We Alaskans 3/14/99
By Doug Schneider
The short-tailed albatross flew in low, its wings spread nearly 8 feet from tip to tip, as it glided over the North Pacific. A huge, lumbering bird on land, in the air the albatross is one of nature's most-perfect gliders. So effortless is its flight that it seems to gain lift from ocean swells themselves. Skipping from crest to crest, its golden head cranes side to side as it searches for flying fish and squid. At the sight of easy prey, it swoops in to snatch a meal.
Once numbering in the millions, short-tailed albatrosses have been a rare sight in the vast North Pacific since the early 1930s, when feather harvesters finished slaughtering them on their nesting sites in Japan. Thanks to conservation efforts, short-tails are making a comeback. Ironically, however, the resurgence of this still highly endangered seabird could threaten some of Alaska's commercial fishermen, who sometimes catch albatrosses on their baited hooks.
Like other seabirds, the short-tail has a habit of looking for a free lunch around fishing vessels. If the vessel is a longliner -- boats that set out miles of baited hooks to catch halibut, cod and other groundfish -- there's a chance that an albatross will try to swipe the bait as the lines are dropped overboard. Sometimes a bird hooks itself, then drowns as the weighted line carries it to the ocean floor.
Longliners are nervous about what accidental catches of short-tailed albatrosses could do to their fishery.
''Our industry could be shut down over it,'' says Thorn Smith, executive director of the Seattle-based North Pacific Longline Association, which represents some 35 large freezer-longline vessels that fish the Bering Sea and the Gulf of Alaska.
During each of the last five years, according to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, fishermen in Alaska accidentally caught an average of 14,000 seabirds. Most were gulls, northern fulmars and shearwaters, whose populations are healthy. More than 1,300 a year were the more-numerous Laysan and black-footed albatrosses. But scientists, environmentalists and fishermen are especially concerned about the short-tailed albatross.
''There are only about 1,000 left in the world,'' says Kim Rivera, seabird coordinator with the National Marine Fisheries Service. ''That makes them one of the most endangered seabirds.''
Regulations under the federal Endangered Species Act stipulate that no more than four short-tails can be killed every two years by longliners fishing Alaska waters, a number based roughly on the historical catch. Exceed it, and Alaska's $645 million longline fishing industry could either be closed or sharply curtailed.
''I will not say that closing the fishery is going to happen,'' Rivera says. ''(But) it could happen. That is a possibility within the law
''We hope never to reach that point, both for what it would mean for the fishery and for the albatross. There would be a lot of unhappy people.''
Six months ago, the industry was alarmed when longliners caught what federal fishery observers first thought were three short-tailed albatrosses. Although the fisheries service later ruled one of the seabirds as ''unidentified,'' the incident focused attention both on the albatross and the way longliners practice their trade.
Where once there were millions
The short-tailed albatross, Phoebastria albatrus, is also known as the coastal albatross, the golden gooney and Steller's albatross (named for naturalist Georg Wilhelm Steller). It is commonly called a short-tail.
Native to Japan, the bird roams the Pacific Ocean as far north as the Bering Sea and southeast Alaska waters each summer in search of squid, shrimp, and flying fish. With a body more than 3 feet long, short-tails are the largest of the three albatross species in the Northern Hemisphere. They are also among the most beautiful.
''There's no mistaking these birds,'' says Kevin O'Leary, a longliner from Kodiak. ''Their beaks in proportion to the size of their heads are much larger than in other albatrosses. In fact, when short-tails mature they are 50 percent larger than other albatrosses. Once you've seen one, with that bright pink beak, you just don't mistake them. They are very distinctive animals.''
As youngsters, short-tails aren't much different from other birds. Covered in fluffy down, they look innocent, vulnerable. But adult short-tails are a bird of a different feather -- some 15,000 snow-white feathers, to be exact. And perched atop their regal frame is a golden head tipped by a bright pink bill.
