2 February (102 days on island)
I have been on Hōlanikū now for over 100 days. I can think of only a few times/places in my 31 years on this earth that have had an equal or bigger impact on me. I know I say it often, but I really am just filled with gratitude every single day for being here, and the unique opportunity it gives me to learn and observe – particularly the albatross. I feel like I will look back on this season with albatross as being incredibly formative in my training as a seabird scientist. Although I have been obsessed with albatross for as long as I can remember, I’d never had the chance to really watch them, to live with them. You learn more by living alongside a species, watching individuals day in, day out, and monitoring them, than you would simply coming out to do a short study on them, or to attach loggers and leave. You would subsequently collect the data, yes, but would be offered only that small window into their lives, having to fill the rest in by reading the studies and experiences of others. The time I have spent with them on land will moreover add so much context and background, lived, personally-observed information to my future study of them, and attempts to protect them. I see the albatross as my guides in life – I attempt to emulate in myself what I see as their most defining qualities: the way they are engineered for perpetual forward movement; their embodiment of level-headedness; their loyalty and care; their intelligence; their single-mindedness; their fierceness when required; their grace; and yes, their love. I am more than halfway through my season now, and I will forever be grateful to Hōlanikū and the albatross here for what they have taught me, and will continue to teach me, even once I am gone, since I know I will continue to learn from this experience as I reflect on it in different lights and contexts in the future.
This week we treated 38.56 acres, finishing our third rotation of the entire island, as well as getting a head start on next month’s rotation. I still remember how overwhelming the island felt when I got here. I didn’t know the landscape, didn’t really know the plants very well, didn’t know the borders of the GRAs (Greater Restoration Areas s (42 specific areas in total), didn’t know the systems, didn’t know anything really! And now, the island feels like home. I can remember most of the details about most of the GRAs now, though I still sometimes need to jog my memory. I better understand the borders, how they all fit together – my mental map of the island is moreover becoming more and more detailed with every rotation. The systems and camp upkeep no longer seem as complex. There are many, many things to do of course, for which you need many hands, but my brain can better comprehend it all now.
Some great moments from this week include star-gazing on the roof on Thursday night – I hadn’t seen the stars like this since the start of the season. They were so clear, and the milky way was splashed across the inky blackness. I was in the star-dome again. Sometimes I get this weird feeling when I look up at the stars – kind of like, my tiny eyes shouldn’t be able to survey and observe such immensity. It seems backwards almost in a way, that I, as a tiny being, should be able to see all this vastness and eternity. It almost feels impertinent of me to look up at them in their multitudes. I don’t know if that makes any sense. It also occurred to me how strange it is that the sun and moon have seen every single human being, ever. Our lives are so short in the grand scheme of things – but to us, they are everything, and I plan on using mine to make the world better for albatross.
Although we have been very busy, and this doesn’t leave much time to stop, in any spare moment that I have, I like to watch the chicks and the parents. I delight in seeing them grow, in the details of their tiny, vigorous lives, in noting how light plays on their down, on their little ruffs of brown-tinged fluff. In noting how some are lighter in colour than others, how their down sort of mats together, making them seem all spiky. Their shining, bright eyes; how they develop a voice after a few days, and immediately make the same sounds their parents make to them. How they emit very, very small moos. How when they are full, they turn around, peeping furiously, scraping backwards with their tiny feet, which is the ‘sit on me mum/dad!’ signal. How the skin on their legs is buttery soft still, having not yet developed the large scales the adults have. How their bills are just… tiny, and perfectly formed. I have started to find some of the earlier ka’upu chicks alone now, just for short periods – their long life of solitude, patience, and discernment is already beginning. Everywhere you look now, there are albatross chick heads popping out from under adults – either sleeping, or wide awake and contentedly being squashed.
Not only is it chick season, but I have decided that this is also the ‘sh*t your pants that’s a tropicbird.. where is it?!’ season. This is because, not only have the koaʻeʻula (red-tailed tropicbird) been filling the skies with their aerial courtship displays, but they are also in the naupaka! As you treat, you’ll be going along, minding your own business looking for weeds, and suddenly this scream erupts from seemingly under your feet. Panicked, your heart rate jumps – did I step on it?! You look around underneath the leaves, expecting the bird to be underneath you. Sometimes it is nearby, but other times, despite it sounding like it was one foot away from you, it is actually quite far away. The sound they emit from under the canopy is very difficult to trace – but it does make you jump out of your skin every single time.
In addition to treating this week, we also consolidated the marine debris stashed in various locations around the island’s shoreline into collection points, where Papahānaumokuākea Marine Debris Project can come and pick it up in the summertime. So much debris washes up onto the shoreline here, it is heartbreaking. But we cannot collect all of it. So we limit our efforts to the objects we deem to be an immediate risk to wildlife – things they can get tangled in or hurt by, basically. So things like fishing nets and line, circular/ringed objects like eel cones, hoses, bucket rims, pipes, etc. Anything that has a hole in it basically that looks like something could shove its leg or head through and get stuck. Even collecting those items leaves us with big piles in huge contractor bags called super sacks. The amount of waste in the ocean is overwhelming. Speaking of plastic waste, a few important moments for me this week came in the shape of albatross entanglements. The first was when I was out treating east-beach with Tlell – I looked up and there was a ka’upu (black-footed albatross) with a piece of green fishing net/line wrapped around its leg. I quickly caught it, and with Tlell’s help, we got the line off, which had been rubbing on the leg and creating an abrasion mark. Then, yesterday, I noticed that one of the very small ka’upu chicks on the beach had some thick fishing line coming out of its mouth. The parent thankfully was quite placid and allowed me to gently lift the chick out of the nest bowl. I cradled it on my lap and very gently tugged on the line to see if it would come out. There was a large bunch of it trailing down under the chick’s feet, which would have been even more dangerous if entirely swallowed. I felt resistance on the end of the line leading down into the chick’s digestive tract. I opened the bill very gently to have a look inside to see if by chance I could see what the line was attached to – no luck. Because you never know what such debris is attached to inside an animal, protocol is to never try to pull it out. There could be a hook down there for example. So the only option you have left is to cut the line as short as possible inside the bill, to minimise what is swallowed, and to simply hope that whatever is down there is not lethal, and that the chick will eventually be able to cough it up in its bolus. I therefore snipped the line as short as possible, and watched it disappear down the chick’s throat. I then placed the chick gently back under its parent. This experience deeply affected me. I hoped that my actions had done something to save the chick – but only time would tell. The thought of how much plastic would be being fed right this moment to albatross chicks on this island, and then worldwide, made me feel sick and filled with despair. How could we collectively dare as a species to do this much harm to our fellow beings? If I stop to think about it too long, I become despondent, so I must continue looking to what we do have, to new life, to resilience, and to dedicating my life to joining the ranks of those who protect albatross. Perpetual forward movement. I cannot pause, and cannot look back.
Aloha,
Isabelle Beaudoin