Team Logs

Gulf of Maine Expedition South Shore Journals
May 12 - May 22, 2002

Natalie's notes from the Shouth Shore
Phytoplankton
Stellwagon Bank and Right Whales
Re-learning to be on expedition...

Dan's notes from the Shouth Shore
The Jones River Watershed

Sue's notes from the Shouth Shore
Surf'n the Gulf

Natalie's notes from the South Shore

Phytoplankton

Before we departed at the beginning of May, Sarah Gladu, of University of Maine Cooperative Extension/Sea Grant, provided us with a fine-mesh phytoplankton net, field microscope, and a hand-held refractometer. Sarah coordinates a Maine-wide volunteer phytoplankton monitoring program. After an afternoon of training on how to use this equipment, Sarah cut us loose to explore the phytoplankton of the Gulf of Maine.

The Gulf of Maine Expedition is taking the phrase “volunteer monitoring” to a new extreme: we are monitoring throughout the whole Gulf of Maine; rather than collecting samples from the shore or a dock, we are using our kayaks as a platform for science. I have wanted to try this since 1999 when I volunteered for the Mount Desert Island Water Quality Coalition.

So, a few days ago, on May 11, we took our first sample. We rafted our three kayaks just south of Saquish Head, near Plymouth Harbor, and Rich pulled the plankton net out of my kayak's deck bag (the net is a three-foot long funnel held open at the wide end with a metal ring). The net tapers into a tube just tighter than the width of a baby food jar. I inserted an open jar into the tighter end of the net while Rich affixed a measured line to other end and also attached a thermometer. Meanwhile, Dan and Sue in their tandem kayak were busy keeping our raft stable in the fifteen knot wind and 18 inch quartering waves.

Holding onto the measured line, Rich tossed the net overboard and let it sink enough to fill the jar, "Tell me when three minutes have passed." During those minutes, the wind kept moving our kayak raft along, creating
enough of a current to keep water flowing into the net and concentrating any plankton into the jar. Three minutes later, the temperature read 12 degrees Celsius. The jar was removed from the net and closed, the equipment stowed in my deck bag, and our mobile science unit peeled off and resumed paddling.
It was an extremely simple procedure. I couldn't wait till we got to camp later that night to pull out the field microscope and explore our catch.

We found it will take some practice identifying all the critters zooming about the scope's field of view, but the simple identification sheets Sarah Gladu provided are a great place to start. On this particular day, we saw
many Gonyaulax spinifera (16 individuals in 6 fields of view), and a mix of 12 other species of phytoplankton. All of the phytoplankton we observed are tiny, typically measured in micrometers (µm) – there are 1,000 micrometers in one millimeter.

We have been asked by lots of folks why we are monitoring phytoplankton during our journey. This is an excellent question which I can only begin to answer now. For starters, phytoplankton forms the basis of the Gulf of Maine's food chain. Without plankton there would be no baleen whales, for example, or filter feeding mussels or clams. Phytoplankton does not nearly get the attention it deserves as the ocean's building block. It is easy to get excited about whales, seals, and birds – the animals people notice and care about. Phytoplankton seems invisible. In fact, it is invisible to the naked eye. Many people don't even know it is there. But with a phytoplankton net and a field microscope, we are looking for it.

Check back on our website as the months progress to see what other phytoplankton we are pulling in from the Gulf of Maine. We'll keep you posted, particularly if we find any red-tide species (a topic for another day).

Stellwagon Bank and Right Whales

Due East of Rexhame Beach in Marshfield, Massachusetts, I am looking in the direction of Stellwagon Bank. If someone were to pull the plug on the Gulf of Maine and drain it like a bathtub, Stellwagon Bank would be a towering peak on the landscape. The Bank's summits and valleys create habitat for an array of species, a microcosm of diversity within the Gulf of Maine.

In 1992, the U.S. Congress recognized Stellwagon Bank as a nationally significant and unique habitat worth protecting. The Stellwagon Bank National Marine Sanctuary was created with a mission to conserve, protect, and enhance the biodiversity, ecological integrity, and cultural legacy of this landscape through carefully conceived programs of resource management and responsible stewardship.

