Florida Manatees Seek Shelter From Cold in Power Plant Canals

Winter is the deadliest season for Florida’s manatees. They respond to the cold in dramatic fashion, maybe more so than the average South Floridian. Today the endangered mammals are congregating by the thousands in warm water springs and power plants around the state seeking warm water.

Manatees exposed to cold water, below 68 degrees, for extended periods of time become susceptible to “Florida frostbite,” or white ulcerations around the face and snout. They will lose weight and eventually die.

“They just can’t handle the cold water,” said Tom Reinert, who supervises the manatee rescue and recovery program with the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission.

Manatees have been feeling the cold spell this month. South Florida air temperatures hit lows in the 30’s last week and will do so again this week.

Last winter manatees died in record numbers. By April 9 more manatees had died in 2010 – 480 – than in all of 2009, which held the previous record for mortality with 429 deaths. Most of these deaths were due to cold stress, Reinert said.

In January, Miami, Fort Lauderdale and West Palm Beach all saw 12 consecutive days of air temperature lows below 50 degrees.

Aerial population surveys conducted immediately following this cold spell at springs and power plants resulted in a count of more than 5,000 animals, the largest number ever counted.

On the east coast three fourths of manatees surveyed were found at power plants with warm water outflows. “Manatees have become dependent on man-made sources of warm water,” Reinert said.

Power plants use water from canals for cooling purposes and discharge warm water. This mimics the protection manatees found before man at natural warm water springs.

Last week at the manatee viewing center at Tampa Electric’s Big Bend Power Station, visitors encountered over 50 animals in close proximity at the power plant’s canal. The temperature in the canal was a tolerable 70 degrees while the gulf water in Tampa Bay reached 54 degrees.

The former manatee viewing center at Florida Power and Light’s Riviera power plant was closed for security reasons but the company offers a webcam for the public. Today, over 30 animals can be counted within the frame.

What happens when power plants close down? Manatees have a strong sense of site fidelity, according to Reinert, which means that they will return to the same warm water site year after year. They will return years after the power plants have closed down.

Manatees died in big numbers in the 1990s after the closing of pulp mills in Jacksonville, said Craig Pittman, St. Petersburg Times environmental journalist and author of Manatee Insanity.

Scientists have been noticing the link between manatees and power plants since the 1950s when biologist Joe Moore studied manatees at industrial sites along the Miami River, Pittman said. They were swimming in the river despite it being “indescribably polluted” by raw sewage discharge. “We have altered their behavior,” Pittman said.

Habitat loss has also contributed to manatees becoming dependent on power plants. The depletion of Florida’s aquifers for human consumption, according to Reinert, has caused flow pressure to decrease in warm water springs, meaning fewer animals can use them.

“Kings Bay Spring’s [discharge] used to be so strong that people used to not be able to stand on top of it,” Pittman said. “It is much less powerful nowadays.”

“We’ve decreased manatee habitat but increased it by putting up power plants that put out warm water,” said Reinert.

Most of the cold stress deaths in early 2010 occurred along the Space and Treasure Coast in Brevard and Indian River counties respectively. Here, there is a large gap between power plants, the distance between Cape Canaveral and Palm Beach County. Many manatees died getting caught in between, said Reinert, causing one of his colleagues to dub the corridor the “wall of death.”

The Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission rescues injured and distressed manatees but mostly what they do is recover manatee carcasses. They do this to determine cause of death, which ranges from watercraft injury to cold stress to red tide.

The carcasses are sent to the agency’s necropsy lab in St. Petersburg. Last winter, the lab was handling 10 carcasses a day six days a week during the cold spell, according to Reinert. Manatee carcasses were stacked in the lab’s walk-in freezer and its necropsy table. They were on the floor. Some were even waiting outside the lab.

After a necropsy, carcasses are chopped up and placed in 55 gallon drums for rendering into oils for bio-diesel. Last winter the renderer under contract with the agency could not keep up with all the carcasses, Reinert said. The renderer was picking them up twice a week and couldn’t keep up, so carcasses were dumped in landfills.

