We shuffle along the cliffside, eyes trained on the half-formed path of decaying granite. The misty air shudders at regular intervals as waves expend themselves on the shore below, making salt spray that pricks my nose. I clasp at the slope with bare toes, holding tight to the crumbled rock and patches of springy red-green iceplant. This will be my first dive at this spot. It’s below an active construction site, where a hulking, slate grey home stands half-built; white tags cover recently installed windows; tools and tiles are strewn about the soft dirt of the site. Having friends in construction has its perks: this weekend, we’re exploring the waters just below this half-finished estate.
Jack, Ethan, and Dustin are fanned out below, picking their way towards the relative calm of a cove eighty feet below. They move slowly, hands full with dive fins, snorkel masks, and barbed spears. A patch of sand glints turquoise from the deep. The visibility will be good. Looking outwards, the water turns a dense blue, then to a ridged brown mat of seaweed with bulbs of bullwhip kelp jutting above the surface. Two seagulls stand on this thick vegetation, this canopy of an underwater forest. The kelp is unassuming from above, but below the surface, these towering forests create a habitat that supports a myriad of marine life. When I was younger, the sight of kelp breaking the surface was so familiar that I took it for granted.
Before I moved to Carmel, California in the third grade, these stunning corners of the Pacific were reserved for special occasions. My grandparents retired here in the 1990s, trading sunny Los Angeles for the foggy confines of the Central Coast. I have half-formed memories of Thanksgivings and Christmases spent in mild, gray winter. During these trips to California, my family would take the cypress-draped trail to the beach as often as possible. I loved low tide, clambering over mounds of slick green algae in search of crabs, eels, octopus, and other denizens of the tide pools. From the top of the stairs leading to the water, I’d scan the kelp for rafts of sea otters as they napped in the canopy.
On rainy days, I’d plead with my parents until they agreed to take me and my sisters to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. There, the colossal fish tanks stretching from floor to ceiling could captivate me for hours. I’d wriggle through to the front of the crowd, craning my neck upwards at their kelp forest exhibit. Big-eyed rockfish peered out at me, leopard sharks glided between the foliage, and the massive exhibit swayed like the ocean itself. When Mom and Dad broke the news that we were moving to California, my mind swirled with images of beach days and strange ocean animals.
The surf gets louder and louder as we near the entry point. In January, storms in the North Pacific send us strong, staggered pulses of wave energy; the Carmel coast becomes a constant impact zone. During the winter, the coastal seas turn a clear, icy azure. On these rocky shores, there are fewer sediments kicked up from high wave activity. This confluence of conditions makes for treacherous, but pristine conditions for spearfishing. We all pause as a set of waves detonates on the rocks protecting our entry, sending whitewater flying twenty feet skyward.
“There should be a lull now, let’s go,” says Jack, scrambling down the last few feet of dry granite. His face looks pinched from inside a tight neoprene hood, haphazardly tucked into the neck of his wetsuit. He sets his pole spear against the rock -- seven feet long, a thin bronze cylinder with three barbed prongs splayed to the sky. We’ve chosen a half-submerged platform as our entry and exit. The footing is even worse here: reddish algae and tangles of feather boa kelp give way to a bed of sharp black mussels.
It’s low tide, and each surge submerges most of the slick rock. I set my own fins down in a crevice that holds a small pool of seawater, sending its resident purple shore crabs skittering deeper into the cliff face. I cinch the neon yellow band tight above my hips, jostling the lead weights and rattling the wire stringer that dangles on my right leg. Each hand is nestled inside a thick black glove. I reach for my dive knife, pulling the elastic fastener tight around my calf. A splash echoes and I look up as Jack surfaces, bobbing in the surging water.
The water temperature today hovers in the low 50s, barely colder than the air. A wave washes over the plateau of rock, and I step forward onto the mottled ledge as it drains away, rushing back over the rows of mussels with a gurgle. My toes squish into the bottom of each fin as I approach the furthest tip of the shelf.
I plant my left heel on a bare patch of rock that looks less slippery, then vault out. The water meets me, washing over my face and jostling the mask still dangling on my neck. I surface, then take three swift kicks with my fin, trying to get away from the sharp wall that the next swell will slam into. I’ve timed my jump to meet the tug of receding water, and I jet outwards with this rushing mass. The six foot swells carry us up and down like bobbing corks as we kick out from the sheltered inlet, nearing the edge of the forest. I slow my breathing, willing my heart rate to drop. With a long inhale, I invert, throwing both fins to the sky. With each slow, methodical kick, I drive deeper into the thrumming Pacific. We’re at our destination: the towers of Giant Kelp that climb skyward, their strands braided into thick trunks swaying in long, leafy arcs.
