at the bus driver’s ability to keep us alive along the narrow pavement laid down upon the trestles where the Flagler Railroad once ran, long destroyed by a terrible hurricane. The railroad track now made up the guard rails.

Founded in 1966, Seacamp was among the first marine science camps and my 15-year-old, Philadelphia-raised perspective was about to change permanently. For my 15th birthday, my parents obliged my obsession with the TV series, “Sea Hunt” (starring Lloyd Bridges) and granted me my wish: SCUBA lessons. Thanks to an ad in “Boy’s Life” magazine, I found Seacamp, and in a day or so would find myself entering that world I’ve never really left since. Nearly 40 feet below the surface, I was sitting in white sands in those warm, turquoise waters, six miles due south of Big Pine Key at Looe Key, now a National Marine Sanctuary, curious angelfish eyeing me and drifting across the reef.

So powerful were the experiences I would have in those few weeks that I returned for three summers as a camper, followed by eight summers as an instructor, and I’ve never lost touch for long with the camp’s leaders, Irene Hooper and Grace Upshaw, who are still changing lives there today. I knew before the end of that incredible summer in 1974 that I had found a cause worth dedicating myself to. The oceans were incredibly beautiful, tantalizingly mysterious, but to my amazement — even back then — in grave peril. Like so many others, I thought the oceans to be too vast and limitless, and to my eye, appeared so pristine that it was hard to imagine that we were already taking too many creatures from the sea and dumping too much of our waste into it.

A Seacamp flattop teaching vessel at Looe Key (Photo courtesy of Seacamp Association)

My treasured memories of Seacamp would fill a volume, but a few came to mind this morning as I realized that it was June 24, the first day of camp for more than a hundred new campers, settling into their new bunks for the next two and half weeks. I remember being first to the bottom on a deep dive to 125 feet and finding a collosal sea turtle asleep just inches from where I stood. I remember surfacing from a dive to find it hailing sideways, our boat surrounded by three menacing waterspouts. I remember peering down into the water from atop the old Bahia Honda bridge at night to see the slow-moving, eerie sillhouette of an enormous shark, illuminated by the bioluminescent plankton in the water. I remember seeing my first tarpon underwater — massive, prehistoric-looking fish, a group of six swimming past me, their huge scales gleaming in the morning sunlight like polished silver. I remember Mel Fisher, discoverer of the Spanish Galleon, Atocha, proudly slapping a silver ingot he recovered from the wreck onto a table top, its great report stunning the audience into silence, then boastfully telling us it was worth 50 thousand dollars! I remember my surprise at seeing tiny Key Deer quietly yet swiftly swimming from island to island in the backcountry. And I remember laughing harder than I’ve ever laughed as two dolphins hijacked the canoe of two of my students and gave them the ride of their young lives. (I almost lost my job over that one — a tall tale for another time.)

Today, many Seacamp alumni are my close friends and colleagues. If you saw the wonderful film, Arctic Tale, it was made by Seacamp alumnus Adam Ravetch, who’s gone on to become a major underwater filmmaker. Dr. James A. Bohnsack, who was my favorite instructor at Seacamp and someone I consider one of the biggest influences in my life, is the Team Leader for Ecosystems and Biodiversity Investigations in the Protected Resources Branch at NOAA’s Southeast Fisheries Science Center in Miami. His voice and leadership have been critical for protecting fish resources. Dr. James D. Thomas, a good friend and colleague, is a professor at NOVA Southeastern University and has traveled the world in search of tiny crustaceans called amphipods and helping to unlock environmental trends through patterns in their distribution. Jim is helping us now identify the myriad of amphipods we collected in the Bering Sea during the Greenpeace-led expedition in 2007. I recently met fellow Seacamper, Gaelin Rosenwaks, at the Explorer’s Club in New York and learned of Global Ocean Exploration, a company she founded to “devoted to bringing cutting-edge expedition research science to the public through photography, writing, film, and web-based products.”  As I write this, Gaelin is blogging from aboard a research ship near the Hebrides studying salmon. Not all Seacampers go on to work in marine science…in fact, most don’t. Some are accountants, attorneys, software engineers, interpreters, teachers, etc. But I doubt any can forget their Seacamp experiences, and most I’ve met since continue to hold a special place in their heart for the oceans and a greater, enduring awareness of their fragility.

