Ocean Watch

Monday, November 11, 1996

When wild animals need a human’s caring touch

I just returned from three weeks on Tern Island, the main biological research station of the Hawaiian Islands National Wildlife Refuge. During my visit there, we handled wild animals almost daily.

If we weren't banding young shearwaters or digging up trapped turtle hatchlings, we were rescuing a booby bird or feeding a starving tern. One team of researchers attached tracking gear to endangered monk seals, truly a rare animal-handling privilege.

"It's amazing how normal this animal handling seems when you live out here," refuge manager Steve Barclay commented. "Back home, it almost never happens."

I remembered this comment as we massaged soapy water into the oiled feathers of a masked booby. Even though the oil was mostly on the tail and wing tips, each of us occasionally ran our fingers over the exquisite white feathers on the bird's head and breast. "It's OK; we won't hurt you," someone would croon. Or, "You're such a pretty bird...." Stroke, stroke.

This sounded so familiar that I realized that most of us do indeed handle animals at home - our pets. They may not be wild, but they satisfy a need.

What need this is exactly, I do not know. But the compulsion to pet and talk to animals seems universal among humans. It probably goes back to a time when animals kept us warm at night in our caves.

Wherever it comes from, the human urge to caress animals is not always good for the animals, especially protected species where the rule is strictly hands off. But the impulse can be overwhelming.

Once, I was motoring around Hanalei Bay with a friend in a rubber dinghy. A spinner dolphin made our day by cruising along with us. The animal bounded over and rubbed its body against the boat's bright red tube.

The dolphin appeared to enjoy bumping up against the boat's rubber side. It was thrilling to see that sleek gray body gliding just inches from my resting hand. "Do you think it would be OK if I touched it?" I asked my friend, knowing the answer. He frowned.

"Well, it came over here," I argued. "It communicating with us."

"Don't," my friend said.

I couldn't help myself. Reaching down with just the tips of my fingers, I ever-so-gently touched that sleek back. Of course, the dolphin was gone in an instant.

The lesson was clear. Wild animals can touch you but you can't touch them back.

Not all my protected species touches have been so foolish. Once while walking on a remote beach, I came across an enormous green sea turtle whose neck was trapped under a tree root. Apparently, this female had laid her eggs high on the beach the night before, then became entangled in the gnarly plant growth when trying to return to the water.

I gripped the edge of her shell and tugged back with all my strength but she struggled forward, digging herself in even deeper. She weighed hundreds of pounds and was entrenched. I would have to go for help.

Before I left, though, I bent to her face, dry and flaking in the sweltering heat. On impulse, I ran to the waterline, filled my canvas hat with sea water and held it to her mouth. Oh, she was thirsty. While she drank, I talked to her and stroked her head and neck.

The subsequent rescue went well. Four of us were able to dig sand and pull her body free.

The turtle was saved but she wasn't sticking around for any toasts. She hurried down the beach as if pursued by demons, then disappeared under a wave.

I'm back in the city now where it's not likely I'll be having any close encounters with dolphins or sea turtles. But I'll still handle animals. I'll pet dogs, play with cats and let cage birds sit on my finger. They may be tame but they're wild about human attention - and they may even stick around for more.