The short-tail's problems began more than a hundred years ago in Japan. A worldwide Industrial Revolution was about to shift into high gear, and Japan was in danger of being left behind, says Rick Steiner, a marine advisory agent at the University of Alaska Fairbanks, who has conducted research on the albatross' history. With few natural resources, Japan needed something to capture the world's attention. The short-tailed albatross was it.
A symbol of virtue and happiness to the Japanese, this beautiful and graceful seabird would help a nation come of age, with marketers selling the bird's luxurious feathers for use in quilts, pillows, mattresses and as adornments in women's hats. And in so doing, the species would be nearly wiped from the planet.
Just before the killing began, nearly 2 million short-tailed albatrosses wandered the Pacific. A juvenile will spend four years -- sometimes as many as 10 years -- at sea before returning to its birthplace on land to breed and raise its young. For most short-tails, that meant going to Torishima Island, about 370 miles south of Tokyo. A rugged, lonely place battered by high winds, Torishima is also an active volcano.
Steiner visited Torishima Island in 1997 and reported that when Japanese explorer Tetsu Hattori passed that way a hundred years earlier, short-tails were so numerous on the island that ''at a distance, they might be mistaken for fallen snow.''
But by then, word of the bird's abundance had reached the western World. In an article he wrote for International Wildlife magazine, Steiner recounted how Japanese fisherman John Manjiro was briefly stranded on Torishima. Picked up by an American whaling ship, Manjiro was brought to the United States. By then he realized the riches that could be made by selling the bird's luxurious feathers. In 1887, 13 men arrived on Torishima Island to begin a slaughter that would last 50 years.
So bountiful was the harvest that shipments of albatross feathers were measured in tons. In 1899, some 39 tons of feathers left the island, roughly the equivalent of 260,000 albatrosses, Steiner said. Within three years, nearly 8 million short-tails would be killed.
Not only birds died on Torishima. In 1902, the island's unstable volcano erupted, burying all 125 workers who slept in a makeshift village built on the island's steep sides.
But the village was soon rebuilt and the slaughter continued. By 1932, only a few thousand birds remained. In November of that year, the Japanese government designated the island a sanctuary. Angry at losing their livelihoods, villagers bludgeoned more than 3,000 birds. ''The Japanese call it 'the last great massacre,''' Steiner says.
Not until the end of World War II did American scientists get their first look at the island, Steiner says. Hoping to see at least a handful of short-tails in 1949, ornithologist Oliver Austin circled the island in vain. Austin reported that the ''once fabulous colony of Steller's Albatrosses may be considered to have vanished forever.''
A Life's Pursuit
Except for the howling wind, Torishima Island today is eerily silent as Japanese ornithologist Hiroshi Hasegawa kneels in silent remembrance. To Hasegawa, this place is as sacred as any shrine. When he visits, which is about twice a year, he says a short Buddhist prayer and leaves offerings for the dead: sake for the people who perished here, and fish strips to nourish the albatross spirits he believes still soar over the island.
An avid birdwatcher since boyhood, Hasegawa remembers worrying that by the time he grew up, short-tails would be extinct. While a graduate student of zoology at Kyoto University in 1973, he met British ornithologist Lance Tickell, who told him that it was the duty of Japanese ornithologists to save the short-tailed albatross.
''The Japanese in the old days slaughtered the short-tailed albatross and brought it to the brink of extinction,'' Hasegawa says. ''I am Japanese . . . I am an ornithologist, and it is my responsibility to save the species.''
He's lucky to have the chance. Believed to be extinct for two decades, 10 short-tails were spotted in 1951 by meteorologists stationed on the island.
When Hasegawa visited Torishima for the first time 26 years later, the albatross population had rebounded to nearly 200 birds. He thought the species had a good chance for recovery.
''I was expecting to see a sad situation,'' recalls Hasegawa. ''But the birds were active and vigorous, fighting for territories and breeding space. I got the impression that this wasn't so tragic. I dreamed that they would someday become a large breeding colony again.''
