Journal of a Sabbatical

August 17, 2000

a summary

Today's Reading: Coming Home Crazy by Bill Holm, Trees: Their Natural History by Peter Thomas

Today's Starting Pitcher: Tim Wakefield

The beach re-opened on Tuesday (August 15) so last week's plover warden shift was my last for the year. According to the statement that Debbie, the biologist, gave to the Newburyport Daily News, the eleven pairs of plovers that nested at the refuge produced nine fledglings. That's a production rate of 0.82 fledglings per pair. For the plover population to increase to the numbers needed to get off the federally threatened list that rate would need to be 1.2 fledged chicks per pair.

According to the Daily News article, the numbers across Massachusetts are even more abysmal this year. Based on the number of fledglings counted so far in Massachusetts 506 pairs of plovers produced fledglings at a rate of 0.75 per pair. That doesn't count any late fledging chicks, so it could potentially be higher. That June storm that washed over nests on Plum Island apparently also affected other sites as well, especially Crane's Beach in Ipswich, normally cited as a fabulous success story and as an argument for the use of symbolic fencing rather than beach closure. They had 45 pairs of plovers who produced just one fledgling. They had great numbers last year. I had heard and read that they had a lot of nests washed over this year and other problems, but I didn't realize it was this bad until I read the newspaper article. Plum Island's numbers are only slightly worse than last year (0.87 last year). I remember thinking last year was a bad year.

Does it matter? The first time I ever saw a piping plover it stood stock still (just like Thoreau describes in the quote below), blending in with the sand. I looked into its little black eye and I knew it matters. I cannot imagine the beach without piping plovers anymore than I can imagine it without sand or waves. It matters. Every one of those nine chicks matters. Extinction is forever.

From Thoreau's Cape Cod:

Sometimes we sat on the wet beach and watched the beach birds, sand-pipers, and others, trotting along close to each wave, and waiting for the sea to cast up their breakfast. The former (Charadrius melodus) ran with great rapidity and then stood stock still remarkably erect and hardly to be distinguished from the beach. The wet sand was covered with small skipping Sea Fleas, which apparently make a part of their food.