Radioactive Instructor

By Andres David Lopez

I registered, and found
my classroom washed in light.
Her syllabus attractive
my instructor is radioactive.

Black hair and white skin
Black lines frame her eyes.
Irradiated pearls hang around her neck.

She examines me, Madame Curie
with test tubes in her pocket.
She injects me with a tracer
wanting a view of my insides.

Her lips emit particles
in waves with high frequencies
alpha, beta, fast neutron
anthologies.
I swallow them whole
as my electrons are unleashed.

Quarantined for days
my skin burning
I am dizzy, vomiting
and tortured by acute
narrative syndrome
and blood-soaked pages.

The workshops are plated with lead
and intent is debated in circles.
I see Flour Beetles all around me
content with grays and half-lives.
They devour or sex each other down
for apoptosis and decay.
But I won’t decay.

She leans against the lockers
in the hall we are fatally exposed.
I thank her for the poison
and my instructor glows.

Tent City Nearly Faded As My Jeans

By Andres David Lopez

Bonaroo left its mark exploding in my eyelid
the tents of sleep and sick tangled in rows and rows of dust and dirty
homes tonight for vaporized hides
we’re refugees sonically
mattress sea saw when I’m asleep
but wake up hot with sun when she arrives
and the heat waves

This port-o-lette is done. It’s stunk into the ground
coolers become my dining couch
the lantern lights my angry spouse
mushrooms burst out of bags alive
they are reeking inside
knocking my gravity paralyzed
turning my stomach on its side
with the taste of monster in my mouth
and its wild ways
so my monster says

Heaven found on my way out
highway rest stops to seek
out organisms to
flush out heaven found
on my way out
I heard the rock and drove away

And with a spark all of the lights in centeroo started racing
through fields of mud and up the stages through the bodies
ankle deep and filthy
they fight to hold notes not heard everyday
attached to songs they can’t wash away

Stolen Animals in Tupperware Containers

By Andres David Lopez
Part 1 of 2

Three young men climbed what appeared to be an ancient Mayan pyramid, grappling rocks with the faces of warriors carved upon them.

The steps on the pyramid’s façade were too narrow for walking up. Guarded by two feathered serpents, representations of the God Quetzalcoatl, the steps were not designed to be used at all. To aid their ascent, the boys grabbed the branches of young trees growing from the pyramid walls. These trees and the Queen’s wreath surrounding them were planted to replicate a jungle’s act of reclaiming the stone from an artificial mountain.

The first boy reached the top level of the pyramid and sat down with his feet dangling from the edge. He could straddle the zoo wall. On one side was the Jaguar habitat surrounded by stone pillars and metal mesh fencing. On the other was a road that separated the zoo from low-income housing. The wind howled but died against the stone.

As the second boy reached the top, the first slid a marijuana cigar out of his pocket and lit it. The third boy had stalled at a lower level. He looked up and could barely make out the orange at the end of the blunt in the darkness.

Carlos felt a cloud in his chest and began rapping:

“We trust no black leaders, use the stove to heat us, powdered eggs and government cheeses. The calendars were Martin, JFK and Jesus. Gotta be fresh to go to school with fly sneakers. Schools with outdated books, we are the forgotten, summers cooling off by the fire hydrant. Yeah I’m from the ghetto, where old black women talk about their sugar level. It’s not unusual to see photos of dead homey’s funeral, aluminum foil on TV antennas, little TV sitting on top of the big TV, eating TV dinners, girls dye their hair with kool-aid. They gave us lemons, we made lemonade, but this nigga’s paid, ancestry of slaves, descendant of kings, it’s necessary I bling, put rims on every thing, wear tims on every scene.”

Carlos passed the blunt to Adam who took a hit and responded, “Pssshhht, look at this deep ass nigga I got here on my pyramid.”

“I know that’s not Nas’ verses you spitting,” he continued. “That’s that intellectual New York shit huh.”

“We are the slave and the master,” Carlos said. “What you looking for? You the question and the answer…”

“Damn son too bad you’re Mexican and not black.”

