Sea Star Wasting Disease Cracked

Over the past eight years I've posted regular reports on the welfare of local starfish as they endured (and some populations became extinct due to) a mysterious contagion that makes them rot alive. Now American television network CBS has announced that the cause of Sea Star Wasting Disease has been firmly established, and it's not a virus as suspected, but a bacteria.

As noted before, several species have developed a measure of immunity to this pathogen since it first appeared in 2013, but a few have been wiped out, at least in shallower, warmer water. One of my favourites, the sunflower star (Pynopodia helianthoides), once omnipresent on the North Coast, is now basically exterminated; according to the article, less than 10% of the original count still exist, all in cold, deep water. But efforts to breed them in captivity have been successful, so there's hope they might be reintroduced to their old habitat one day.

A little Googling verified that another old friend, the giant pink Pacific starfish (Pisaster brevispinus) also lives on in colder water.

As suspected, the underlying cause of this pandemic is climate disruption, which has allowed the bacteria to flow north along the eastern Pacific Coast, to warming waters where sea stars have no defence against it.

But we've got an important scientific advance in the identification of the pathogen. Together with significant rebounding on my local beaches and location of surviving populations of much-mourned MIAs, I'm taking delivery.


(Photo of pre-plague tidepool crammed with young Pycnopodia courtesy of the US National Park Service and Wikimedia.com)

WW: Pokeweed

(This is Phytolacca americana, called poke in the American South and Midwest, where it's a rampant weed. [And also a wild edible, though just how edible is a plant that must be boiled in four changes of water to stop it killing you is worth discussion.]

I've never seen pokeweed on the North Pacific Coast till this summer, when I spied it growing on two neglected bits of land in my neighbourhood. The iconic, high-growing, and monopolising Southern brakeweed first evaded recognition, so far from its natural home, till I'd confirmed it online, where I also found that poke is now listed as an incipient invader here.

I'm about certain this is yet another misfortune of climate disruption. Protected before now by our wet, grey, cold weather, the new drier, hotter North Coast is proving quite hospitable to this latest headache, as well as many others.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

WW: Turtle boom

(Turtles have always been rare on the North Coast. Unlike the other three reptiles that manage to survive here [this one and this one and this one], they're egg layers, and the rotting wet and lack of spring sunshine makes that problematic. So it was that I, an inveterate turtle lover, had only ever found a single one in the lake I grew up on. On summer days I used row quite a distance to see him, hauled out on his log of choice.

In the intervening years the lake got severely over-developed and the swampy shore where our lone turtle lived turned into lawn. The very log he used to bask on was ripped out of the lake. Since that time, about when I was in college, I've only seen one other turtle here, in a nearby lake just a few years ago.

Then, while walking the dog near some containment ponds last week, I encountered six (!) of them, lined up on a log beneath the first real sun we've had this year. Sadly, they were too far away for a recognisable photograph, but as I rounded the corner, I found a small one, about the size of an adult's hand, close enough for my phone to steal a shot. Still too far for positive species identification, but the Western painted turtle [Chrysemys picta bellii] being functionally our only native, this is probably that.

This must be how it feels to bag a photo of Sasquatch.

Next day, a friend posted photos of a similar line of turtles in my childhood lake, about 6 miles away. Both events have blown my mind.

It's hard not to draw the conclusion that this is yet another symptom of climate disruption. Less rainfall and elevated temperatures have almost certainly raised the turtle fertility here. I'm delighted to see them, but it's one more indication that our unique North Coast environment is rapidly disappearing.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Street Level Zen: Effect

"It's not that the wind is blowing. It's what the wind is blowing."

My friend Brent.

[Who informs me now that he originally got this mot d'ordre from comic Ron White.]


(Photo of dust storm swallowing Phoenix, AZ courtesy of Wikipedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

WW: Fire suppression

(While walking off-trail in a local forest park, I was surprised to find this sprinkler head in the middle of the woods. After some contemplation, I realised it must be part of a fire-suppression system.

The entire forest is probably sown with these at regular intervals, most camouflaged by fallen vegetation. I'll warrant we'll see a lot more of this kind of thing as global climate disruption intensifies.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

One-Legged Meditation

Though this seems at first glance avant-garde sculpture, in real life it's the famous one-legged torii of Nagasaki.

You can fill in its backstory yourself.

This Shinto devotional object was just another spirit gate, like thousands of others in Japan, until retrofitted for the Atomic Age by the US Air Force. The survivors took its still standing, despite the instant destruction of their entire city and the amputation of over half the monument, as an icon of hope. While rebuilding their home, they carefully preserved this gate, unmoved and unrestored, in front of the shrine that no longer existed behind it. (Though it soon would again.)