As we have journeyed our way slowly up the coast, we have been rounding Stellwagon Bank ever since Cape Cod. With our ears to the NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) marine weather radio morning and night, we have heard numerous reports of Right Whale sightings within Cape Cod Bay and north of Provincetown. That means the Right Whales are swimming in the vicinity of Stellwagon Bank while on their migratory route back into the Gulf of Maine for the warmer months. Given how many reports we have heard this week, the endangered whale apparently enjoys the Stellwagon region, just offshore from where we paddle. Although our chances us seeing any whales from our shore bound and shallow route are virtually non-existent, the daily reports, including coordinates of their location, feels almost as good as a sighting.

Why all the special attention to Right Whales when Humpbacks, Finbacks, and Minke are all species of the Gulf of Maine? Because the North Atlantic Right Whale population is down to 300-350 individuals.

Although they are now protected from the hunting that decimated their populations in generations past, collision with ships and entanglement with fishing gear are their chief threats these days. Numerous efforts are under way to protect the population, ranging from the development of easily detached fishing gear to immediate publicity about right whale sightings via the weather radio. It is only the extremely rare mariner – and some might add the extremely foolish – who does not tune into NOAA's marine weather radio, so this is a sure bet to inform the most people possible.

Re-learning to be on expedition…

We left the Plymouth area and Saquish Head on the pause of a Northeaster on May 14th. Working our way around Gurnet Point and along Duxbury Beach, the offshore winds slammed into the residual storm swells. The Point itself refracted wave energy into a confused boil. The combination of conditions had us climbing up five- or six-foot swells and losing sight of each other on the back side. It was a bit of a boil and I entered it feeling edgy.

It was the first big water we had encountered on the trip and the combined effects unnerved me to a surprising point. I felt seasick in a kayak for the first time in my life. My pride sank to my gut. I was never supposed to be someone who got seasick in a kayak. Frankly, it sucked. We had a four-mile paddle to reach Brant Rock with the only alternative being to land on the surf-lined Duxbury Beach, in fact, not really an option. The best bet was just to suck it up and paddle. Sucking it up is something that I have learned to do when the ocean is in control.

We made it safely to Brant Rock, of course, and stopped for lunch. Land under my feet settled my stomach and suddenly, I finally felt like I was actually ON an expedition. There was a harbor behind me, boats with diesel engines thundering by, people strolling the beach, and a slew of electronics in my kayak, but finally, at long last, after about ten days of paddling, I was finally here, now, actually on expedition.

I have been paddling, guiding, and instructing on the ocean, since 1988. I am more at home in a kayak than almost anywhere else. When I am on expeditions, I am in my prime, in my element, at home in the place I paddle through. But so far on this journey, I had yet to get into that expedition groove. It always takes a few days, but the sense of living by the whims of the sea was seeming to elude me this time. Instead, troubleshooting the laptop and cell phone connection, coordinating email and web updates, operating the Palm Pilot and water quality kit, using the phytoplankton monitoring equipment, taking pictures with the new digital cameras...all these gadgets and gizmos and responsibilities were taking my attention, and the Gulf of Maine was somehow passing me by.

Then I got seasick. And I got humble. And I remembered why I was here, what I was doing and why I was doing it. So now, in the last week or so, the groove is starting to settle in. I am remembering to observe, and
watch, and contemplate, and reflect, and note. I am remembering to tune into the Gulf of Maine, not just because I need the details to create an itinerary to progress to the next destination, but because the rhythm of the sea has things to teach me.

Dan's notes from the South Shore

The Jones River Watershed

We met with Pine duBois, Director of the Jones River Watershed Association, on May 13th. This watershed, of approximately 30 square miles, provides examples of some typical river basin and coastal issues.

Geologically, the watershed is glacial in origin. It exhibits a mix of low freshwater wetlands and streams with several drumlins, eskers, and other raised glacial features. The major source of the Jones River is the 640-acre Silver Lake. However, 11 million gallons of water are removed each day from this lake for out-of-basin water supply to urban uses. Thus, most of the water in the Jones River comes from its smaller tributaries.

