A Sea in Flames - Carl Safina [64]
Those are the questions. If the oil stays suspended it will eventually dissipate throughout the world ocean in rather harmless concentrations—the dose makes the poison—or be dismembered by microbes. Another possibility is that the dispersed oil might sink to the seafloor. A fisherman I know on the West Coast e-mails me: “During the 1969 Santa Barbara blowout dispersants were used extensively. Several years later, some of the oil that had settled to the bottom eventually formed large clumps. In the early/mid 1970s I was working on drag boats in the SB Channel and we would periodically hit one of the clumps, which would render the net completely worthless. No way to clean that shit off the net. Union Oil wound up paying for a lot of nets, although not willingly. No one knows the effects on bottom life, although the English sole disappeared for years.”
At a press conference, Lubchenco, sounding like a bomb-sniffing canine working in a political minefield, says, “The bottom line is that yes, there is oil in the water column. It’s at very low concentrations.” That sounds like she’s minimizing it. But in her next breath she adds, “That doesn’t mean that it does not have significant impact.”
Taken together, a true enough picture. Depends on your definition of “significant,” but I’m satisfied. Even if she didn’t hit a home run, she touched the three bases of truth in this mess: it’s there; it’s at low concentrations except near the source; and it could still be a problem. I think that’s really as much as anyone knows. This isn’t a home-run situation.
Dauphin Island, Alabama. A pretty place. A mixture of fishing village and resort. A beach place with pines tall enough to cast shade across the road, a place that welcomes you with a sign proclaiming, “Fishing, Beaches, Bird Sanctuary.” The Oil welcomes you with a sign saying, “BP Claims Center.”
It’s June 8; today is World Oceans Day. I’m having a bit of a hard time, emotionally speaking, with that.
Away from the pines and alongside the sea oats, by 10:00 A.M. the sun is uncomfortably hot, its glare unrelenting, resolute.
I’m with filmmaker Bill Mills, a real pro who’s done a lot of work with National Geographic films and many others. He wants to interview a few people, and he’s toting his movie camera as we walk from the parking lot toward the water. Someone in the shade of one of BP’s little sun awnings starts yelling at us. Bill doesn’t even turn around. I glance over my shoulder. An arm-waving man, too lazy to come our way, demanding we come his way. Public beach, so screw him.
A light, ribbony slick gift-wraps the shoreline like a Big Present. A few hundred people are still putting a brave face on beachgoing. Determined to have their beach day. In their swimsuits. On their blankets. The sun still works for them. Admirable fortitude.
Not surprised to see oil globs splattering the beach. Surprised to see some kids in the water.
Didn’t see the sign that said no swimming? It’s easy to miss: tiny, smaller than a stop sign. “The Public Is Advised Not to Swim in These Waters Due to the Presence of Oil-Related Chemicals.”
Just a small cover-your-ass sign in a community reluctant to admit that it’s ruined. Ruined at least for now. It could be much worse. Just go to Louisiana’s beaches. But what’s arrived here now is quite enough to spoil things.
A mom: “We come here a lot. It’s killin’ me to see this.”
BP workers in white suits rummage among the beachgoers like foraging chickens pecking at oil. Near the tide line they shovel oil blobs and oil-stained sand into plastic bags.
An old man says he was a newscaster for forty years, that’s enough of being on camera, so no photos, please. Now he casts a fishing line. “Other day I went fishing over there, where I’ve fished for thirty-five years. The place was full of tar balls and the fish I caught smelled like gasoline. I just had to leave!”
Tar balls I believe; there’s plenty. A fish that smells like gasoline? I’d have to smell that myself. Healthy skepticism is how I like to think of it. It means that, at