Today both are close-pressed by modern urban development, quite unlike the quiet neighbourhood in which they started, though neither has travelled so much as a yard since the day they were built.

And though all of this is as Shinto as it comes, I can't help but find commanding Zen significance in it, too.

To me, that war-veteran torii's silhouette – gates being a foundational metaphor for us, too – speaks to the nature of enlightenment practice. You practice where you are, how you are. If you lose a leg, you practice on the other.

And if an atomic bomb annihilates everything you know, you practice in the remains.

Nothing to do with machismo; it's just that you have no alternative.

I'm particularly touched by the Little Apocalypse – the tidal wave of concrete that drowned shrine and spirit gate in a matter of decades. Because while I struggle to imagine their Great Apocalypse – it's just more horror than my mind can honestly grasp – I've lived, and continue to live, the little one over and over.

Thus the sight of that silent, single-minded symbol of trust and true nature, standing up to its chin in a mindless race to oblivion, has special relevance for me. In that sense, notwithstanding religious distinctions or the brutality it's survived, we're comrade monks.

It's simply the most succinct expression of Things As They Are that I have found.

Today humanity is flirting with holocaust at least as hot as WWII. Given the geo-engineering challenges we choose to ignore; our growing embrace of political ideologies long proven suicidal; and the diplomatic tools we beta'd at Nagasaki, this could reasonably be the end.

It's difficult for me as a historian, a Zenner, and a decent guy, to remain in harness in the midst of our extinction.

So, what to do?

Well…

Sit down.

I'll also be keeping a photo of the one-legged torii of Nagasaki somewhere in the house, where I can see it.

(All photos courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Contemporary view also courtesy of Frank Gualtieri. View of torii after blast from bottom of stairs also courtesy of U.S. Strategic Bombing Survey, 1945; Committee for Research of Photographs and Materials of the Atomic Bombing; Nagasaki Foundation for Promotion of Peace; and the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum. Torii's eye view of the devastated city also courtesy of 林重男 [Hayashi Shigeo].)

Starfish Report 2023

Healthy adult P. ochreceus.

I conducted my informal annual survey of a local beach a few weeks ago and found the wasting-syndrome situation holding, relative to past years. The species recorded in the past are present in similar number, with a possible bump in the number of Pisaster ochraceus, the purple starfish. In that case I noted a heartening continued presence of adults with no noticeable infection or mutilation, supported by what I believe is a modest rise in the number of youngsters.

As this iconic North Coast star all but vanished at the height of the pandemic, I was touched to note this.

White E. troschelii.

With any good luck, this old friend is back to stay.

Evasterias troschelii, the mottled star, held the lead as the largest population on the tidelands since reclaiming first place from Dermasterias a few years back, though they still run small compared to pre-SSWS norms. Together with what may be signs of plague in two of the largest specimens, this may be a bit of a blue note. (See photographs; one individual appears unusually white about the disc, and a ray of another seems whiter and weaker than normal where it's been thrown over a cobble. Compare with the photos on this page. Again, I'm relying solely on 60 years of familiarity with the starfish of my homeland; this wasn't a scientific survey, and I may have misread the cues.)

So Evasterias may still be dying

Possible infected ray.

before it reaches full size. If so, the breeding population is keeping apace, so there are grounds to hope for an evolved solution.

For the rest, leather stars (Dermasterias imbricata) seem about as present as before, and sadly, Pycnopodia helianthoides, the sunflower star, and Pisaster brevispinus, the giant pink star, just as extinct. I wasn't able to observe the blood stars (Henricia leviuscula), which barely reach the intertidal zone, because the tide was a few feet higher than those I've caught in the past.

Final analysis: though the beach apparently still isn't clean, all in all, an encouraging show by the new normal.

Adolescent P. ochreceus.

Ask a Dinosaur

Insight from a sangha-mate on Mastodon (appropriately enough):

One of the most important ideas to sit with – amid the convulsion of climate change – is that Earth was not made for us.

That idea flies against many religions, but also appears in secular settings, with even activists thinking of Earth as a sort of organic machine, a spaceship, a system that’s carefully balanced in absolute ways.

Those metaphors have power, but they’re ultimately unhelpful. Our place here is precarious because we don’t 'belong' in any cosmic sense.

We’re just here.

(Photo of a well-worn dinosaur path in Colorado courtesy of James St. John and Wikimedia Commons.)

WW: Climate disruption on the North Pacific

Salal (Gaultheria shallon)


Western red cedar (Thuja plicata)

(A particularly disturbing consequence of global climate disruption is the rapid perishing of species unique to the North Coast.

