Jess Zimmerman: Costco agrees to stop ravaging the oceans

Costco agrees to stop ravaging the oceans
by Jess Zimmerman
Grist

It only took eight months for pressure from Greenpeace to make food-hoard purveyor Costco stop selling threatened fish. Twelve species that appear on Greenpeace's "red list" were also appearing on Costco's shelves. Activists finally made the wholesale giant revise its seafood policies, but first they had to open up economy-sized whoop@ss:

Over 100,000 people took action online -- sending messages to Costco's CEO demanding real progress. Thousands of concerned citizens downloaded our activist toolkit and participated in surveying Costco stores across the country. And, that's not all -- hundreds of phone calls were placed to stores, the Greenpeace airship flew over their headquarters and shoppers handed out informational flyers in front of stores on busy days.

Here's what the future of Costco's seafood purchasing and sales looks like:

-- Eliminate 12 red list species, which will not return unless the company can find an MSC-certified option. This is certainly not perfect -- we'd like to see these unsustainable options off the shelves until the populations recover -- but it's a major step forward. The species are:

- Atlantic cod
- Atlantic halibut
- Chilean sea bass
- Greenland halibut
- Grouper
- Monkfish
- Orange roughy
- Redfish
- Shark
- Skates and rays
- Swordfish
- Bluefin tuna

-- Pledge to play more of a leadership role within aquaculture;

-- Partner with World Wildlife Fund to examine their remaining wild-caught species and determine how to best transition to the most sustainable alternative; and

-- Acknowledge the role that the canned tuna industry plays within the global sustainable seafood movement and is in the process of shifting to more sustainable tuna sources in all sectors (fresh, frozen, and canned).

Whether you shop at Costco or elsewhere, there are apps -- like one from the Monterey Bay Aquarium -- that will let you know whether the fish you're buying is sustainable, and what to choose instead if it isn't.

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Leslie Hargis: ENG 102 Personal Essay

Leslie Hargis
September 20, 2010
Portfolio 1 – Personal Essay



The ocean, so incredibly intricate and delicate and so easily taken for granted. It is miraculously woven together in a complexity that can only be compared to the universe with its infinite mysteries. Like a weathered grandmother gently smiles with the wisdom and the absolute knowing that all is in its own perfect order, the ocean, too, smiles as if holding a precious secret in the cavernous depths closest to her heart. She breathes the steady breath of life as her breast gently rises and falls with every carefully coordinated respiration. Her tantalizing truths tear at the very center of my subconscious as I search for self-identity and a higher state of awareness. I recall my encounters with this seductive landscape both as a child ripe with innocence and as an adult who has come full circle with her demons.

From these memories I draw strength, appreciation, respect and inspiration; and form an ideology that drives my life. The sublime attraction of the ocean holds an aura of divinity for me, and it is from this that I begin to grasp a deeper sense of myself. It is more than poetic irony how the ocean can be one of the earth’s most unrelentingly destructive forces and a source of tranquility at the same time. This may seem like a paradox, but to me it is simply the best explanation and most vivid demonstration of the human condition. It is the essence of me. My pursuit of self-awareness begins where the surf meets the sand.

The first time I encountered the ocean was not on a family vacation but when I was three years old and my mom attended a weekend conference. I was more or less along for the ride. Not expecting to visit the beach, she did not pack a swimsuit, an umbrella, toys, or any other traditional beach gear. We pulled over at a public beach, and apparently before my mom could catch me, I ran headfirst into the surf. Much like my attitude later in life, I threw caution to the wind and dove right in. I had no prior conception of what waves were, what the salt water tasted like, how hot the sand would be and without a shred of apprehension I was immersed in the wonder that is the ocean. My mom laughs, now, at the size of the tantrum I threw when she plucked me from my spot in the water at nightfall. My first encounter with the enchanting call of the ocean was driven by a force much larger than myself or my free will. It was governed, much like the ebb and flow of the waves, by an unseen energy.

It was not until I was 9 or 10 that I had the chance to consciously and collectively experience the ocean again; at the Outer Banks of North Carolina. In these memories I find a metamorphic basis for my outlook on life. Our caravan arrived at the rental house in late afternoon; all three cars were pack to the brim with my extended family. The house was on stilts, the interior walls were painted every gaudy color of the rainbow and the furniture was boldly outdated. The house was on a dead end street which gave way to a battered boardwalk that crossed the protective sand dunes. Scattered throughout the dunes were tufts of wild sea oats. This wild foliage pierced the defensive sand dunes much like my own free-spirit would stand alone on top of the carefully constructed shelter my parents encapsulated me with. The thick ocean breeze would dance with the sea oats leading them in a fantastic waltz that rivals Fred and Ginger’s impeccable chemistry and timing. Like Alice traveling through the looking glass, the other side of the dunes and oats lay the most magical place I have ever encountered. The sand was grainy and sharp with bits and pieces of broken shells blanketing the floor yet seemed to hold an inviting ambiance. At the water’s edge, a never ending symphony of sounds filled my ears and lifted my soul. The waves, in all their glory, kept time like a metronome on top of a grand piano. It was as if the waves were subliminally setting the pace to my breaths; a calm rhythmic march. I can remember running into the waves with such conviction and determination that it did not matter how blazing hot the sand was or how frigid the Atlantic ocean was. Out in the peripheral distance a bridge punctured the coast line giving me a sense of seclusion. Even further, a lighthouse towered into the sky holding its post like a noble and vigilant watchman. Overhead, the seagulls cawed and circled. The remainder of the day my Aunt and I scoured the beach for unique shells. I can clearly remember racing my cousins over the boardwalk into my personal Narnia. At that moment, when I had the pleasure of meeting the Matriarch of Nature in person, I was absolutely spell bound.