The river itself is divided into four segments by two legal and one illegal dam – the two legal ones are from past mill activity, the illegal dam is from a cranberry farmer who built his without going through the required permitting processes. Much of the land use in the basin is suburban residential and commercial but a considerable portion of the lower land is used for cranberry production. Sand and gravel mining is also an important industry.

Issues of concern in this basin include: 1) low or no flow, especially in upper reaches of the river, which complicates the issue of dam removal as a simple means of restoration (Silver Lake has not spilled water to the Jones River since June of 2001); 2) changes in habitat through reduction of natural water levels and volumes due to withdrawals for urban use and cranberry bog retention; 3) loss of vernal ponds with their important production at the base of the food web; 4) inability of fish to reach spawning grounds, especially Silver Lake, because of dams; 5) concentration of pollutants from urban and agricultural sources; 5) invasion of Phragmites in the marshes; and 6) potential loss of water holding capacity of aquifers due to sand and gravel mining.

Each of these issues has an impact on the watershed and on the Gulf of Maine to which it is connected. While it is a relatively small watershed, it introduces issues that are likely to be repeated across many similar units. Its small size is an advantage in understanding the processes that are taking place and the practices that may mitigate the effects of urban water uses.

For example, there is an installation of collection tanks and wetland plants designed to provide passive purification of storm-water runoff. The system has been found to remove 90% of the waste material that might have reached the estuary if the water was untreated.

Since most watersheds are split among a number of political units, it becomes important to develop approaches that can bridge across these boundaries to create a more regional planning process. The concept of watershed management seems to be developing in Massachusetts with organizations like the Jones River Watershed Association playing an important role in bringing issues into the realm of public awareness and discussion.

Sue's notes from the South Shore

Surf'n the Gulf

The storm was finally relenting. We had been grounded in Saquish Head for two days due to the Nor'easter. Not that it had been unpleasant! Pine duBois had arranged for us to stay at a cottage owned by Estella Jenness. It was a small wooden structure with photos on the walls which beamed back at you with the stored energy of many spirited occasions. No pot in the kitchen was created to cook meals for under 10. No sofa was designed to hold less than four bodies. The giant stone fireplace ruled the room with its history and warmth. We were delighted to be housed here during our respite from the storm.

The morning of May 14th we packed and launched easily in the sheltered waterat our doorstep. As we proceeded up the coast, the large swells voiced loud testimony to the forces at play for the last few days. Six-foot swells coming at us from the east were being topped by spilling waves travelling west. Reflecting waves from the shore completed the confused waters we were paddling. Natalie's stomach was the first casualty, causing us to break out the peppermint oil at lunch. A local marina provided us with a safe, surf-free zone for a break. With Nat's stomach settled and the rest of our stomach’s filled, we were soon on our way, feeling strong. The blue skies and warm sun were a welcome treat.

By 5 o'clock we were at Rexhame Beach, close to Marshfield. That is to say, we could see the beach over the top of the breaking surf. It was a beautiful sight, actually, with long "mare's tales" flying off the top of long, loud, rolling breakers. Beautiful, if it weren't for the fact that we had to land.

We held a floating conference. Three out of the four of us expressed nervousness. Rich, our strongest whitewater paddler, was eagerly anticipating the ride in. The rest of us had an entirely different attitude. Nat and Dan admitted to being nervous. I rounded out the report by saying my ‘butterflies were definitely flying out of formation’. We three had not experienced surf landings of this magnitude.

We took our time and looked at the scenario. It was 5:00 pm; we all felt strong, we had limited daylight left, Tom Teller had worked hard to find us this camping option, and we had no other known landing spots. The map showed a river mouth two miles north but we decided against that option – river mouths can be treacherous places. There was no guarantee our landing would be any easier there, and it would certainly be an hour later, with less daylight left if we still couldn't land. We considered the possibility of returning to our lunch spot, now four nautical miles to the south. Returning would mean paddling into the wind all the way...surely a hard, three-hour paddle with no guarantee of a camp site upon arrival there. This lack of public access to landing spots from the water turned out to be a serious issue for this leg of our trip.

So, with a warm sun above, several hours of daylight left, and a guaranteed campsite in front of us, we all agreed to go in. Rich was happy to go first, followed by Nat, with the double bringing up the rear.

