Ocean Watch
By Susan Scott
Monday, September 6, 1999
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. Cruising with dolphins
at KealakekuaEarlier 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.
Marine science writer Susan Scott's Ocean Watch column
appears Mondays in the Star-Bulletin. Contact her at honu@aloha.net.