A curiosity for marine biology grew steadily, and at age 15, I started volunteering at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Interpreting exhibits was a chance to share my passion for our local ecosystems. When I wasn’t out in the ocean, I tore through reading materials about the habitats that most fascinated me, so that I could help them come alive for others, at the aquarium and beyond.
I paid particular attention to the tank that most draw me in as a child, the three-story forest packed full of kelp. Giant Kelp is not a true plant, as it does not flower or disperse seeds. It’s the largest species of marine algae in the world, growing as much as two feet a day in ideal conditions. Clinging to the rocky substrate, its blades stretch for the sun, buoyed by gas-filled bladders. Macrocystis pyrifera take in all of their nutrients from sunlight and the surrounding waters. They spring from the deep -- some have grown as tall as 175 feet -- and unfurl across the surface in ribbons of amber brown. Bullwhip kelp climbs in tapering cylinders, thick and ropy. They grow a single stem that is held up by softball-sized floats, topped with narrow blades like a head of yellow-green hair. Together these species give rise to algal groves, supporting an incredible confluence of life. Turban snails the size of quarters scrape away at the kelp directly, while delicate brittle stars and camouflaged Kelp Crabs feed on the fallen blades. These invertebrate communities provide ample food for fish, like the numerous species of rockfish that roam the undersea woods. These fish are our target species when diving; I search for them, curious as that kid that pressed his face to the glass at the aquarium tank many years ago.
Each kick of my fins brings me deeper into this underwater Eden. Left hand pinching my nose, I exhale and send a crackle through my sinuses. This equalization releases the tightness in each ear and cheekbone, allowing me to continue my descent into the cool green-blue. After 25 feet, the seven pounds of lead on my waist render me negatively buoyant. The deeper I go, the stronger the pull towards the bottom becomes. I’m drawn into a cold embrace, swirls of gold-green kelp and boulders coated in purple algae that come into sharp focus. Right above the bottom, I drop my fins and go horizontal, peering out into the shadowy grove.
Complete silence lies forty feet below the surface. I glide slowly forward, sweeping my gaze across the seascape. To conserve energy and oxygen, each movement must be as efficient as possible. This calm, even demeanor is a skill I’m still working on. My lungs start to ache slightly as I scan the foliage for fish, head bobbing left and right in the narrow view afforded by a mask. A pair of Barred Surfperch dart past, and I watch their silhouettes weave through the forest.
The forest turns a deeper shade of blue as I cross under a thick patch of kelp. I clear my ears once more and weave around an undulating strand. All of a sudden, the fish begin to appear. Rockfish emerge from the azure like dark jewels suspended in the water column, their large eyes and blue-grey mottling coming into focus. They lurk around the twisting spires, drifting in loose schools. There are more fish than I’ve ever seen in the wild. I descend another ten feet, then turn parallel to the bottom, flicking off the safety of my speargun and moving steadily closer.
The pursuit of these fish has led to troublesome outcomes in the past. Rockfish are particularly vulnerable to exploitation because they are slow-growing and long-lived. They like to school, and are content to spend their days sitting in one place, waiting for unsuspecting prey to come swimming along. They’re also not picky about what goes in their mouth: using a fishing pole, I’ve caught rockfish using nothing but a flashy piece of metal and a hook. These traits -- combined with their delicate white meat -- have made the 100+ species of rockfish a target of heavy pressure from fisheries.
Commercially harvested since 1875, the Pacific Coast’s rockfish fishery was on the brink of collapse at the turn of the century. These slow, schooling predators were essentially strip-mined by large-scale fisheries, decimating their population. Thankfully, West Coast’s rockfish populations have made a remarkable recovery. Expansion of marine protected areas, a flexible catch-share program, and community engagement worked in concert to bring back a fishery that was once imperiled by overexploitation.
My lungs start to sear as I take one slow kick, drifting forwards towards a group of Blue Rockfish. At this juncture, I need to relax more than ever. One jerky movement could put the whole school on high alert. Two more slow kicks and the fish are close enough that I can just see the dark bands behind their eyes. At twenty feet away, the closer fish start to veer away, but they still don’t bolt. Gun raised, I flick one fin to track right, following a lone fish. It’s speckled gray-blue sides are visible. Aiming just above the gill plate, I squeeze the trigger.
