Secrets of the Deep
California’s Channel Islands—also known as the North American Galápagos—claim one of the most vibrant marine habitats in the known universe.
Photography by David Doubilet Shark tales aside, stories about the magic of Channel Islands diving tend to focus on the personal—the intimate one-on-ones with tumbling sea lions, a sleek little porpoise, inquisitive eels, the hapless sea cucumber, nip-happy garibaldi, perhaps the odd barracuda, or a glittering cloud of sardines. The epic arena those scuba encounters play out in is something else altogether. Dazzled by its superlatives, loyal fans of this 160-mile-long, eight-island chain’s underwater realms manage to transcend not only the summer fogs that shroud it in mystery, but also the year-round water temperatures that dictate the de rigueur sheath of head-to-toe neoprene.
Happily for the warm-water diver, the adventure actually kicks off before you even suit up—i.e., during the channel crossing, starting with, say, the on-deck sighting of a sea lion or three followed by dozens then hundreds of common and Risso’s dolphins, perhaps a migrating whale, and, on a lucky day, an ocean sunfish basking near the surface. The world’s largest bony fish—arguably one of the pluckiest visually and a treat for any marine life lover—this platter-shaped poker-faced jellyfish eater, also known as a mola, can reach 13 feet across and the weight of a midsize sedan.
Five of the islands—Anacapa, Santa Barbara, Santa Cruz, San Miguel, and Santa Rosa—comprise the 390,000-square-mile Channel Islands National Park and eponymous marine sanctuary. Together they serve as habitat to 2,000 species that include the graceful blue whale—an endangered creature and, in fact, the largest ever to roam the planet, its numbers estimated at 10,000 remaining worldwide—which may be spotted on a summer’s day merrily coursing the Santa Barbara Channel. Sanctuary waters see about 10 percent of the blue whale’s global population, the largest known concentration.
Also making star turns here in the summer: minke, fin, sei, and humpback whales, all of which show up at one point or another to feast on the seasonal abundance of krill. For its size, the marine sanctuary is frequented by more whale and dolphin varieties (along with common and Risso’s, the latter include the bottlenose, Pacific white-sided, and northern right-whale dolphin) than anywhere on earth, with some 30 species patrolling its waters year-round.
Moreover, this is the lone place on the planet with breeding grounds—specifically Point Bennett on the west end of San Miguel—for four species of pinnipeds: the California sea lion, northern elephant seal, northern fur seal, and harbor seal. A sea lion colony that rivals the entire human population of Santa Barbara thrives on San Miguel alone. Relevance to the underwater enthusiast? A Channel Islands dive as often as not includes a self-appointed pinniped escort. Curious and playful, both the sea lions and the much rarer (albeit equally agile) harbor seals—population around 1,100—seem to enjoy volunteering as ambassadors of the deep, poking alongside divers while turning somersaults and chasing bubbles.
This may explain in part why two-thirds or so of the park’s annual 430,000 visitors turn out not to camp, kayak, or explore topside attractions but rather for the underwater entertainment. Then again, to drift amid these depths is also to steep in wordless beauty—to slip into hypnotic blue-green waters through amber forest canopies of giant kelp, the world’s largest marine plant (less illustriously, a type of brown algae), which undulates between shafts of light and soars at lengths of 100 feet or more from the sea floor. The islands’ dense stands of Macrocystis pyrifera have been known to grow up to two feet a day.
There’s a sweetness to local diving that hinges less on Sea Hunt-style bravado and death-defying tales OF toothy man-eaters than quiet empathy with marine life.
In truth, the dramatic flora and fauna, all those lofty superlatives, stem from a phenomenon known as upwelling (wherein cool, nutrient-rich bottom waters rise to replace warmer, nutrient-depleted surface waters—displaced, in this case, by winds off Point Conception) that converges with California’s north-flowing countercurrent, thereby mixing organisms ranging from offshore Alaska to Baja California. Krill thrives in such conditions—the shrimplike delicacy attracts not only baleen whales but also seabirds, seals, rays, sharks, squid, octopus, and fish—as does giant kelp, which in turn creates protected environs for richly diverse communities of undersea life. On a single dive in the Channel Islands, one might see 40 fish species—from the garibaldi, California’s official mascot, to 100-year-old rockfish and elegant bat rays with five-foot wingspans.
Which is not to say that, unlike the rest of the planet, the islands have magically escaped human-instigated species decline. In 1982, a ban was placed on commercial and sport fishing of the beleaguered black sea bass. While often cited as a resident, the endangered Steller sea lion was actually last spotted in the Channel Islands in 1984. And once resplendent populations of abalone continue their struggle to survive the effects of climate change, disease, and overfishing. In 2001, the white abalone—whose numbers dropped from an estimated 22 million to 30,000 during the last three decades—landed on the federal list of endangered species, the first mollusk and invertebrate to do so in the country; the black abalone is likely to follow suit.