What I thought was childhood excitement I now believe was the pure electrical energy the ocean generated and its waves pulsating through my veins. A thunderstorm blew up the second night we were there, and the screened in porch was the perfect place to marvel in the elements. Thunderstorms also hold a special place in my psyche, for they evoke a sense of excitement and danger. The next day, after the storm, the beach was littered with washed up jellyfish. The waves were bigger and unruly, and they thrashed wildly as the remnants of the storm dissipated. So overpowering in fact that one particular monster managed to knock me off balance, and I struggled to counter the constant turning of the crest. At that time, I still felt no panic, no imminent threat to my safety as the waves rolled me like a crocodile rolls its prey into submission. The storm on the water, much like the storm that was brewing inside of me, left debris as evidence of its fury. There was still something soothing about the ocean, despite its volatile moods. It was free and raw, it held an unadulterated vibrancy. After spending all day in the water, when lying in bed, I could still feel the push and pull of the ocean. The pulse, the heartbeat of the ocean was still counting time against my body. This brief but monumental encounter with the ocean may have been the beginning of the end of my childhood, of my innocence.

Over the next few years, the waves of adolescence crashed into my bubble and I was carried off with the rip tides of teenage awkwardness. I was suddenly swimming with sharks, without a cage and with only a limited supply of oxygen. I regarded the stilts that held up my life and the sand dunes that took the heaviest blows not as protective guardians anymore, but as restraints and confines. To rebel, to go against the current, I answered the bewitching call of the sirens and plotted a course of destruction and addiction. I was no longer building sand castles or collecting sea shells. I dove head first into life, and like the Atlantic Ocean, it was cold and unforgiving. No matter how hard I tried, I could not stand on my own two feet in the crest of my waves. I was Dorothy asleep in the poppy fields. For the next 11 years of my life I was indulging myself with the most irreverent display of disrespect. It was as if I were a surfer trying to harness the sheer power of the wave instead of allowing the wave to carry me. It did not take long for my levies to break and I was drowning in a flood of addiction. Like a natural disaster, the tides of my behaviors left a path of destruction that affected a countless number of other people besides me. My storms had washed up jellyfish, deserting them in the exposed sun leaving them to rot. Finally, one day in August of 2006, a beam of light caught my attention. It was as if a light house’s beacon had pierced the fog and was beckoning me back home.

As I lay in my third and final hospital room, the haze of the last overdose was beginning to lift and one image stood out brighter than anything else. This image was so real, so lucid that I was suspicious of its origin. I was standing on the water’s edge, staring off into the vastness into the distance. If I stood there for too long, I knew the waves would take the sand from under my feet piece by piece. I would sink a little further with every lap of the tide, solidifying my existence on the shoreline; making it impossible to ever to play in the waves again. Then, instantly, I say myself running across the rickety splintered boardwalk, crossing into my sanctuary and taking a breath of relief and surrender. Suddenly it all became so clear to me. I knew that I had to harness my inner ocean, my inner drive to find my inner peace. Gradually, I found my rhythm again. As a reward, fate found a way to bring me back to myself, to my element, to the ocean.
This past summer, after 17 years of being away, I once again stepped into the looking glass. This trip was especially meaningful. It was the first time both my parents and I took a family vacation together. It was much more than a family vacation. It was a chance to mend, to move forward, and to rebuild after the flood. I had alienated them, disappointed and disrespected them. My selfish choices had destroyed our dynamic. As I stepped on each splintered and warped plank of the boardwalk, and as the soft tails of the wild sea oats caressed my hands, tears welled up in my eyes. We sat in silence; my mom, dad and I, and a simple prayer of gratitude kissed my lips. I vowed to never take this image that sprawled out in front of me for granted again. The sun’s rays glistened like a thousand diamonds as it pulled the cover of the horizon over its head; as if a loving mother was tucking in her child for bed. Ironically, a sea storm blew up within the first hour that we were there, but as quickly as it came in it left. It was as if to remind me that no storm is too bad, no storm is worth giving up. It was only fitting that my dad had never experienced the ocean until this trip. I believe that the muse that influences fate knew that this was the right scene for forgiveness, for reconciliation, for tranquility. More so, this force knew that this day would come. The three of us never enjoyed each other’s company like this before. During my journey leading up to this moment, I found it easy to forgive others for their wrongs, but clutched onto my own guilt and shame. Here, at the water’s edge, sitting next to my dad waiting for the sleepy sun to rise over the sea of tranquility, absorbing the song of the waves; I found the strength to forgive myself. I found the inspiration to let go and to be free.