When I began the Ocean Doctor’s “50 Years – 50 States -50 Speeches Expedition” earlier this year, my Seacamp experiences were, predictably, front and center in my mind. Young people have a natural fascination about the ocean, if only given the chance to experience it. I wish I could toss all of the nearly 10,000 students in the 12 states I’ve visited so far into those turquoise waters of Looe Key. Short of that, I hope that my words, images and videos can convey a small fraction of the wonder of those waters. From the heartwarming responses I’m receiving from students all over the country — even students who’ve never seen the ocean — I’m optimistic.

Big Pine Key coming into view as my flight returns to Miami from Havana

Never could I imagine in 1974 that I would spend a decade of my career working less than 100 miles south of the Keys on a large island, sitting at night with a mojito in my hand gazing northward toward the Keys. As I returned from Havana a couple of weeks ago and peered out the window (yes, I still prefer the window), the first land I saw was Big Pine Key, and there was Seacamp, still occupying that special corner of the island, and that special place in my heart.

Today I reflect on the experiences many of us Seacampers shared, like the pungent, organic scent of mangroves standing in bathtub-warm waters. Like the impossibly beautiful sunsets of painted oranges and purples, and knowing the next night’s would probably be even better. Like the earth-shaking roar from above that triggered our sprint outside to worship the DC3 kissing the treetops as a gray cloud of mosquitocide billowed from its hold on top of us. Like the mild sting of a Casseopea jellyfish in your armpits. Like the sound of the incessant crunching of colorful parrot fish’s beaks against the coral. Like the constant, steely yet curious stare of the barracuda. Like the sandpaper feel of a shark’s skin or the glassy smooth feel of the dome of a Moon Jelly on your fingertips. Like the sickenly sweet taste of bug juice. Like the light of the moon dancing on Coupon Bight as the splashes of distant fish echo in the night. To my fellow Seacampers, I think of you today — and most days. And to Eastern Airlines: A late but sincere thanks for the ride…I’ll never forget it.

Leg 2 was going far too smoothly. My flight to Tampa was early. The rental car bus arrived immediately. I didn’t get lost. The sun was shining. Maybe you’re like me, but when things start going this well, I get nervous. Turns out my gut feelings were right. Things were about to get…silly.

Like the expedition’s first leg to California, Leg 2 was also to familiar territory, to a state I had once called home: Florida. My many years in Florida, teaching at Seacamp in the Florida Keys, as president of The Conservancy of Southwest Florida in Naples, and co-chair of the Everglades Coalition, means that I’ll be returning here twice more to honor the flood of speaking requests I was honored to receive.

I hadn’t seen Kelly Samek in several years, since she had been the organizer of the Public Interest Environmental Conference (PIEC) at the University of Florida’s Levin College of Law. PIEC is a remarkable event, now in its 15th year, where attorneys and other professionals from around the state and beyond gather to shed their pinstripes, roll up their sleeves, and speak with brutal honesty and fervent passion about protecting what’s most special about Florida — its incredible natural heritage. PIEC is also admired for its notable parties, some of which are reminiscent of hippie days gone by. I was honored to be keynote speaker at PIEC several years ago, but the highlight for me was meeting author, Carl Hiaason, whose acid humor has done as much to raise awareness about Florida’s treasured environment and outrageous politics as any advocacy group.

