Resurrection
in the Wind

ON A SOMBER DAY in November, 1987, ornithologist Hiroshi Hasegawa gazed out from Torishima Island into the deep blue waters of the subtropical Pacific. Years before, this tiny oceanic volcano 600 kilometers (370 mi.) south of Tokyo had been the primary nesting site for the short-tailed albatrosses that then numbered in the millions. Giants in the seabird world, they had converged here each winter through the ages.

Hasegawa had been coming to Torishima since 1976 to study, band and help protect what remained of the species. But it wasn't his quest for empirical knowledge that brought him to this overlook in 1987. He had been raised with millennia-old Buddhist principles. This time, he was here to conduct a short ritual that would be part apology, part prayer for the bird.

As the scientist climbed across the shoulder of the island's volcanic crater that day, his mind was on the past. Exactly 100 years earlier, the first human settlement had been established here to start a feather-hunting industry. Only a few short decades later, the albatross was virtually extinct.

Near the top of the island's barren northwest ridge, Hasegawa stopped on a point where a prominent, smooth stone overlooks both the volcano's crater and its steep slope down to the sea. There was no bird sound now, no smell of guano, no life--just wind, volcanic steam and a few sun-bleached bones protruding from the coarse volcanic sand. Where once a million short-tails nested, only a few hundred remained at the base of the cliff below him.

With deliberate reverence, Hasegawa collected some of the albatross bones and placed them gently on the large stone next to two smaller memorial cairns, or stupas. He lit candles, burned incense and knelt before the shrine. As an offering to the millions of dead albatrosses, he poured seawater on the stone for their spirits to drink. For nourishment, he set dried squid and flying fish--two of the birds' favorite foods--on a crevice in the stone.

After a short meditation and reading of a traditional sutra, Hasegawa drew a slow breath, stood and continued along the path down the steep cliff to the albatross colony below. He had work to do--lots of work. In the next 12 years, he would help to engineer one of the most extraordinary resurrections in avian history.

With strong, lightweight bones, albatrosses are designed for wind, and the world's 14 species are found only where breezes are strong and reliable. They have developed a flight so effortless and energy-efficient that it is an aerodynamic marvel. Simply holding their wings outstretched, they engage in dynamic soaring--gliding with the wind while losing altitude, turning into the wind and rising, then gliding downwind again.

Except for the waved albatross of the Galápagos, they live mainly at colder latitudes, and all but the short-tailed, Laysan and black-footed live only in the Southern Ocean. As masters of the skies, they cover more of the planet's surface than any other living beings, connecting the dots across the most expansive wilderness on Earth with their wingtips often touching mountainous waves.

Better than any other creatures, these birds are able to discern information in what might seem a uniform seascape, an essential adaptation to take advantage of patchiness in the food supply over great distances. They eat squid, cuttlefish, plankton and fish, and though they have highly developed sight and smell for foraging, they are not built to hover or dive and thus must alight on the sea and seize prey from the surface with their long, hooked bills.

When becalmed, they often raft-up with others and sit meditatively on the sea, slowly rising, falling and drifting with remnant swells, waiting for the wind to blow. Then, they rest, preen their feathers with waterproofing wax from a small gland at the base of their tails, socialize, feed and drink seawater while secreting excess brine through their distinctive tube noses and off their bills--the "tears of the albatross." When the wind blows, they are back up in the air again. If the eagle is "king of the land," Hasegawa says, then the albatross must be "queen of the sea."

The short-tailed albatross--also known as the coastal albatross, Steller's albatross, golden gooney, and, by the Japanese, ahodori or "fool bird"--is perhaps the most stunningly beautiful of all the albatrosses. By 12 years old, it is in full adult plumage--a resplendent montage of color, including a distinguishing golden head, brilliant pink bill with a turquoise tip, a black ring around the base of the bill, wings of brown, black and white, and pink and gray feet. Its feathers, some 15,000 of them on each bird, blow in the wind like thick fur.

The bird glides over remote expanses of the North Pacific, most frequently the productive edge of the outer continental shelf where food is most abundant. In this ocean realm, it is among the most accomplished flyers in evolutionary history. With a 2.4-meter (8 ft.) wingspan and a 7 kilogram (15 lb.) body, it is also by far the largest seabird in the Northern Hemisphere.

Except for a small breeding colony that has been discovered at Minami-kojima in the Senkaku Islands near Taiwan, Torishima is today the short-tail's only nesting place. Part of the fabled volcanic "ring of fire" surrounding the Pacific, it rises atop the Izu-Ogasawara Trench, one of the deepest of Earth's ocean basins. The powerful Kuroshio Current sweeps waters of the tropical Pacific just to its north, and at 30 degrees latitude, even in winter Torishima is warm, windy and far away from humans, making it an ideal location to come ashore to nest. But it is also rugged: steep, windblown, sunbaked and, except for a few hearty plants, as raw as the surface of Mars.