In that first year, Hasegawa stood on the steep volcanic slope and counted 15 new chicks. Then a 28-year-old, he didn't know he would spend the rest of his life among the albatross. Now, at 50, he recalls how on that first day he saw how he could help the birds' struggle for survival.
''(Torishima Island) was all very steep, with loose soil and very little grass in which to build nests,'' Hasegawa says.
Because of the poor conditions, eggs laid on the steep slopes rolled downhill and broke. In 1981 and 1982, Hasegawa and the Environment Agency of Japan replanted large clumps of native grasses into the hillside. The next year, the number of successfully hatched eggs rose from 33 percent to 51 percent. Beginning in 1984, nearly 50 chicks were fledging each year on the island.
But there have been setbacks, too. A landslide in 1987 buried many chicks and eggs. Hasegawa and the Environment Agency responded by building small dikes and channels to divert rain and landslides away from the colony. But more than a few small ditches would be needed if the seabirds were to come back from the brink of extinction. He needed to get them to nest in a better location.
The other side of the volcano, with gentler slopes and better vegetation, was ideal. But for unknown reasons, short-tails had not nested there for years. Hasegawa decided to try and lure them back.
Just before some 200 breeding pair of albatrosses were due to arrive in 1992, Hasegawa and the Yamashina Institute for Ornithology set up a sound system on the new site that would be the envy of most college freshmen. Then, like a goose hunter in a Nebraska cornfield, Hasegawa scattered life-size short-tail decoys along the slope in standing, resting and in courtship displays.
As the birds arrived at their usual nesting site, they heard mating calls from the far side of the island. At first, only one bird investigated. Then others flew over to see what the ruckus was about. But in the first three years of the experiment, no birds nested at the new site. Hasegawa thought his effort had failed.
But finally, in November 1995, one pair of short-tails nested at the new site and hatched a single chick the next spring. In the years since, at least one pair have returned each year to the new site. It's not a great success, Hasegawa acknowleges, but he expects the chicks born there to return, a trend he hopes will build upon itself.
''If the first chick is still alive, it will come back this year,'' says Hasegawa, a note of optimism evident in his voice. ''I would like to see it come back. That will be an exciting moment. It has yellow band number 000. I look forward to seeing him or her. ''
Thanks to Hasegawa, albatross numbers have increased to about 1,000 birds on Torishima. Another breeding colony of 150 short-tails nest on the nearby Senkaku Islands. This winter, adults stood vigil over 213 eggs, which hatched in January. Next month, Japan's short-tailed albatrosses will head back to waters off Alaska, where they face an uncertain fate.
Conflicts with Fishermen
Short-tails don't share a long history with Alaska fishermen. Since 1983, just seven of the birds have been killed in Alaska waters, according to the fisheries service.
But as more short-tails reclaim the skies over the North Pacific, it's inevitable they'll clash with humans more frequently. In 1995, they encountered Smith of the North Pacific Longline Association. He had never heard of a short-tailed albatross, but within a year, they would be all he could think about.
Smith represents a group of freezer longliners -- ships nearly 200 feet long -- that both catch fish and process them. About 35 of those vessels operate in the Bering Sea and Gulf of Alaska, and they account for most interactions between fishermen and the short-tailed albatross, Smith said.
When these big boats set their gear, baited hooks descend as much as 20 feet from the deck to the sea, giving birds time to dive on them. And because of the sheer size of the boats, birds can see and smell them from far away.
Before joining the longline association, Smith did a five-year stint as an attorney with the National Marine Fisheries Service. He was well acquainted with the Endangered Species Act, and although he hadn't heard of the short-tailed albatross, he knew all about the spotted owl, the desert tortoise and the snail darter.