Kelly had since gone to Tallahassee and was working for the Florida Department of Environmental Protection (DEP) in the Office of General Counsel, working on the front lines of land use law and endless controversial issues spawned as greed and backhoes continued to collide with cypress and woodstorks against the backdrop of the largest environmental restoration ever attempted in human history: The $10 billion restoration of the Everglades. Overworked and underpaid, Kelly was as energetic and optimistic as I remembered her, still sporting her good natured sense of humor, including the delightful shark badge riding on the back of her Toyota.

We spoke by cell phone as I made my way to the teaching auditorium, which I found was still occupied 20 minutes before show time. The news from Kelly wasn’t good: "The auditorium is double-booked." Turns out she was only half correct. It was actually quadruple-booked! It had been many years, but based on the shouting, jumping and hand waving I was seeing through the crack in the doors, I was pretty sure I was witnessing a Friday evening screening of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. A young student approached and told me she was supposed to be screening the Hitchcock classic, Dial M for Murder in the same room. And I learned later that some sort of circus program also laid claim to the room. My watch indicated 15 mintues before 7pm, our scheduled show time. In 2007 I had given an impromptu PowerPoint presentation to fishermen at the Dutch Harbor (Alaska) Airport, holding my laptop above my head — hopefully this wouldn’t be the case again here.

My new Hitchcock friend disappeared into the darkened room to see if she could plead my case. Miraculously, I saw the fluorescent lights illuminate a few moments later, and she emerged, telling me that the Rocky Horror folks would take their performance elsewhere. And so would she. In moments, the hall was empty, with 10 minutes to spare! The circus group never arrived, but fortunately Kelly and our attendees did, a wonderful mix of Kelly’s Coastal Law and Policy and other students from New College, along with senior volunteers from nearby Mote Marine Laboratory, an organization I have worked closely with for decades, including our current work in Cuba.

I wrestled with a rat’s nest of unfamiliar wires and managed to get an image on the screen. The projector was so weak that it was necessary to kill every light to make it visible to the audience. "Actually, this is appropriate." I said, thanking the audience for their patience as the program finally started, "Most of the planet’s life lives in the oceans, and most of it lives in complete darkness." As latecomers stumbled through the aisles, feeling their way to find their seats, I launched into an hour-long presentation.

When the lights painfully came back on, I was happy to see the size of the audience had grown and no one was asleep. This was a group that knew its stuff about the oceans — the Gulf was practically within spitting distance. Students asked me questions about coastal issues, and we talked about how in Florida, land and water are inextricably linked…what happens on land ultimately expresses itself in Florida’s coastal waters. And I was delighted to speak with a student named Catie, who is deeply inspired about the oceans. I told her about the newest partner to "join" the expedition, Our World – Underwater Scholarship Society, which awards incredible scholarships to college-aged students (freshman to recent graduates) to travel the world for a year studying with the A-list of ocean experts.

Kelly and I had a chance to catch up afterwards, and here again, another of my colleagues in the environmental world, overflowing with tireless commitment and dedication, was using her vacation time to advance the cause, in this case teaching Coastal Law and Policy at New College. How lucky her students are, and how lucky all of us are that even in tough times, such a spirit endures. During my introduction, I told the Mote volunteers how much I missed the hundreds of volunteers I worked along side of at The Conservancy of Southwest Florida. As with many nonprofits, it truly would have been impossible to do anything without them. One of the attributes of the U.S. that the world marvels at is the strength of our volunteerism, and I expect that as we forge through difficult months ahead, we’ll see even more clearly just how important the strong hand and caring heart of the volunteer is to all of us.

As I learn more and more about the diverse group of schools I’ll be visiting, I realize that I’ll be learning as much from them as they will from me. At first I had playfully called this an “expedition,” but in many ways, it really will be a voyage of discovery, in this case, to better understand what students around the country think and understand about our oceans. How many have never seen the oceans? How many are aware of the oceans’ problems? What are their career aspirations? The answers are bound to be different from Honolulu to Bellevue, Nebraska — or are they?