Aiming to safeguard key habitats in the islands—the kelp forests, canyons, and rocky reefs—the California Department of Fish and Game set up a network of marine reserves and conservation areas starting in 2003 that surround the park and sanctuary. Findings from first studies of the network sound optimistic: Although some marine species were actually more productive outside the network’s boundaries, species counts and varieties inside were greater overall; it also contained bigger, higher densities of species such as the California spiny lobster.
Among diving aficionados, 83-square-mile Santa Rosa is known as a haven for the spiny lobster as well as rock scallops. Santa Barbara Island, the smallest at 639 square acres, draws raves for seal and sea lion rookeries, and coves rife with brittle stars and starfish. While the largest of the islands, 96-square-mile Santa Cruz, holds sway with Diablo Point Cave and the wreck of the USS Peacock, a World War II minesweeper, San Miguel and Anacapa reign as top choices for underwater photography.
During the summer, divers probing the Landing Cove off East Anacapa transmit their discoveries dockside and to the Channel Islands Visitors Center in Ventura via live video. In reality, three islets that add up to a square mile of land, Anacapa also claims such attractions as the Winfield Scott—among the islands’ 200 wrecks, a paddlewheeler that sank in 1853 while bound for Panama laden with gold bullion. And it heads the diving hot list of Force Fin mogul Bob Evans. “West Anacapa is the premier spot,” Evans says. “There’s a big kelp forest there, the visibility tends to be better—I’ve seen days where it’s 200 feet—and it drops off from 40 to 60 to deep, deep, deep…. Plus the marine life is Southern Californian. North of Santa Cruz Island, it turns into more Monterey style.”
Still, Evans admits a fondness for Wilson’s Rock, known for its wealth of anemones and nudibranchs, a pinnacle off 15-square-mile San Miguel, the most northerly of the islands: “It sticks up just a few feet above the sea. You see stuff there you wouldn’t normally see anywhere else.”
Longtime diver and Heal the Ocean executive director Hillary Hauser has a fondness for kelp diving off any of the islands. “It’s like flying through the redwoods—if you could swim in the redwoods,” she notes. “Diving a tropical reef feels bare by comparison.” Then again, she, too, likes San Miguel, for its “wildness.”
Speaking of which…around 25 species of sharks inhabit the islands, including the one known among yesteryear’s commercial abalone divers as “Mr. White,” commonly dubbed the great white shark and scientifically referred to simply as the white shark. To date, only ten confirmed shark attacks have occurred in the Channels Islands since 1950. Of those, just four took place in park waters—all by Mr. Whites ranging from eight-footers to behemoths 20 feet long. All four incidents took place off San Miguel and just one was fatal: the assault on 42-year-old urchin diver Jim Robinson at Castle Rock in 1994.
“Most white sharks are found in colder waters—off islands like San Miguel,” notes Milton Love, research zoologist at UC Santa Barbara’s Marine Science Institute. “They tend to hang out where dinner is.” Love has explored the entirety of the Channel Islands underwater, though rather than diving, he plumbs the sea in a submersible. White sharks appear in local waters, he adds, from late summer through the fall. They favor a fish diet until they reach about seven feet in length, at which point they switch over to fat-rich marine mammals.
Not to worry, some scientists swear that the likelihood of being struck down by lightning or someone’s pet dog is far greater than falling prey to a shark’s jaws. Besides which, there’s a prevailing sweetness to the mystique of local diving that hinges less on Sea Hunt-style bravado and death-defying tales of toothy man-eaters than quiet empathy with area marine life. Case in point? Just ask the local connoisseurs about their favorite Channel Islands sea creatures. Hillary Hauser’s all-time best dives include a tête-à-tête with a harbor seal off Santa Cruz Island, not far from the spot where she did her very first dive some 40 years ago. “It was scratching my head with its flipper and allowing me to pet it,” she recalls. “It was goofy fun.” Of finned wonders, she cites the fiery garibaldi: “Our most beautiful showy fish—it’s pugnacious and nips at your mask like a true damselfish.”
Jessie Altstatt, science director for Santa Barbara Channelkeeper—who has been diving for two decades, mostly in the Channel Islands—fancies curious species that live in Anacapa eelgrass, such as the swimming clam. “It’s about an inch and a half, has a frilly orange mantle, and leaps off the bottom,” says the biologist, who also dotes on the sarcastic fringehead, a big-lipped little blenny with dislocatable jaws, a denizen of West Anacapa’s Frenchy’s Cove. •
Santa Barbara Magazine
By Trish Reynales. All rights reserved.