''It became apparent to me that if we didn't solve this problem, we were going to get shut down,'' Smith says. "So I told my board of directors, 'Look, we've got a problem here.' ''
Then he went to work. Smith researched what other nations were doing to reduce seabirds killed by the longline fishery, and he came across a treaty pertaining to Antarctic waters that requires fishermen to take several steps to reduce their seabird catch. Then he met with industry leaders to craft a set of regulations.
''We came up with something that gives (Alaska) fishermen the flexibility to choose which techniques would be most effective for them,'' he says.
With little debate, the North Pacific Fishery Management Council passed the measure in time for the 1997 season. Halibut longliners were required to use the methods the next year. All together, nearly 3,000 longliners must use the bird-avoidance techniques.
Under the regulations, longliners must:
Of course, there are advantages to asking for restrictions before they are thrust upon you, Smith acknowledges. One is you get to have a say about those regulations. It also helps public credibility to be seen trying to do the right thing, he said.
''We're doing everything we can to mitigate the impacts because it is obviously the right thing to do,'' says O'Leary, who's also a member of the North Pacific Fishery Management Council. ''We've got millions of dollars invested so we have to be responsible players to stay in business.''
The effect of the regulations on the 1999 fishery won't be known for months, but conservationists say the restrictions are too easy to circumvent and the protections are insufficient.
''Alaska took the (Antarctic) regulations and modified them, and in every case the regulations were weakened,'' says Gerald Winegrad of the American Bird Conservancy. ''The North Pacific Fishery Management Council rejected each one of the conservation community's suggestions and essentially adopted each one of the fishermen's recommendations.''
Winegrad and others argue that Alaska longliners should be required to use all the preventative measures rather than selecting just one. Still, the new regulations seemed to work, at least for a while. No short-tailed albatrosses were reported caught in 1997, the first year they were in effect. However, thousands of other seabirds were hooked and killed.
'Scared to Death'
Then, late last September, a federal fisheries observer working in the Bering Sea reported that a short-tailed albatross had been caught. Fishermen and wildlife officials were concerned, but not overly worried. After all, fishermen hadn't caught any short-tails in 1997, and four more birds would have to be killed before federal officials would decide whether to close the fishery.
But tensions rose a week later when another Bering Sea vessel, the Deep Pacific, caught one -- possibly two -- short-tails. With three months left in the fall season, it suddenly seemed possible fishermen might reach the limit.
''We were trucking along, thinking that this is working just fine, and then all of a sudden we catch two, possibly three, short-tails,'' Smith says. ''It scared the pants off us.''
On the job just 15 months, Janell Majewski was the federal fisheries observer aboard the Deep Pacific. For her, it was an uncomfortable position.
''I'm not going to lie. I'm scared to death,'' said Majewski in a National Marine Fisheries Service memo. ''I know that Jeff (the vessel's captain) will make sure no personal harm comes to me, but I can't even imagine how horrible everything is going to be if the season is shut down due to my report.''
In the days leading up to the incident, Majewski reported that as many as a dozen short-tails followed the boat. While the lines of the Deep Pacific's hooks were weighted to sink quickly, the vessel's bird buoy was being towed several feet to one side as the gear was hauled to the surface.
In her report, Majewski said she positively identified one of the birds as a short-tailed albatross before it fell from the line and sank. That night, a second bird was snagged on the line. It, too, fell into the water before it could be retrieved. Of this second bird's identity, Majewski was less certain.
"This all happened at night All I was able to see was a large bird with a white body and whitish neck. I cannot conclusively say that it was a short-tailed albatross. It could have been a Laysan. I would call this an 'unidentified albatross,''' Majewski said in her report.
Back at the National Marine Fisheries Service, Rivera and officials from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service discussed Majewski's reports. Because the bird was not retrieved and Majewski could not be sure of its identity, officials decided there wasn't enough evidence to conclusively say that the second bird was a short-tailed albatross.
While the fisheries service maintains the fishery was never close to being shut down, fishermen were nonetheless relieved. The official short-tail count would stand at two, far fewer than the five birds needed to consider closing the fishery. Nevertheless, it was clear that seabird avoidance methods needed to be reconsidered.