Years ago I taught marine biology at Seacamp/Newfound Harbor Marine Institute in the Florida Keys, and I suppose those roots are resurfacing now. I saw incredible transformations in the students we taught there. I remember teaching a Girl Scout program for five summers. On the first day of class I told the terrified girls that we’d be swimming with the (small) sharks in our holding pond on the last day of class a week later. And I remember well that last day of class when the girls were having so much fun swimming with the sharks that I couldn’t get them out!

I still believe in nature’s magic. Its beauty, wonders and mystery are potent and transformative, especially for a young student. I look forward to sharing my stories and adventures of the ocean with the thousands of students I visit during this project, to bring them a bit closer to that magic. And I eagerly anticipate the inspiration and enlightenment this incredibly diverse group of students — and their teachers — will bring to us.

Please accept my warmest wishes for an unscripted and very happy New Year!

Coral Shores High School (Tavernier, FL)

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Even in those first minutes face-to-face with a coral reef, the enormity of what I was witnessing was clear to me. I remember thinking, “There’s a whole living world going on down here, and we don’t know anything about it.” While I may have suspected in those moments that I would dedicate my career to something having to do with the oceans, I never would have dreamed that more than three decades later I would be literally immersed in some of the most important work of my life just 90 miles to the south of where I was seated beneath the waves.

Last week, as I departed Ft. Lauderdale and the 11th International Coral Reef Symposium, the world’s largest coral summit held every four years, the news was sobering. One-third of the world’s corals are well on their way to outright extinction, and the rest are threatened with, among other things, the indignant end of simply dissolving away, as increasing carbon dioxide in the atmosphere from fossil fuel emissions enters the oceans, raising their acidity to the point where any ocean creature with a calcium carbonate shell — from corals to clams — succumbs to the acid waters. When my daughter was 15 and floated above that same reef I had experienced, it had become a pale shadow of the miracle of nature I had so delighted in. Nearly half the corals in the Florida Keys have died in my lifetime. Some are bleached bone white, others shackled in diseased bands of black. Many more lie smothered in broad blankets of algal slime which have robbed the reef of its rainbow of colors, leaving a lifeless green-gray skeleton where countless diversity once eeked from every imaginable crack and crevice. As I beheld this tragic image, little did I imagine that important clues to saving this reef and many more like it around the Caribbean and the world, might lie just 90 miles to the south.

I now sort through assorted dive gear, video equipment, and sunscreen preparing for my 37th visit to that magical place 90 miles to the south, to an island larger than all the other Caribbean islands combined, to an island whose coat of arms bears a key — “llave del golfo“, the key to the Gulf of Mexico — a subtropical nexus where the waters of the Caribbean Sea, Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean intertwine in a sublime undersea cocktail of diversity, color and mystery. Our fourth joint expedition of Proyecto Costa Noroccidental (Project of the Northwest Coast) — a project of the University of Havana’s Center for Marine Research (Centro de Investigaciones Marinas: CIM) and the Harte Research Institute for Gulf of Mexico Studies at Texas A&M University-Corpus Christi — will continue our ongoing project to explore the most unknown corner of the Gulf of Mexico: Cuba’s northwest coastal waters.

A green sea turtle hatchling at Cuba's westernmost point, Guanahacabibes

It is often said that those 90 miles of open water south of the Florida Keys — the Straits of Florida — separate Cuba and the USA. Like a hand-drawn blue borderline, the Straits are often invoked as a symbol of the 50-year-old Cold War that has frozen our two countries so tantalizingly close, yet so tragically far apart. But to the sea turtles, sharks, lobster, whales and other sea life, those same 90 miles of blue unite our countries with racing blue currents, unseen underwater pathways, and a web of colorful life that defies the perceptions of so many of the Gulf of Mexico, who know it only as a hot, muddy cauldron that spawns hurricanes and oil platforms. Cuba, Mexico and the U.S. share the Gulf of Mexico and have a responsibility to work together to understand and protect it. Thankfully, despite debilitating restrictions, which are ever-changing in the cool winds of Cold War politics, we have worked for a solid eight years now with our Cuban colleagues, advancing our understanding of the Gulf of Mexico and providing research opportunities for Cuba’s next generation of marine scientists — nearly 20 have based their Masters and Ph.D. research on our joint projects.