Because we have until recently had a specifically regional climate, a great many types of plants and animals have evolved to live only here. [Or here and and similar places they've invaded, such as the UK and the South Island of New Zealand.] These species have become emblematic of this place and the human cultures that developed here.

Like the disappearance of our starfish and the dying crowns of our bigleaf maples, watching these symbols of my homeland suffer and die in the arid blast-furnace heat of the new "normal" is heartrending. Other key examples are the salal and Western red cedar pictured here.

I saw several abnormally hot, dry summers in my youth, but the salal and cedars never died.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

WW: Forest fire sun

(Sadly, only in the rearview mirror in the literal sense; not yet metaphorically.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

WW: Splooting bunny

(How hot has it been here? So hot that rabbits are "splooting" [hunkering down on cooler bare ground in plain sight of people and other potential predators] right in front of my front door. Such weather used to be highly unusual here in my hometown, but has become the new "normal" these last few years. One that neither I nor the rabbits will get used to.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Starfish Report 2022

Maimed P. ochraceus with a replacement ray coming.

So here we are again, back at the usual beach, counting starfish. (On a -5 tide! The Woodstock of marine biology nerds.)

News on the viral front remains guardedly optimistic. In a nutshell, several species present that are susceptible to starfish wasting disease continue to indicate resilience to one extent or another, though the depredation of the virus is still evident.

The bad news is that there is still no Pycnopodia and no Pisaster brevispinus. Researchers suggest the first may now be extinct here, though I hold out hope for deep-water populations of both that may eventually repopulate the shallows.

Meanwhile, that other Pisaster – the iconic North Pacific ochraceus – continues to display real backbone. In addition to a few full-grown specimens that are looking very intact if a bit pale, I also found some badly maimed ones that nevertheless showed no signs of current infection, and were even regrowing eaten limbs. This acquired immunity – if that's what I'm seeing – bodes well for a return to former numbers.

Evasterias troschelli also maintains a pronounced presence, which is more good news, given that this was another species

Young Evasterias troschelli.

virtually wiped out on North Coast beaches the instant the virus appeared. Many juveniles dot the beach now – more, I believe, than last year – though so far no fully grown ones. That last point remains a bit troubling; these animals may still be falling to infection before reaching adulthood. But a few mid-sized ones, scattered among the bright, colourful youngsters, give hope that this species too will eventually surmount the plague entirely.

In any case, there was little evidence of active infections anywhere on the beach, which all by itself is huge.

For the rest, leather stars (Dermasterias imbricata) still mostly own the low intertidal zone. Formerly sparse in southern Puget Sound owing to heavy predation by Pycnopodia, the disappearance of that rapacious marauder, combined with Dermasterias' near-immunity to the wasting disease, has handed it a golden ticket. (Bad news for the anemones though, since this star goes positively Pyncopodia on their figurative backsides.)

Also of note were the continued presence of a few neon Henricia leviuscula, another genus that's largely, though not entirely, impervious to the virus.

So there you go. No miracles, but a heartening show of evolutionary vigour from those species that survived the first wave.

Two juvenile Dermasterias.

WW: Christmas rhododendrons

(There they go again, those ghostly white rhodies. This time it's another bush, about 100 yards from the house, suddenly covered with blossoms in mid-December. As with other recent Christmas surprises, one suspects a radically changing climate is behind it.)

Good Video: Bonhoeffer‘s Theory of Stupidity

This video is both brief and necessary.

We live in apocalyptic times. We're not the first; there have been many other apocalyptic moments in human history (the armistice decades of the World War, the run-up to the American Civil War, the Revolutionary period in France, probably a hundred more), but none of those were as apocalyptic as these, because those dysfunctions were purely behavioural. Today we're floundering in that same full-spectrum meltdown of morality and reason, at the precise moment we're also contending with the literal full-spectrum meltdown of our habitat. AKA, the thing we must have to live, without which we will die.

All of us.

I've commented before on a Zenner's responsibility in such times.

It's crucial to understand that the Stupidity Pandemic isn't just "their" problem. Our side – however we each define it – is just as fully implicated in the impending doom. I'm particularly discouraged by the social justice movement, one I've adhered to all my life, but which has recently collapsed into the same lynch-mob gutter as its presumed enemies. All the symptoms Bonhoeffer catalogued – inability to overcome conviction with logic, meeting substantive challenge with violence, thinking in slogans and catchphrases, reacting to vocabulary rather than statements or actions, and, I would add, simple crass bigotry shopped as virtue – are fully in evidence.

