Ocean
Watch
Monday, September 6, 1999
Cruising with dolphins
at Kealakekua
Last week at this time, I was drifting in a kayak on
the Big Island's Kealakekua Bay, waiting for a resident pod of spinner
dolphins to show up.
Earlier that day, I had paddled upwind to Captain
Cook's monument, then snorkeled for hours in this pristine marine
sanctuary. Now, I was lounging against my backrest in that basin of clear
water while the wind gently pushed me back toward my starting point.
For an hour or more, I lay back and watched four
white-tailed tropicbirds perform some kind of mating ritual, their squawk
sounding more like the bray of a goat than the call of a bird.
These showy white seabirds, with streaming tail
feathers as long as their bodies, nest in holes in the cliff overlooking
the bay. Today, they were flitting about, trying to impress one another
with discordant shrieks and acrobatic aerials.
As I watched the birds, I realized how hard it would be
to band the chicks of these cliff-nesters. And without the valuable
identification bands, researchers can't learn much about the species.
The scene brought to mind an experience I once had on
Tern Island, the biological research station of Hawaii's wildlife refuge
in the northwest chain. The tropicbirds there are ground nesters, have red
tails and are close cousins of the white-tailed tropicbird.
One morning, I volunteered to help a worker apply leg
bands to red-tailed tropicbird chicks. Soon, we were crawling beneath
prickly bushes alive with ants, flies and ticks, looking for snoozing
chicks. When we found one, one of us would hold the chicken-sized bird
while the other clipped a band on its leg.
This, of course, is easier said than done. Sweat and
dirt stung my multiple scratches and I collected bug bites in unspeakable
places. But that wasn't the worst of it. Before long, one of the startled
young birds threw up the fish its parents had recently fed it.
"You have to stuff it back in its mouth," the
worker, who was busy banding, told me.
"What?" I said, hoping I had misunderstood
his words.
"These chicks can't afford to lose a meal. You
have to pick it up and push it back down his throat."
This putrid fish, long dead and half digested, is not
something easy to describe. Just the memory of its smell and texture makes
me queasy.
My seabird musings came to an abrupt halt with the
sudden appearance of the legendary spinner dolphins I had come to the Kona
Coast to see. These charming marine mammals have inhabited this bay for
centuries, probably long before the first Polynesian settlers arrived. The
dolphins hunt in the open ocean at night and rest in the still waters of
this bay during the day.
Dozens of dolphins cruised by in formation, their
dorsal fins pumping up and down in rhythm. It's easy to imagine sailors of
old mistaking these creatures for one big, dragonlike monster. But as soon
as one of the dolphins leaped from the water and turned on its tail, the
identity of the species was clear.
For some time, I watched the dolphins, and watched
other people watching the dolphins. The entranced humans kept a respectful
distance while the dolphins went about their business of slowly cruising
the bay.
Kealakekua Bay is a classic example of how marine
sanctuaries can work for both people and the animals they protect. Kayak
rentals and boat tour businesses there are brisk, residents and visitors
enjoy seeing marine animals in a beautiful setting, and the creatures
themselves are flourishing.
It doesn't get better than this. Creating more such
sanctuaries in Hawaii makes good sense.