Cuba's next generation of marine scientists participate in & learn from the project

Cuba’s northwest coast – the verdant Pinar del Rí­o province, home to Cuba’s legendary cigars — is the least-developed coastal region of Cuba. But as Cuba’s tourism trade continues to develop and as Cuba’s fledgling offshore oil development expands into the Gulf, we hope that the insights from our joint research help to guide the hand of such development so that some of Cuba’s most precious assets, its coral reefs, will be spared the all too common fate I’ve seen elsewhere in the Caribbean. And there is much at stake. As we dove during the second expedition, it was as if we had been transported decades backward in time, to the healthy, vibrant, towering reefs I remember from my mid-teens. The reefs I have seen in the Archepélago de Los Colorados, the barrier reef that runs along Cuba’s northwest coast, are the healthiest I have seen in my life. For that reason, and because of its unique history and geography, Cuba may hold important clues for coral reefs elsewhere in the Caribbean and perhaps around the world.

Good friend and colleague, Dr. Gaspar González-Sansón, titular professor at University of Havana, CIM, and co-principal investigator of Proyecto Costa Noroccidental, recently pointed to a number of possible reasons for the health of Cuba’s reefs when we spoke when I was recently in Havana:

• Cuba’s tourism industry did not begin until 1993, necessitated by the demise of the Soviet Union and its aid to the island. Though tourism has proceeded at a rapid pace, it is highly localized at specific resort areas on the coasts.
• The healthiest reefs also happen to be far from shore, such as Los Colorados to the north and Jardines de la Reina to the south, perhaps beyond the reach of harmful concentrations of coastal pollution.
• Cuba does have a commercial fishing fleet, but fishermen principally use hook and line, so unlike nets and trawls which result in catching just about everything, fishing in Cuba is highly selective. In contrast, more than 80 percent of what’s caught in U.S. Gulf of Mexico shrimp trawls is not shrimp — it’s small finfish and other creatures collectively known as “bycatch” that represent the unforgivable waste of this fishing practice. Cuba is now phasing out all bottom trawling on its continental shelf.
  

  Cuban commercial fishing vessel in the Gulf of Mexico

• In the early days of the revolution, President Fidel Castro declared, “Not one drop of water to the sea,” a call to action to dam rivers and streams in order to divert water for use in agriculture and population centers. Reducing fresh water input upset the delicate balance of fresh and salt water in Cuba’s estuaries, resulting in the disappearance of populations intolerant to the saltier waters, such as the white shrimp. In another way, however, this policy may have inadvertently served to help reefs by reducing the transport of fertilizers and pesticides to the reefs.
• Use of fertilizers and pesticides has dropped dramatically since the withdrawal of the Soviet Union. Given that nutrient pollution is a key factor in the growth of coral-smothering algae, this may also be an important factor.

Sunset on Cuba's Gulf of Mexico

In countless ways, the island of Cuba is unique. And when it comes to coral reefs, Cuba is again, unique. Here an island of thriving corals flourishes amid a world of corals dying and disappearing. In this mysterious corner of the Gulf of Mexico where time seems to have stopped, I find hope. Hope that the rich ecosystems of this beautiful island will endure. And I find hope that Cuba’s coral reefs might share some of their tantalizing secrets, secrets that can offer clues to protecting and restoring coral reefs elsewhere, including a special place I still remember in the Florida Keys, just 90 miles to the north.

READ THE REST: This post is published on OceanDoctor’s original blog at OceanDoctor.Vox.com. To read this post in its entirety, please click here.