As a kid, I was most drawn to catch-and-release fishing; joy dwelled in each rare glimpse into underwater fauna, not the pursuit of a meal. But I’ve grown to appreciate local, sustainably harvested food. Spearfishing may sound gory, but it allows for a much more surgical approach to one’s harvest. Catching fish with a hook and line is like groping around in a dark refrigerator: you aren’t sure what’s coming out, and you don’t know if you want it. Bycatch and accidental injuries of juvenile fish are all too common in conventional fisheries. Spearfishing gives its practitioner full agency: I can be selective, choosing only to take species that are abundant, and leaving the ecosystem free of invasive hooks and discarded lines.
My shot lands, piercing through the spinal cord and killing the fish instantly. The rockfish goes stiff with the spines of its dorsal fin fanned out. It starts to drift downwards, skewered by the thin metal rod. Now I move swiftly, taking sharp kicks, grasping the fish and spear in gloved hands. My chest and head pound, pleading for air. I look up and kick hard towards the surface, angling towards the blue sky at the edge of the forest canopy. I surface with a heaving breath.
Extricating the spear, I string the fish along the wire loop dangling from my belt. From further along the edge of the kelp, Dustin holds another Blue with both hands. The construction site dive is a resounding success. We take eight fish in total, all Black and Blue Rockfish. After two hours, I’m exhausted, quads burning as I force my way over the slick, dense blades of brown kelp at the surface. The surface glare makes stars in my eyes as we make our way to the rocky exit. We climb back to the car, changing out of our wetsuits in the shadow of the unfinished cliff-side mansion. Sat in the stark winter sun, and I drift off for a moment, head still adrift in the undulations of the forest tucked under the cliff.
*******
The following weekend, I take to the water again with my dad in tow. When we moved to Carmel, I remember him pointing out the distant whale spouts, eyes flicking between the road and the horizon as we drove Highway 1 into town. When he found a two-person kayak on Craigslist, I joined him for its maiden voyage, feeling the low thump as we pushed through the Bullwhip kelp and into open water. In the same worn boat, brown and covered in scratches, we launch from the mouth of a small creek that marks the edge of Point Lobos State Marine Reserve. Large glass windows of oceanfront homes glint from the bluff above the watercress, reeds, and bay trees at the creek’s outflow.
In full wetsuit, I shove Dad’s kayak off from the beach, then swim out to join him. He paddles next to me and we move offshore, angling south towards the legal fishing grounds. Olive strands of feather boa kelp dot the shallow waters. Green blades of an eelgrass bed pass under me, tiny fish sheltering in the thick foliage. Then, all of a sudden, the forest vanishes. The visibility is crystal clear without the light-blocking obstructions of the kelp. As far as I can see, the granite crags are coated with a purple-shag carpet of sea urchins, turning once-lush terrain into a wasteland.
Purple Sea Urchins are native to this region; at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, a few urchins roam the interactive touch tanks. I would show guests the hundreds of waving tube feet that mingle with their spines, grasping gently at visitors’ extended fingers in an inquisitive “hug” of sorts.
Urchins are related to starfish, and they are voracious grazers of kelp. Usually, these slow-moving pincushions are kept in check by hungry Ochre Stars and Southern Sea Otters. But in 2013, a mysterious disease spread through the west coast’s starfish, leading to a mass die-off of one urchin predator. The aquarium’s residents were no less vulnerable. I arrived at a volunteer shift to find that their sea stars had been pulled from exhibits, many showing early symptoms of the illness like lesions and tissue decay. All along the coast, their tough hides were wasting away, leaving a star-shaped void in the coastal seas.
The story of the Southern Sea Otter is more drawn out: hundreds of thousands of otters once roamed the California coast. These marine mammals, prized for their thick, soft pelts, were hunted to the brink by fur traders in the 18th and 19th century. They were thought to be extinct until 1938, when a small population was found under Bixby Bridge, just a 20 minute drive from my childhood home. Today, a small, but growing population of these fierce and fuzzy predators is thriving on this coast, but it remains far smaller than its original size. Their decline sent ripples through the region’s ecosystems; absent sufficient predation, sea urchins have chewed through kelp forests.
I dive towards the bottom, clear my ears, and begin combing over the purple-spiked boulders of this urchin barren. I peer into caves, exploring the exposed crags for hidden fish. A few small patches of kelp hold on, blades fluttering in the current. In isolation, Giant Kelp looks delicate, its thin, amber brown tissues held up by small, gas filled floats. In deeper water, a few Bullwhips rise, snaking to the surface like vines of black licorice. These are the last survivors of the invasion, reaching for sunlight in the empty wreckage of a collapsed ecosystem. I used to slip on my wetsuit hoping to glimpse the orange flash of a Vermillion Rockfish arcing through tangled stalks of kelp. Today, I wonder if I’ll find a kelp forest at all.