After birth on this tiny island, the short-tails spend most of their lives in far-off oceans. After taking their first flights, they head northeast past Kamchatka, Russia, to the stormy waters off Alaska and range as far east as Baja, Mexico, living entirely at sea for their first three or four years. They will spend about half of their remaining 30 to 50 years on and around their nest islands, and the other half away at sea.

When the birds return to Torishima in October to mate, they are very much out of their element, their legs unaccustomed to supporting their body in this strange, uncomfortable, but necessary place. Landings can become dangerous bellyflops, takeoffs difficult, walking a chore. On land, the birds begin their courtship dance--an elaborately choreographed bonding ritual with synchronized wing tucks and stretches, bowing and bobbing. Throughout the mating season, they circle each other, make high-pitched calls, point at the sky and rapidly clack their bills.

Once they have found a mate, usually by five to seven years of age, they stay monogamous for life, often returning to the same nest year after year. After a series of short copulations, females fly off to sea for nourishment, returning in about 10 days to lay the couple's one and only egg of the season, equal in size to about six chicken eggs. By late October, a two-month incubation ritual begins.

The patience and commitment of the incubating albatross is legendary. Males and females take turns, one on the nest, the other at sea feeding for two weeks at a time. These feeding forays can cover several thousand miles. The male gets first nest duty to allow the female to recover her strength after egg laying. Above all, the job is to guard the precious egg from continuous winds, sandstorms, sun and rain.

The short-tail colony at Torishima is on a 4-hectare (10-acre) fan of loose volcanic tephra and sand. It cants on a 20-degree slope between a 120-meter (400-ft.) cliff face above and the open sea below--a difficult place for nesting. During incubation, there will be no food and, except for a welcome sip from a rain shower, no water.

After each parent has had two or three incubating stints, the colony's first eggs begin to hatch, usually around Christmas Day, the last by late January. Both parents in each pair are often present for the big event. For the next few months, their new chick, almost completely dark in color, is fed a rich, oily mixture of regurgitated squid and fish. When the chick is large enough, both parents begin food-gathering duties simultaneously, and by the beginning of May, they head north, leaving the youngster to fend for itself.

During their four to five months on the slopes, chicks can grow to an astonishing 8 to 9 kilograms (17.5-20 lbs.), far too heavy to fly. As their meals become less frequent, they quickly lose the excess weight. Then, they must fly or die, and they begin to stretch their wings in the wind, feeling the extraordinary lift of air for the first time. Some may take short, tentative practice flights above the colony, and occasionally, some crash on land. When they are ready, they will brave their first flight out to the waters off Torishima, raft-up and wait for the rest to begin the long journey north. On average, only about half the eggs will have produced fledglings to make the trip.

Until the mid-1800s, Torishima was known only by fishermen and whalers who passed that way. Japanese explorer Tetsu Hattori wrote in 1889 that the short-tails were so abundant on Torishima that "at a distance, they might be mistaken for fallen snow" and that when they float on the sea, they are "just like white breaking waves, truly a sight more than wonderful."

Seafarers stranded on Torishima in those days survived by eating albatross meat and eggs, and by catching rainwater in the birds' empty egg shells. One of those was a young Japanese fisherman, John Manjiro, who spent February to June 1841 on Torishima. After his rescue by an American whaling vessel and a few years spent in the United States and then at sea whaling, he returned home and became a pivotal figure in the opening of Japan to the strange ways and desires of the Western world.

Manjiro saw the potential of developing a feather export business and told Hanemon Tamaoki, an ambitious carpenter in nearby islands, about the bird fields of Torishima. The albatross feathers could be used as quilting in mattresses, pillows and bedspreads, as quill pens and to adorn women's hats in the West. So in November 1887, Tamaoki brought 12 people to settle Torishima. And the slaughter began. Once a symbol of virtue and happiness in Japan, the birds would now be rendered into flesh and feathers for sale.

The albatrosses were easy to harvest, as they had never known predators. As Hattori reported in 1889, "at the approach of men, they only clack their bills with anger but never leave the nest. We could not make them quit their nests even by lighting a fire in the nearby grasses and they remained even though their plumage took fire."

The hunters used wooden clubs to bludgeon thousands to death each day. In 1899 alone, 39.2 tons of feathers left the island--the equivalent of more than 260,000 individual albatrosses. Exports from Japan in some subsequent years totaled more than 350 tons. Ornithologist Yoshimaro Yamashina estimated that from 1887 to 1902, at least 5 million albatrosses had been killed.

By 1902, things seemed to be going well for the feather hunters. But to the Buddhist way of thinking, they had been accruing a great karmic debt. In August, while the birds were at sea, the debt came due: The volcanic island exploded, and all 125 villagers were buried in their sleep--the "revenge of the albatross," as it is known today.

