Don't Touch That Otter!
Updated: Feb 8, 2023
“Back. away. from. that. OTTER!” the woman shouts through a bullhorn from a tower. Her blood must be rushing to her cheeks, we can feel it all the way from our canoe.
I couldn’t have been more than five years old, just a pile o' kids paddling with the parents. What had we done to make a Morro Bay staffer slice through the fog with such sharpness? Didn’t she realize it was the otter that had popped up next to … us? Really, I became fascinated, tempted to break the rules and get even closer. What was I missing?!
It’s a favorite family story now. And thirty years later, I get that we need to keep a safe distance for the sake of protection. But there’s a tricky, fine line between keeping something safely at bay and severing a connection.
I have no doubt that my early days in the Golden State planted a seed for tending to nature. Didn’t everyone in the
world camp beneath towering Redwoods? Didn’t all kids get to watch clouds of orange monarchs drift between branches in eucalyptus air? They were royalty during migration season. And surely all people lived a five minute drive from their local beach. Ours was named Pismo.
Fast forward to February 2021: I’m back at my favorite Florida beach. The one we visited nearly every year when we couldn’t call Cali home anymore. But there is something off when I take my morning stroll in the sand. Not the angle of the sun or size of the clear moon jellies awash on the shore.
It’s the giant white sandwich boards planted every fifty feet along the water. They read: PRIVATE BEACH. KEEP OFF. LAW ENFORCED. And in smaller, yet still plenty aggressive letters underneath: FROM PROPERTY TO MEAN TIDE LINE. I glance a bit up the sand: security guards stand surrounded by emptiness. What a warm welcome. I like to think that my Seagrove Beach was a hidden gem back in the day. A destination we savored and found delight in sharing with our family and friends beneath the sunshiney palms. Now, it’s been widely discovered all right. Million dollar mansions line the stretch of shoreline faster than one can say paycheck. The shores have become an exclusive, expensive place.
But, spoiler: the ocean belongs to everyone.
Why keep something biologically wonderful and necessary all to ourselves when we can triple, quadruple the joy by exploring it with others? Who can fall in love with it, care for it, advocate for it, too?
In fact, I think it's up to us to make these places and their inhabitants easy to come by, removing the barriers to intrigue. Our life and the health of our planet depends on it. As one of my heroines, Dr. Sylvia Earle, puts it: No ocean, no us. A year passes and sand squishes between my feet - one of a hundred or so pairs watching in anticipation on the shores of Assateague Island. It’s protected land; not a condo in sight. Yet the public is widely encouraged to attend. In a few minutes, we will watch two juvenile, endangered sea turtles be released back to the sea after months of rehabilitative care in the arms of an extraordinary aquarium. The turtles eagerly wave their flippers: they know it’s time. Cheers erupt on shore when they’re enveloped by foamy waves carrying them back home.
Afterwards, staff and volunteers hang around to answer questions – many from squealing kids just so excited to see their first sea turtle up close. A staff member crouches a few feet off the sand, pulling up her khakis to get to their level. She smiles, listens attentively to each question. This is her time, too. She tells me: We always make room for their questions. We need them to see this kind of thing, get a chance to feel connected. It’s how they start to care for the natural world around them. They have to feel like a part of it all.
No bullhorn necessary.
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