“Ha, Mexico stand up! Yo dawg you’re probably one of them magical Mexicans who can read the stars and shit.” Adam shook his head and hollered. “Let’s get it popping papi, we’re getting ready to kidnap some monkeys tonight!”

Adam proceeded to explain how he would train his primate butler. He was grinning and gesturing wildly, flexing forearms and shoulders that he maintained with a dumbbell set at home. His oversized white t-shirt waved in the wind along with his slicked-back ponytail.

“…Gonna be gearing him up with a bowtie and baby skates, making him grab me beers from the fridge!”

“That’s stupid. I thought you said you wanted to sell them.”

Carlos was shorter and stockier. His hair grew in small, light-brown curls. He had dimples on his cheeks, but he was not cute. A black tank top hugged his broad chest close.

“Yeah man, how much you think we can make off them? Cuz I need to make some bread for real. I’m fucking tired of riding around on my bike everywhere. Bitches need to see me when I get my Caddy. I’ll have niggas hating on me for real then…”

The boys had entered the zoo through a side entrance located in the shadow of the highway overpass. They used bolt cutters to break the lock at the gate. Once inside, they commandeered a golf cart and took a ride around the compound. They stopped at the Mayan pyramid to smoke their blunt and plot their next move.

Adam was the only one that had been inside the zoo before, though all of them lived within walking distance of it. He was six years old and walking with his father, who was in a bad mood that day. Adam angered him by refusing to leave the bear exhibit.

His father pretended to leave him, as Adam stood mesmerized in front of two black bears facing him behind a thin layer of reinforced glass. Their enclosure was no forest, but it had massive tree trunks for bear-clawing, a massive stone ball for rolling around, and a large pond for swimming. It looked comfortable enough.

It was late afternoon and the bears were sluggish. The male was sitting upright while the female lay on her side next to him. Suddenly, the boar opened his mouth wide and gently started nibbling on the female’s face, with her responding only occasionally with gentle slaps. He burrowed his face into her chest and then moved up to work her ears while she bit down on his muscular shoulder with her teeth.

At home, his parents growled through sharp teeth but possessed none of the bear couple’s tenderness. His father was not in his life for much longer.

Woody was patient but nervous waiting in the golf cart at the foot of the pyramid. He was younger and smaller than Adam and Carlos. He contemplated taking the cart and ditching them, but decided against it for fear of retaliation.

The zoo was eerie quiet as the trio rode back to retrieve the duffel bag and parrot cages they had left at the storage sheds near the zoo entrance. The wheels riding over the wooden planks of a walkway startled a deer with a lame leg. It turned its head as the boys rode by and revealed a pair of red eyes that startled Woody.

The boys took a trail by the storage sheds normally reserved for zoo employees towards rows of large polygonal cages, each one about as big as a child’s bedroom. Purposefully, Carlos led the way past the first cage which contained a large group of Scarlet Macaws. He followed the trail of his flashlight to the next cage ahead of him, careful to step quietly.

The animals inside were used to humans entering their habit. It usually signified feeding time, though no one entered at night. Outside of the metal mesh looking in, Carlos’ flashlight found no signs of life in a cage that held the prize of a single rare Goeldi’s monkey.

“Where you at little guy?” Adam said as he followed Carlos in. Woody stopped short and let the door slam shut. From a hollow tree trunk inside the cage, the monkey woke up from his sleep as his cage-mate the Green cheeked Amazon let out the alarm with a sharp “Graaa.”

The Goeldi’s monkey, capable of over 40 distinct sounds (some of them ultrasonic,) peeked out from inside the tree trunk and was spotted. The hairs on his little black head stood up like a crown as he assessed the threat with his mouth gaping open.

“I’m just gonna grab this sucker,” Carlos said. He stood over the tree trunk and cupped the small opening with both hands. Complete darkness closed in on the primate inside.

With that, the monkey exploded with high-pitched calls that reached as far as the lemurs and saimangs on their respective islands across from the polygonal cages. The lemurs disappeared inside their thatch hut while the siamangs turned over in their sleep lying on the grass out in the open.

The animal sliced at the hands with ferocious claws.