The next year, other feather harvesters built another small village, but when the killing resumed, it was at a much reduced level. By then, the preceding 15-year slaughter had taken its toll. In 1932, only a remnant bird population remained, and in December of that year, malicious villagers killed the last 3,000 or so albatrosses on learning the government was designating the island a sanctuary. This became known as "the last great massacre."

As if in response, the volcano erupted again in 1939. While all but two villagers escaped this time, the village itself was completely destroyed by the lava flows, and the only remaining protected anchorage filled with rock and debris. When American ornithologist Oliver Austin circled Torishima in April 1949, unable to land due to rough seas, he reported that "the island was birdless" and sadly concluded that the "once fabulous colony of Steller's Albatrosses may be considered to have vanished forever."

Fortunately, Austin was a bit premature. The Japanese established a meteorological station on the island, and on January 6, 1951, Station Director Shoji Yamamoto decided to go exploring on a day off. To his amazement, he found several "big white birds." He rushed back to the station to look at a bird book to confirm their identity, and indeed he had found the short-tailed albatross.

Miraculously, the species had been saved--or at least, its demise postponed--by its own behavior: spending months at sea. During the last great massacre, all of the juveniles were away, safe on the wing from the disaster unfolding on their home island. In all, including some birds still at sea, perhaps only 30 to 50 remained, all juveniles. When these last survivors returned from their ocean journeys that next fall, there were no adults to greet them. Instead of thousands of their own kind and many prospective mates, there was only silence.

The only hope for the short-tailed albatross was the resiliency of nature, the timeless cycles of sea and land, and some protection--and help--from people. But there were new threats, too.

Chief among the problems: a genetic bottleneck. When any population has been reduced to so few individuals and regrown from such a small group of ancestors, it is likely to have lost a great deal of its genetic diversity, making it more vulnerable to shifts in its environment.

Continued typhoons, erosion, mud slides, eggs rolling down slopes and rats might be enough to bring disaster. But the volcano is an even greater concern, and Hasegawa has noticed more steam and more sulfur crusts this season, an ominous sign. Meantime at sea, the birds are taken accidentally on longlines used by commercial fishermen and in Russian waters are snagged by an offshore driftnet fishery. They also die when they ingest floating plastic fragments.

Conservationists are doing what they can to help. In the 1960s, the International Council for Bird Preservation (now Birdlife International) declared the species endangered, and Japan designated both the bird and Torishima as national monuments. Today, the species is listed as endangered internationally by both the IUCN--World Conservation Union and the United States.

Hasegawa's efforts have been particularly notable. He has transplanted miscanthus grasses onto the colony and built about 50 wooden terraces to stabilize soils. He has placed wire-mesh rock berms to channel mud slides away from the colony and built small rock dams atop the cliff to slow periodic flooding.

In response to concerns about future volcanic eruptions, he also is attempting to establish a new colony away from the explosion line. In 1993, he began using 70 wooden decoys and tape-recorded albatross calls to lure would-be nesters to a safer area. In 1995-96 one pair reared a chick there, and this breeding season there was one nest and one chick.

Meanwhile, the birds have been afforded special protection at sea. An albatross-killing high-seas driftnet fishery in international waters for squid and salmon was closed in 1993, and new restrictions are helping to stem the loss from longliners in Alaskan waters, although most high-seas longline fisheries remain unregulated and unmonitored.

The result of such belated safeguards is that the population has gradually increased in the years since the short-tail was rediscovered. At the time of his 100-year memorial service in 1987, Hasegawa found only 84 breeding pairs, putting their total population, including non-nesters at the island and young at sea, at only about 400. But this year, he counted 194 breeding pairs and 130 chicks. Together with juveniles at sea, pre-nesters on the island and the Minami-kojima birds, the total population is nearly 1,000.

To Hasegawa, the story of the short-tailed albatross is a parable of the relationship between humanity and nature. In the unending Buddhist circle of karma, there is consequence to every action. If we do not treat the world with reverence and respect, it will not treat us so. It is a simple, immutable message. In order to save the short-tail and other endangered species, he says, we need to correct the current direction of human society. "It is our job to make a new world," he argues.

With this thought in mind, Hasegawa sometimes takes a break from his work and climbs down to the edge of the jagged, black basalt that entombs the old Tamaoki village site. There, he pays his respects in a Buddhist ceremony to the people who died there, much as he did for the albatrosses.

One day last year after such a ceremony of atonement, Hasegawa walked slowly up the volcano, reflecting on the enduring beauty of karma and causality. Overhead, a juvenile albatross circled in the wind, staring down with an intense gaze. And in that soaring bird, the scientist saw a sacred vision--a symbol that atonement can lead to rebirth. With renewed vigor, he smiled and began to run. He had work to do--lots of work.

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Rick Steiner is a professor at the University of Alaska Marine Advisory Program. Hiroshi Hasegawa is an associate professor of biology at Toho University in Chiba, Japan.

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International Wildlife
September/October 1998

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