The ocean is a weathered grandmother, smiling ever so slightly as she takes on the role of the observer. She breathes the steady breath of life as she rocks back and forth in rhythm. She acts in calmness and a clairvoyant knowing that this too shall pass. A sly mischievous smile plays across her face and a sparkle of excitement twinkles in her eyes as she brings joy to others. Much like the matriarch of a family I go to the ocean for guidance, for wisdom, for serenity.

BBC News: US military joins Gulf of Mexico oil spill effort

US military joins Gulf of Mexico oil spill effort
BBC News

The US military has joined efforts to stop an oil leak in the Gulf of Mexico as fears rise about its scale.

Five times as much oil as previously thought could be leaking from the well beneath where a rig exploded and sank last week, the US Coast Guard says.

Rear Admiral Mary Landry said 5,000 barrels a day were thought to be gushing into the sea off Louisiana.

The Department of Homeland Security has designated the spill as one of "national significance".

Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano, who is to go to Louisiana to oversee operations, told reporters in Washington that this designation would allow resources to be ordered in from other areas of the US.

At the same briefing, a coastguard official said the oil slick was expected to wash ashore on the Gulf Coast on Friday.

And Deputy Secretary of the Department of the Interior David Hayes said the US government had ordered inspections of all deep-water oil wells in the Gulf of Mexico to see if anti-spill regulations were being followed.

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David Vine: Environmental Protection of Bases?

Environmental Protection of Bases?
By David Vine
Foreign Policy in Focus

Just weeks before today’s Earth Day, and for the second time in little more than a year, environmental groups have teamed with governments to create massive new marine protection areas across wide swaths of the world’s oceans. Both times, however, there’s been something (pardon the pun) fishy about these benevolent-sounding efforts at environmental protection.

Most recently, on April 1, the British government announced the creation of the world’s largest marine protection area in the Indian Ocean’s Chagos Archipelago, which would include a ban on commercial fishing in an area larger than California and twice the size of Britain. British Foreign Secretary David Miliband called it “a major step forward for protecting the oceans.

A representative for the Pew Charitable Trusts—which helped spearhead the effort along with groups including the Marine Conservation Society, the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, and Greenpeace—compared the ecological diversity of the Chagos islands to the Galapagos and the Great Barrier Reef. The Pew representative described the establishment of the protected area as “a historic victory for global ocean conservation.” Indeed, this was the second such victory for Pew, which also supported the creation, in the waning days of the George W. Bush administration, of three large marine protection areas in the Pacific Ocean, around some of the Hawai’ian islands and the islands of Guam, Tinian, and Saipan.

The timing of the announcements for both the Indian Ocean and Pacific marine protection areas—on the eve of upcoming British parliamentary elections and in the days before Bush left office when he was trying to salvage a legacy—suggests that there’s more here than the celebratory announcements would suggest.
A Base Issue

Both marine protection areas provide safe homes for sea turtles, sharks, breeding sea birds, and coral reefs. But they are also home to major U.S. military bases. Chagos’s largest island, Diego Garcia, hosts a secretive billion-dollar Air Force and Navy base that has been part of the CIA’s extraordinary rendition program. The Pacific protection areas are home to U.S. bases on Guam, Tinian, Saipan, Rota, Farallon de Medinilla, Wake Island, and Johnston Island.

In both cases, the otherwise “pristine” protected environments carve out significant exceptions for the military. In Chagos, the British government has said, “We nor the US would want the creation of a marine protected area to have any impact on the operational capability of the base on Diego Garcia. For this reason…it may be necessary to consider the exclusion of Diego Garcia and its three-mile territorial waters.” In the Pacific, the Bush administration stressed that “nothing” in the protected areas “impairs or otherwise affects the activities of the U.S. Department of Defense.”

The incongruity of military bases in the middle of environmental protection areas is particularly acute since many military installations cause serious damage to local environments. As Miriam Pemberton and I warned in the wake of Bush’s announcement, “Such damage includes the blasting of pristine coral reefs, clear-cutting of virgin forests, deploying underwater sonar dangerous to marine life, leaching carcinogenic pollutants into the soil and seas from lax toxic waste storage and military accidents, and using land and sea for target practice, decimating ecosystems with exploded and unexploded munitions. Guam alone is home to 19 Superfund sites.”

Similarly, the base on Diego Garcia was built by blasting and dredging the island’s coral-lined lagoon, using bulldozers and chains to uproot coconut trees from the ground and paving a significant proportion of the island in asphalt. Since its construction, the island has seen more than one million gallons of jet fuel leaks, water fouled with diesel fuel sludge, the warehousing of depleted uranium-tipped bunker buster bombs, and the likely storage of nuclear weapons.

For all the benefits that marine protection areas might bring, governments are using environmentalism as a cover to protect the long-term life of environmentally harmful bases. The designation also helps governments hold onto strategic territories. Indeed, all of the Pacific and Indian Ocean islands involved are effectively colonies, including the Chagos Archipelago, which Britain refers to as the British Indian Ocean Territory and which was illegally detached from Mauritius during decolonization in the 1960s.

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