The death of urchin predators has been compounded by large-scale climate shifts. A marine heat wave rippled across the kelp beds from 2014 to 2017. Warm, nutrient deficient waters hindered kelp growth, all while urchins multiplied rapidly. Massive kelp mortality followed. Scientists expect climate change to drive future marine heat waves, making the events of this decade a glimpse into the future of the Northern California coast.
Even in urchin-dominant barrens, some species of fish still remain. I take two Copper Rockfish, both tucked into tight crevices on the seafloor, their faint bronze backs mingling with the grey substrate. A black and yellow splotched China Rockfish fills out my catch for the day, found drifting along the wall of a near-shore canyon. In the deeper water, I dive towards the small patch of Bullwhips, the tapering cylinders of their stems surrounded by bare rocky substrate. A few juvenile Blue Rockfish appear out of the deepening blue, dispersed in a sparse approximation of a school. I watch them drift amongst the remaining kelp for a few seconds, then return to the surface. I used to slip on my wetsuit hoping to glimpse the flash of orange from a Vermillion Rockfish arcing through the tangled stalks of kelp. Now, I wonder if I’ll find a forest at all.
As the kelp disappears, so too does the host of benefits that it provides to the California coast. Kelp forests are immensely productive, and they are particularly effective at sequestering carbon dioxide. Seaweeds in this ecosystem grow rapidly, and once their organic matter dislodges, the biomass often settles in the deep ocean. 88 percent of the carbon storage from macroalgae like kelp takes place as deep water storage, insulating the greenhouse gas from human contact and potential reversals of this reservoir. These forests also combat rapidly acidifying seas, taking up carbon dioxide and reducing damages to local species that come from this shift in water chemistry. And on top of their support for a unique and invaluable ecosystem, the kelp bolsters regional fisheries, tourism, and coastal cultures. In state climate assessments, these marine groves are flagged as crucial in the fight to adapt to climate change. But on this coastline, the forest disappears quietly.
My hometown is full of second homes and seaside estates. Property values are sky-high, and the cost of living is only increasing; the median California home is priced at 2.5 times higher than the median national home. In these scenic, historically affluent towns, prices can climb far higher. Private properties with lavish homes dot much of the coast that sits above the kelp forest, reducing access to an already treacherous region. The prevalence of green spaces paints Carmel as a quaint enclave of nature. The spaced-out properties mingle with the Monterey cypress trees; at a glance, man and wilderness seem content to share the coastal zone.
I found it easier to love the coastal seas than my own coastal town. I tried to distance myself from its affluence, hiding from its contradictions in my wetsuit, blinkered by my snorkel mask. But I can’t disentangle the ruin of a once-thriving forest from the forces that brought it to its knees; our prosperous town’s natural and material wealth conceals its failure to support its ecosystems and its surrounding communities. The open spaces of this coast are only affordable to a select few Californians; many of my teachers at Carmel High School drove long commutes every day, in the car before sunrise to come and teach at this seaside hamlet.
Cordoning off wild spaces for the privileged creates an illusion of ecological prosperity, and serves as a misguided justification for the continued exclusivity of the place. There’s an unreality to the pine groves, amber grasses, and scrub-coated mountains of my hometown, a captivating quaintness that suggests our insulation from environmental problems. We’ve externalized the downsides to material wealth, pushed our teachers and essential workers away to the Central Valley, and created massive carbon footprints that now imperil a critical ecosystem.
Kelp forests can return. But reforestation is difficult; urchins devour new kelp as it appears. Barrens are persistent, much like Carmel’s wealth and exclusivity. Property values rise, living costs amplify, and the people grow less and less connected to the land at a time when it needs their care more than ever. It’s time to think critically about the social and environmental effects of white affluence in coastal California. The privilege of growing up here has given me a front-row seat to environmental disaster. For out our many tourists, these seas will shine an even truer blue absent the kelp. But an underwater desert grows off the coast, while mounting costs of living preserve the pervasive white affluence of the area.
My dad taught me to engage with places as more than a pretty view. I find so much joy in the machinations of the ocean and its residents, and this closeness to the land has helped me better understand the issues at the core of my hometown. I’m one of the few kids from my town who learned how to dive in these cold, seemingly inhospitable places. I fell in love with its silent forests full of every shade of green, brown, red, and purple, drifting slow and synchronous with the currents. The aesthetics of Carmel and the Central Coast continue to make these spaces more exclusive and expensive, turning the region into a monoculture of white affluence. This troubling pattern works to obscure the dire state of ecosystem collapse lurking below the surface of our ocean. Behind a thin, gorgeous veneer, California’s rocky shores are more imperiled than ever.