Stolen Animals In Tupperware Containers (Continued)

By Andres David Lopez
Part 2 of 2

“Holy crap, the fucker bit me,” Carlos said.

“This ain’t over yet monkey, I got something for you.” He looked over to Woody, who was stunned by the violence.

“Yo Woody why don’t you stay where you are and keep being a little bitch?”

Adam stepped out of the cage to retrieve the fishing net while Carlos nursed the bright red marks on his hand.

The Goeldi’s monkey was now out of the tree trunk and running along his walkway which consisted of two overlapping tree branches at Carlos’ eye level. He leapt from one side to the other, repeatedly. The monkey arched his body and vocalized his aggression with more sonic outbursts. None of the boys noticed the two-toed sloth curled up in a ball hanging from the top of the cage in a corner.

The black monkey was fighting two predators, each forty times his weight. His early success had gone to his head.

Carlos and Adam walked towards him from two sides as the Brazilian teals scattered at their feet. They cornered him while the yellow-footed tortoise looked on in shame. With an expert scoop Adam swept the monkey off his feet and into the net. Carlos held the net closed with one hand while holding the monkey’s tail with the other.

Woody picked up the parrot cage and held it open. The monkey wailed as he was put inside and he woke up the Scarlet Macaws. They added to the cacophony. “Take this to the golf cart,” Carlos instructed him.

Woody was unnerved holding the cage as he walked hurriedly to the screeching of the eleven-piece Scarlet Macaw band. He found the golf cart and decided not to return to his friends. He didn’t want a pet monkey anymore.

He backed away from the parrot cage, keeping his eye on the little black face that was no longer making noise. “This is fucked up,” he said.

He walked away from the cart but did not leave the zoo. Leaving the storage shed area he tried to light a blunt but the wind didn’t let him. At a nearby group of buildings, he tried several doors until he found an unlocked exhibit. The flame from his lighter revealed a wall decorated by fishing nets, red crabs, and Mardi Gras-themed posters. His nervousness was replaced by curiosity as the muscles in his body relaxed in response to the Cannabis. He was inside the white alligator exhibit.

Loose, Woody swaggered deeper inside the gator’s lair.

Inside the glass enclosure Woody found a swamp house stoop, complete with a rocking chair, work boots, and oars nailed to the wall. The owner was nowhere near the props, instead positioned in a far corner near the glass. Woody laughed at the sight of the alligator, lighted by heating lamps, with its coy expression, arms and fingers spread wide, and tail curved to the right. “What’s up, homey,” Woody said.

This gator had been in captivity since before Woody was born, found by construction workers in Louisiana when he was a hatchling. In the wild he would not have survived, as his lack of camouflage would have made him an unsuccessful hunter. He was also defenseless against the sun’s harmful rays without dark pigmentation. He lived alone and in the dark surrounded by his mock bayou.

The gator’s eyes followed Woody from their vantage point on the ground. His curved snout curled up into a queer smile. Woody was happy. The blunt was burned down to the roach before he decided to get up from his seat.

“Where YOU been at?” Adam said upon Woody’s return to the golf cart. Adam’s shoes and pants were wet to his knees. “Trying to decide if I want me some white cowboy boots,” Woody responded. “Whatever man, we caught two more of them monkeys. We’re getting the fuck out of here,” Adam said.

Inside the duffel bag was a pair of endangered Golden Lion Tamarins, a mass of brilliant orange fur. The two were in the middle of a late night grooming session when the boys began their assault.

The Golden Tamarins were Simonne and Dougie. They had been together for close to 15 years and had produced five sets of twins. Simonne was on Dougie’s back, picking at the hair on his head when the Goeldi’s monkey screamed in high-pitch and clawed at Carlos from the tree trunk. They froze on their branch with their tails intertwined when they heard their relative’s desperate call. They were still attached when the boys entered their cage, with Simonne clutching at Dougie’s fur with ten tiny fingers. They did not make a noise as they were caught for the two-for-one special in the duffel bag.

“I can’t believe what a bitch you are Wood,” Carlos said. “I’m friggin still bleeding over here and you disappear. You’re taking the bikes back to your house. We’re taking the golf cart. Find something to put these other two in and meet us at the house on Alhambra.”

