NATURALLY SPEAKING: Otter Says: I Was Here First

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December 1, 2005

Otter Says: I Was Here First

Here in the Monterey Bay, we have a lot of sea otters. It's like the shared mascot for Santa Cruz and Monterey Counties. The Monterey sea canyon which cuts into the bay is a marine sanctuary, and while we certainly have a fishing industry, we also have conservation programs. We do not have oil rigs sitting off our coasts. We do not have Wal-Marts either, at least in Santa Cruz County. But yes, we have quite a few otters. I can reliably walk down to the Capitola or Santa Cruz or Monterey Wharf, and see at least one. Usually within about 75ft. I can always see them frollicking in the kelp beds, but those are farther away.

But while we consider the sea otters fuzzy friends, it appears that some people in Southern California (heathens!) consider them furry fugitives. Shellfish divers of SoCal can't seem to handle the "natural competition" with the local otters.

Now, just so we're clear, this is not like a herd of locusts or anything. The West Coast once supported several hundred thousand sea otters. But we hunted them for their fur and by around 1900, there were only about 50 left, all in Big Sur. Through conservation efforts, there are now approximately 2,700 Southern Sea Otters living off the coast of California, mostly in the Monterey Bay and other marine sanctuaries. Although the otters populations are focused in several key areas, wildlife officials have also tried to have several diverse populations, especially after the wreck of the 1989 Exxon Valdez and subsequent oil spill was estimated to have killed more than 2650 otters (this is likely the Northern Sea Otter).

But the resurgence of otters upset the fishermen and they didn't like the otters stealing "their" catches and making shellfishing more difficult. In 1987, the Fish and Wildlife Service passed a ban on wild otters living in the coastal waters south of Santa Barbara. Otters living in this region would be caught and moved to a safer, more fisherman-friendly location - like Monterey.

Furry Fugitives

And thus began the otter translocation program - biologists would track otters, sneak up on then while they were sleeping, catch em, and ship them off to Northern California. This was not a comfortable process for the otters. Unfortunately, some of the otters didn't play along. Surprising scientists, these smart marine mammals became.... you guessed it - furry fugitives! Phoky is one such crafty, dare I say trixy, otter - outsmarting his two-legged adversaries left and right.

When Sanders, a biologist, finally captured the critter at Southern California's Anacapa Island, he shipped Phoky north to Monterey under an ambitious federal program to preserve otters while protecting shellfish divers from natural competition.

But within six months, Phoky was back in forbidden waters. He was one of dozens of otters that surprised government biologists at almost every turn. Now, it seems, officials are throwing in the towel.

In an admission that the slick-furred creatures refuse to respect boundaries imposed by man, authorities want to officially abandon their otter-relocation policy.

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"This concept of taking animals and putting them in one place and expecting them to stay where we want them ... wasn't really working," said Sanders, 44, a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service biologist.

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Biologists had thought the otters would stay near San Nicholas, which has plenty of food and is surrounded by deep water that is hard to swim across. Even if the otters wanted to leave, it seemed improbable that they had the navigation skills to do it -- especially since they were taken to the island by plane.

"We flew 'em out there," Sanders said, "although we didn't blindfold them."

The otters didn't play along. Some swam up to 200 miles to return to native habitat along the Central Coast.

Fishermen and seafood processors say federal officials never did enough -- and complain that lobster and urchin fishing could be devastated if otters continue roaming Southern California waters.

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After waiting for an otter to fall asleep, wildlife crews would sneak up beneath it with a propeller-powered craft manned by a diver and snare it in a net. The otter then would be flown in a chartered plane or driven hundreds of miles to a Northern California beach for re-release. Some died from the stress.

Total cost: $6,000 to $12,000 per otter.

But before officials can catch an otter, they have to spot it. One recent day, as part of the agency's fall otter survey, Sanders spent two hours near the University of California at Santa Barbara, peering through a telescope at a kelp bed where something resembling an otter had been seen the day before.

Sanders perked up when a potential otter bobbed near the surface, but it turned out to be a harbor seal. Or a log. Lots of things look like otters.

"You get these harbor seals that fake you out," Sanders said.

Sometimes, though, Sanders catches a break -- as in the incident he refers to as "the drive-by sighting."

Years ago, Sanders got a call from a lifeguard who had been cruising along coastal Highway 101 near Ventura when he spotted what he thought was an otter. Sanders was incredulous, but decided to follow up.

It turned out to be Phoky.

A few weeks ago, Sanders and other wildlife officials marked the 15th anniversary of Phoky's first capture near Anacapa. Phoky, though, didn't make it to the celebration. He had better places to be.

Last Sanders heard, the otter was rumored to be in Mexico.