It's become impossible to advocate against racism or sexism anymore. Not truly. If you try, you'll first be smeared by your right wing opponents as a leftist lunatic, given the frankly crazy rhetoric of the most vocal elements of your side. Then, if you're old, white, and/or male, you'll be attacked by your theoretical allies for speaking at all.

And as Bonhoeffer pointed out, this weaponised hypocrisy can't be overcome with reason. Debate is worthless, to say nothing of common cause. The mob wants blood, any blood, and its formula for determining whose is forfeit is racist and sexist. (Note that ostensibly approved race or gender won't shield you, either. Anybody's killable. The Reivers just find another alibi on their infinite list – wealth, prominence, profession, perceived privilege, regional origin, academic record, alleged or immaterial past conduct, and on and on.)

I'm at a loss to understand how these bad-actors can possibly confront the Right with a straight face, now that they've joyfully incarnated all the very worst of it. The karma debt such behaviour incurs defies imagination.

As for me, I'm not going to shut up about it.

In this environment, if Zen is worth a damn, it's to keep us clear and independent of the generalised depravity. Let us all endeavour to look deeply, hold ourselves to a demanding standard of non-hypocrisy, and act in measure of acquired insight.

Because if our practice can't get us that, it can't get us anything.

Starfish Correction

Will the real Pisaster brevispinus please stand up?

Looking again at the photo I published at the top of last week's post, purporting to be of an adult giant pink starfish (Pisaster brevispinus), I've come to the conclusion that it's actually just an unusually large leather star (Dermasterias imbricata). Among other things, it doesn't seem to have any brevispini (short spines).

Sigh.

Oh, well. I hold out hope that this favourite of mine, which was always more numerous in deep water than intertidally, is still down there, outbreeding the plague.

(Photo courtesy of D. Gordon E. Robertson and Wikimedia Commons.)

Good News on the Starfish Front

Not Pisaster brevispinus, unfortunately.

(Update, 15 September 2021: my report of a mature Pisaster brevispinus in this survey was sadly premature. See correction.)

So after a down year due to COVID lockdown, I got in not one but three Annual Puget Sound Asteroid surveys this year. And the news is brilliant!

The first took place at a bay on the Canada-US Border, where two old friends and I have searched for hardy echinoderms since the arrival of the climate disruption-related sea star wasting disease (SSWD) about ten years ago. There we'd previously noted a small but tenacious community of Pisaster ochraceus, the once-ubiquitous ochre star that had seemingly disappeared from all points south, both pelagic and thalassic.

But now they've gone bananas. As we probed crevices and rocky groins in the lower tidal zone, we found seam after seam stuffed with adult P. ochraceus, in numbers reminiscent of the pre-plague days.

Nor was that all. A subsequent hike along Bellingham Bay, a few miles south, fetched up many more, lying around in jaded profusion as if they owned the place.

With unrestrained delight we documented this turn of events in a wealth of celebratory photos.

Pisaster ochraceus.

And this is not, I soon learned, an isolated case. Another visit to the other beach I've been monitoring, near the southern extreme of the Sound 150 miles distant, produced not only several healthy adult Evasterias troscheli, where before I'd only found juveniles, but also an able-bodied adult P. ochraceus, luxuriating the warm plague-friendly austral shallows. And best of all, the first appearance of a robust Pisaster brevispinus!

That last was truly exciting, owing to the long relationship I've had with the North Pacific giant pink sea star. When I was three years old, my uncle and a neighbour girl – young adults both, and divers – disappeared below the inlet in front of my grandmother's house and resurfaced with a great glistening pale monstrosity. They propped it up, tall as I was, on the beach in front of me, and I watched its rows of tube feet wave in phlegmatic bewilderment at the sudden change of world.

This lasted all of five minutes, after which they returned the perplexed fellow to the saltchuck, but the moment remains sharp in memory, now six decades gone.

A few years later I rowed the same bay, hip pressed against the port gunwale, head craned over the rail to peruse the creatures on the bottom. The further out I rowed, the fewer I could discern, until at last only great green bands of sea lettuce were visible in the depths, alternating with bare grey sand.

And then nothing.

Except… here and there, the ghostly undulating skeletal hands of yard-wide P. brevispinus, glowing up through 100 feet of green water.

So the disappearance of my old friend truly hurt, and I fairly cried when I found this one.

Evasterias troschelii.

As it happens, I'm not the only observer of this uptick. As early as 2018, a grad student at UC Merced noted genetic variances in local P. ochraceus populations that allowed a durable nucleus to survive after the great majority had perished. At the time her department wondered aloud whether a similar evolutionary reserve might bail out other species as well.