We hung back outside the surf zone and watched Rich pick his way in. The height of the waves was such that we only saw him momentarily every few seconds. Then we say him standing on land and I could see in my mind's eye, if not through my salty sunglasses, the large smile on his face. He had had a good ride. Then Natalie takes off. I hear shrieks, I see a paddle in the air, and then I see her, too, safely on shore.

The moment has arrived. We tentatively paddle closer to what we think is the surf zone, but already we are too late. We should have been paddling hard, charging the surf. The seventh wave of the set, that largest and strongest one, already has us in its grasp. We rise up and slowly fall off the back side, heeling over to a degree that is uncorrectable. The double has been directed to roll over, and it does not argue. It is a slow roll – not quick and angry – with lots of time to feel it coming. I actually have time to think about bracing, but there is only air under my paddle. Then we are over. I reach for my spray skirt, pull it off, and I am up to the surface in short order, with a death grip on my cockpit. I check for Dan, he answers. We both go to our practiced positions and consider re-entering the boat. We assure each other we are OK, and decide we will swim the boat to shore through the surf. A fine idea, until we notice with every rise and fall that the beach is getting further and further away. We are actually being taken out to sea, not yet in the active surf zone. We have to take action.

Dan shouts a command to balance him as he gets into the boat. Struggling with his foam seat, which has become detached, he wrestles his way into the cockpit. I take one look at my totally flooded cockpit and decide there is no way we will keep the boat upright if I enter. I volunteer to stay in the water and stabilize the boat while Dan paddles. My drytop is working fine, being cold is not a problem.

It's working, we are moving. I'm kicking, he's paddling. I look back to update him on the wave scenario and see the view that will forever be burned into my memory bank. A four-foot, solid green wall of water is towering over Dan's head and about to break.

"Here it comes," I yell as…crash…hold my breath, feel the force, feel it pass and come back up for air. I look back and …someone pushes the replay button and we go through the cycle again....and again. My elbow-in-the-cockpit death grip has worked so far, but the fourth wave gives me no quarter. I feel myself ripped apart from the boat. But we are close to shore.

Natalie is grabbing me by PFD and yelling "Stand up! Stand up!" We are in shallow water and the boat, once our biggest ally, is now our biggest risk. Getting slammed into the beach by a fully loaded double kayak powered by crashing surf is to be avoided at all costs.

Finally I am upright and standing on terra firma. Dan is climbing out of his cockpit, having captained us to shore. What used to be decktop gear is now looking like flotsam and jetsam, strewn along the beach. Dan's rear deckbag, designed to be held on by four plastic clips, got completely ripped off. The deckbag in front of his cockpit, attached by Velcro under the deck line…gone. Paddles, cushions, and Otter boxes were collected by local joggers, drawn to the action and wanting to help. The only serious loss is my prescription sunglasses, ripped from my face despite the best Croakies I could buy. I notice that my PFD zipper is totally unzipped. The Fastex buckle at the bottom was the only thing holding the PFD together.

Dan and I head for each other and share one almighty hug! We have been very lucky.

Jim O'Connell, a geologist with Wood's Hole Sea Grant, had previously joined us for a morning of paddling on Cape Cod. This evening, he had the choice of participating in his favourite sport, kayak surfing, or coming to check on us. Thankfully, he chose the latter. He arrived on Rexhame Beach just in time to witness the whole event, photograph it, and later give us an expert debriefing of the affair.

Right now his most welcome offering is a hot shower back at his home, close by. Allen, a local jogger who had also witnessed the event, jumped in and made the same offer. So we were immediately swept off the beach and into hot water. Our clothes were taken overnight and returned to us the next morning washed and dried – services which will gain them both entry to our new web section: “Guardians of the Trip”.

It is only when we are back on the beach, an hour later, that my reaction kicks in. I have been functioning normally up to now, joking with the rest of the team, chatting with Jim and his wife, and comparing notes with Dan. Suddenly, now, I feel shaky. The adrenaline rush is over and I desperately want to climb into a warm sleeping bag, curl up in a fetal position, and go to sleep. So I do. Jim's debriefing will just have to wait.