Honolulu Star-Advertiser © Susan Scott
November 7, 2003
Monk seals stink. Ruddy turnstones eat doo-doo. Wedge-tailed shearwaters are wolves in sheep’s clothing.
Marine biology sounds like the one of the most enjoyable careers in the world, and in many ways it is. Here on Tern Island, biologists work with some of the world’s cutest, rarest and most remarkable animals. But like every job, it has its negatives. Last week, I saw several.
At this time each year, monk seals molt, growing entire new coats of sleek, gray fur. The seals sleep a lot during this energy-intense process, and the old fur falls off in patches.
Molting is normal but the seals look awful. Since the old fur is basically rotting off them, and the seals often sleep in or near their own feces and urine, they also smell to high heaven.
Last week, while another volunteer and I were crawling around on the ground, we heard a seal bellow. When we peeked from behind our bush, we saw about 10 ruddy turnstones harassing a molting seal.
How do a bunch of little shorebirds bug a 500-pound marine mammal? The answer is not for the squeamish: The ruddies were pulling tapeworms from the seal’s anus and eating them. Those not lucky enough to get a worm ate the feces.
We trained biologists know monk seals often have tapeworms, and turnstones are accomplished scavengers. We’re also clear on the concepts of parasitism, symbiosis and natural selection. Still, we both agreed the scene was as disgusting a thing as we’d ever seen.
We moved on, creeping on pecked hands and bloodied feet over guano-soaked ground looking for shearwater burrows.
Just before selected chicks fly away, workers place small numbered bands on their legs. When someone finds one of these birds dead and gives the band to wildlife authorities, they match it with a master list kept in Virginia.
Researchers can then determine the life span, distance traveled and other facts about the species.
All wedge-tailed shearwater chicks on Tern Island get banded.
These normally sweet-natured seabirds dig deep burrows beneath prickly bushes and under low buildings. To get the chicks, therefore, we must crawl on our bellies, often banging our heads against concrete foundations and pushing our bodies into sharp sticks.
Then we stick our bare hands into the hole, often armpit deep, and pull out a hook-beaked seabird that really, really doesn’t want to come out.
Banding brown noddies poses other challenges. When seabirds are startled, some regurgitate and/or defecate, which lightens their bodies for a quicker getaway. Brown noddies do both, but not until after you’ve picked them up. At the end of a noddy-banding day, we look and smell as bad as the seals.
Besides all this, our seabirds have ticks and flat flies, parasites that are just as content getting their blood meals from humans as birds.
Other tribulations on Tern aren’t about animals. Working in the tropical sun is exhausting. But when it rains, the runway takes on the consistency of wet concrete, and the solar panels fail to generate electricity or hot water.
Some of the work I’m doing here on Tern Island is filthy, painful and downright nasty. I wouldn’t trade the experience for the world.