It wasn’t far to the abandoned house where they were taking the animals. It was one of several foreclosed properties on Alhambra Place. On the way, Adam sent out several mass text messages. This was the best stunt he had pulled since middle school when he hid lunch trays in his friends’ book bags and zip-tied hallway doors shut before the end-of-the-school-day rush.

Carlos leaned back in the seat of the cart and steered it with one hand on the wheel. The air was warm and humid on his face.

The jasmine bloomed at Woody’s house. He stopped at the door to enjoy the smell and to listen for noises coming from inside. His grandparents were asleep. In the dark Woody bumped into the hardwood display cabinet and his grandmother’s porcelain angel collection. He took two large Tupperware bowls with lids from the kitchen and walked out of the house.

Adam and Carlos were waiting for him on the back porch of the abandoned house when Woody arrived. They poked holes the size of marbles through the tops of the Tupperware lids. Simmone and Dougie were taken out of the duffel bag and separated. The Goeldi’s monkey raged from his cage.

The monkeys were left on a work bench inside the screened-in patio and the boys scattered home.

Woody returned later that night with dog food and water. He poured the water and the pellets through the holes in the bowls. Simonne had her hands pressed to the plastic. Dougie was sitting down and breathing hard. Woody placed a cup of water inside the parrot cage and threw pellets on the floor. The Goeldi’s monkey remained squealing and howling.

Carlos woke up angry around noon. It was hot in his house and he blamed his father for setting the thermostat too high. “Fucking asshole,” he said. Slowly he rose up from his mattress. There were piles of clothes randomly littered on the floor of the living room and on top of the sofa. This was evidence that his mother was awake.

For breakfast he poured himself a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. He set it down in front of the TV in the living room and retrieved his glass pipe and Ziploc bag of marijuana. Channel surfing he lingered on a CNN news report about the recent decapitation of a U.S. citizen in Tijuana, Mexico. The body was dumped in a vacant lot in front of the city’s beachside bull-fighting stadium. The drug cartels were using mutilation to send messages to their rivals. The drug trade generated billions of dollars for them. Carlos scoffed and changed the channel.

Suddenly, his mother burst into the living room, walking manically toward the kitchen. She opened the cabinet under the sink and retrieved the trash bin so she could vomit inside. Carlos could see her from the sofa, dressed in a filthy shirt and pajama pants. She looked up at him through blood shot eyes with deep bags under them. She went back in the trash.

“Oh my god!” she said. “Oh my god! Look at what I found!” She pulled out a nearly empty bottle of vodka. “There is still a little bit in there.” she said as she tipped the bottle back to her face with a fast jerk. She often switched to mouthwash when her vodka ran out. Carlos jumped inside his bag of weed.

His cell phone chirped. It was a message from Adam:

“Channel 25 talking about us dawg.”

The full report aired a few minutes later. Zoo officials had called a press conference. A spokesperson reminded the public that wild animals made for bad pets. The camera shot footage of zoo keepers crying while the spokesperson revealed that two of the monkeys were on special medication.

There was a five thousand dollar reward for information leading to the return of the animals. The news report did not say whether or not the police had any suspects.

Carlos, wide-eyed, felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He took a cloud in his chest. “We are much more, but still we choose to ignore the obvious. Man this history don’t acknowledge us, we were scholars long before colleges.”

The next day, police officers, acting on an anonymous tip, made their way to the abandoned house on Alhambra place. They found the stolen golf cart in the backyard. Bloated and sweaty, they removed their sunglasses to enter the porch. They smelled animals.

The Goeldi’s monkey sounded the alarm but neither Dougie nor Simonne responded. A small table fan was set in front of the cage and containers, weakly circulating the muggy air. There was vague orange visible through the steam on the walls of the Tupperware containers but no movement.

Shortly after, Carlos, Woody, and Adam were arrested and booked into the county jail. They were charged as adults with grand theft, cruelty to animals, and burglary for the unarmed occupation of an empty dwelling. The five thousand dollar reward was not claimed.