And so it seems. The single blue note here is the continued absence of great sunflower of death Pycnopodia helianthoides, the final Puget Sound regular still absent. (Though I didn't survey for Leptasterias hexactis, the tiny six-rayed star that lives under rocks, so can't comment on its status.) Marine biologists have suggested that Pycnopodia – soft, squishy, easily penetrated and dissolved by SSWD – may be extinct in our waters.

But I hold out hope that a breeding population, sheltered in colder, deeper fathoms, will one day repopulate its ancestors' old range.

SSWD-resistant Dermasterias imbricata, still very present in the South Sound, as it's been since the beginning.

WW: Compassion in the pit of Hell

(The world is still talking about the 40+ degree weather we on the North Coast experienced this week. I've lived places where that kind of heat wasn't unheard of, but to see it fry my green and temperate homeland was terrifying. [And uncomfortable; few homes here have air conditioners.]

The above photo was snapped beside a local bike path. It's a basin of water for the dogs that are often walked on this trail, presumably placed by the neighbour who lives behind the gate that's out of frame on the right.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

WW: Summer 2017 vs. Summer 2020

Starfish Update, August 2018

Last week I trolled a few beaches in Whatcom County with two droogies from college. We were taking advantage of passably low tides and the bright August weather to reconnect with some of our favourite haunts.

The first was predictably depressing: where the rocks had been encrusted with brightly-coloured sea stars last I saw it – 33 years ago – they now boasted not a one.

So when we arrived at the second, early next morning, expectations were low. But what was our delight to find, first one… then several… and finally hordes of Pisaster ochraceus, the purple shore star.

Signature starfish of the North Pacific, these are the first Pisaster I've seen in years. We all cheered loudly.

And they're adults, which suggests they're either bearing up against the plague or (more likely) haven't yet been exposed to it.

The disease was present, though. We didn't conduct a formal survey, of course, but we did find a single infected individual who was well on the way to dissolving into mush. Interestingly, that was also one of the few immature specimens we found on the beach that day. This is contrary to the usual pattern, but that's probably just a fluke.

Will Pisaster survive on this beach? Seems dubious. But we can hope.

In the meantime, it did my heart good just to see them again, after all these years.

Starfish Report 2018

Evasterias troscheli

We had a minus-4 tide the other day and I got in an epic mile-long wade along the tidelands. The biological diversity was outstanding; next best thing to diving.

Among the prolific sea life present were three starfish, all of which presented reasons for hope, if not celebration, that the starfish plague may be slowing down, now that it's wiped out most of our sea stars.

I was first delighted to find several blood stars (Henricia leviuscula). These striking neon echinoderms have been a favourite since childhood. Seldom found intertidally – testimony to the rare opportunity of this very low tide – they were before the die-off omnipresent on mud-bottomed diving grounds.

One adult specimen I found had small scrapes on its disc. These might have been signs of incipient viral infection, or abrasions caused by being dashing about in the "surf" created by passing boats. I also found a few tiny individuals; normal for this time of year. With the exception of that first adult, none showed visible signs of disease (yet?).

Sadly, not a single sunflower star (Pycnopodia helianthoides), of any size, in any condition, was present. It does seem this beautiful if rapacious species, a fixture in quiet northern water until very recently, has been driven to extinction.

Further proof are the leather stars (Dermasterias imbricata) that now stud the beach and shallows. Formerly thinly represented on lower Sound

Adult Henricia leviuscula

beaches, because a favourite Pycnopodia food, Dermasterias is now virtually the only star left.

That population, at any rate, enjoys a natural immunity to the horrific seastar wasting disease, and appears healthy.

Finally, good news and bad on the mottled starfish (Evasterias troscheli) front. Good, because I encountered several specimens of this similarly once characteristic species. Bad, because every one was tiny; a year old, at most.

The wasting virus tends to take a few years to locate and destroy its victims, thus the average size of this species indicates it hasn't yet been able to out-manœuver the plague.

But its presence at all on this ravaged beach suggests that a healthy breeding population exists in the deeper, colder water offshore. With luck and a bit of Darwinian cunning, it may yet return.

Thus the state of the starfish.

It's hard to express how painful all of this is. They may be "just starfish", but this attractive class has been such an integral part of my life, albeit unrecognised till they were gone. Along with most other people, it never occurred to me I might one day wake up to a North Pacific functionally bereft of seastars.

And the creeping suspicion we'll lose many more beloved habitats and life forms before we've seen the end of the Anthropocene.

Immature Henricia