A sudden flapping got my attention from where I stood above a narrow, seawall-bound beach on the Gaviota Coast the morning after the Plains All American pipeline ruptured. Ill-defined in the distance, the brief ruckus looked like fitful kelp blades caught in the wind. As I moved closer, what had seemed normal and natural viewed from afar became science fiction —thick, black, oar-like limbs all at once rose and struck the sand again and again, and an extraordinary creature strained to walk from the sea.
There was the photo: the wretched, bitumen-covered bird, exhausted, all but glued to the sand, struggling to escape its environment. I was photographing the Refugio oil spill, and the merits of this shot were obvious. I steadied my camera behind the seawall to be less threatening, but as I looked in the viewfinder, an overwhelming empathy surfaced. Here was more than another shot. Here was a contract I had agreed to long ago. This suffering, once soaring animal, now a pathetic tar ball with head held high, wanted to live — its condition and future was, in part, my responsibility.
A mile away, Refugio cove had transformed from a Gaviota playground to a somber, stinking, emergency bivouac of federal, state, and local agencies and media. This battered bird and its future seemed to symbolize the gathering’s purpose.