''We're back to the drawing board,'' Smith says.
To scientists, the fact that fishermen were still catching short-tails wasn't surprising.
''One of the options fishermen have is to just drag a stick or a buoy behind the boat,'' says Craig Harrison, a Washington, D.C., environmental attorney who once worked as a seabird biologist with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. He now represents the Pacific Seabird Group, an organization of seabird scientists.
''To the council and NMFS, that would constitute a bird-avoidance device,'' he says. But Harrison doubts the effectiveness of such measures. ''I don't think anyone really believes (buoy dragging) has anything to do with seabird avoidance. That's a bone of contention with us.''
In fact, according to the fisheries service, while 74 percent of fishermen towed a buoy behind their vessels to scare the birds away, fewer than 2 percent deployed their gear underwater within tubing. Those tubes, called lining tubes, are expensive at about $35,000 apiece, but are considered among the most effective seabird deterrents available.
Harrison believes the regulations should go further.
''(The North Pacific Fishery Management Council should) weed out of that list the stuff that doesn't work and require -- not just suggest or encourage -- that more than one technique be used,'' he says.
Harrison may get his wish. A federal study of avoidance techniques is set to begin this summer.
But other problems remain, not the least of which is the possibility that Torishima Island -- an active volcano -- could erupt at any time. If that happened during the nesting season, the result would be disastrous.
Other difficulties may be easier to resolve. Chief among them is a gap in the observer coverage in the longline fleet. All freezer longliners have observers aboard, but fewer than 30 percent of the smaller longliners carry observers. And none of the nearly 1,800 vessels in the longline halibut fleet carry observers.
Ann Rappoport, a seabird biologist with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, says she'd like to see better observer coverage. ''That's something we're working on,'' Rappoport says.
April in Alaska
Putting more observers on fishing vessels won't go over well with the industry, says Linda Behnken of the Alaska Longline Fishermen's Association, a group of small boat operators based in Sitka. It would be costly, she says, and many halibut vessels are too small to accommodate another person.
''I'm sure some people have suspicions that the small vessels are catching and not reporting,'' Behnken says. ''But there are observers on boats over 60 feet in the fleet, and they would be reporting (more) catches of seabirds if they were occurring.''
The National Marine Fisheries Service is trying to figure out how to get better data without wholesale changes to the observer program.
''We do need to . . . look at the feasibility of monitoring seabird bycatch in the halibut fishery, including an observer program,'' Rivera says. ''But instituting an observer program is not a simple matter. There may be other ways.''
For now, Alaska longliners can take just four short-tails during the 1999 and 2000 seasons. A final decision on the number will be made by the end of March. With more albatrosses on the fishing grounds, the industry is concerned about what will happen when the birds begin coming back in April.
''Absolutely; we're worried about it,'' O'Leary says. ''We're worried about the bird counts. We're seeing these birds in numbers we've never seen before. That may be because of environmental conditions. The more we see them around us the more we're concerned that something very tragic could happen.''
With a population of just over 1,000 birds, short-tails have a long way to go before they can be considered numerous. Samuel Taylor Coleridge's 1798 poem, ''The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,'' tells the story of bad luck befalling a sailor who killed an albatross. In these more modern times, Alaska commercial fishermen hope to avoid catching albatrosses and stave off the bad luck that will surely follow if they don't.
Doug Schneider is a science writer at the University of Alaska Sea Grant Program in Fairbanks. Rick Steiner, a marine advisory agent at the University of Alaska, contributed to this story with information resulting from two weeks spent with Hiroshi Hasegawa on Torishima Island in 1997.
Copyright Anchorage Daily News
Flight of the Albatross
Battling back from near extinction, giant birds clash with Alaska fishing fleet
Longliners then must choose to abide by at least one of the following:
Top / Return to Anchorage Daily News home page.