Covid 19 and the Albatrosses of Gough Island

On a quiet afternoon in the ward the duty sister approached me and said Matron Sharp wanted to see me. I was to go to her office on the 4^th floor immediately. This was forty years ago and, as I have described in a previous post, (My Affair with Florence Nightingale)I was working as an orderly in A1 Medical Ward at Groote Schuur Hospital. An orderly was an assistant male nurse who occupied the second lowest position in the nursing hierarchy, superior only to a porter. The highest rank in the chain of command was that of Matron, and there were four of them. They were uncompromising disciplinarians who demanded impossibly high standards from those working under them. My face must have looked like I was recently deceased and my hand shook as I knocked on Matron Sharp’s office door.

To my surprise, she didn’t start shouting at me for having left a spoon down some old codger’s gullet, or for over warming a bed pan and burning a patient’s bum. Instead she informed me that the Department of Transport was urgently seeking the services of a suitably qualified person to fill the position of medic and serve as a member of the next team leaving for Gough Island in two weeks’ time.

Because my mouth was hanging open she told me to shut it and stop looking stupid.

“But I’m not a doctor,” I protested. “I’m just an orderly and not even a …”

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to be a doctor. The man you will be replacing is a veterinary assistant who was recruited from the Cavalry Corps in the Army. His only medical experience was with the gelding of horses.”

That is how I got to spend a year on Gough Island as a member of the 26^th seven-man Meteorological Expedition.

Four ornithologists spent the takeover period on the island studying aspects of bird life. They had plenty of birds to choose from. Eight million, in fact, but they confined their study to albatrosses. There are three species breeding on Gough, the Yellow-nosed, the Sooty and the Tristan (Formerly thought to be a Wandering Albatross but now classified as a slightly different species.) Before these ornithologists boarded the ship and returned to Cape Town they approached me with a request. They had noticed the interest I had shown in their work and wondered if I could assist them by ringing some of the Tristan Albatross chicks before they left the nest in a few months’ time.

I agreed, and when there was a break in the weather Ray and I trudged up the mountain and made our way to     the main breeding site. Ray was a member of the contingent of three Met officers and was a keen hiker. We pitched our tent and then went into action. One of us would approach the chick on its nest, grab it and hold it under one arm while clamping its beak shut with his free hand. The other man was then able to position the metal ring around a leg and close it shut with a pair of modified pliers. The bird was released and it climbed back onto its mound of mud, grass and moss.

We ringed about 10 chicks that afternoon and another 20 the following morning before returning to the base. We had spent the night in our tent, protected from a near gale force wind that tore through the valley. In the early hours I had awoken to find a mouse exploring my beard. In torchlight we chased four visitors from the tent and tried to go back to sleep.

At that time, in 1980, the island was already overrun with millions of feral house mice (Mus musculus), which had been introduced at the beginning of the 19^th century by a party of sealers. We treated the presence of these mice as a nuisance and a threat to any dry foodstuff not kept in secure containers.

About ten years ago I learned that these mice had adapted to conditions on the island in the space of some 200 years and had developed a taste for eggs and chicks. Then, five years ago I was horrified at the news that as a consequence of their new protein rich diet these rodents had increased in size by as much as 50 percent. They had begun to scavenge on the chicks of even the largest birds, the albatrosses.

Field studies revealed that as many as 2 million eggs and chicks were being lost to the predators each year, and some of the rarer species, notably the Tristan Albatross, were threatened with extinction. In the face of this looming ecological disaster the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) and other organisations developed a plan to eradicate the mouse population. Using helicopters with agricultural dispensers tons of poisonous cereal would be scattered over the entire surface of the island. This method had been used successfully on other islands and the operation was scheduled for early 2020.

Personnel and equipment were already on Gough when the Covid 19 pandemic intervened and the undertaking had to be called off. One type of plague was given a reprieve by the arrival of another. This means that for at least another year I will be tormented by the image of an albatross chick being slowly gnawed to death as it sits on its nest.

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Little Red Riding Hood

The widow’s Jack Russell died of old age, just as her husband had done a few years earlier. She continued to live in her house alone, preferring to postpone the day when she would be forced to give up her independence.

Deon was a homeless man who had been in the area for many years. He was a work-shy drunkard with a criminal record for petty theft, but he was tolerated as a harmless nuisance who might be seen lying under a bush or heard shouting that he was hungry and demanding alms.

It was late afternoon when the widow went out the back to bring in some washing off the line. On returning to the house she was annoyed to see Deon waiting for her at the kitchen door.

“I’ve got nothing for you today, Deon. Now go away.”

“But I’m hungry,” he said, patting his stomach to show how empty it was. “Just a little bread, Ouma.”

As she pushed past him he tried to grab her arm.

“Don’t you touch me, you filthy rubbish!” she shouted, wrenching herself free. Then she slapped him hard in the face.

The stinging pain he felt triggered something in him and he cast about for a weapon. Catching sight of the brick that served as a door stop he picked it up. It was a solid clay brick weighing more than 2 kilograms and when he shoved it in her face it smashed her glasses, her nose and other bones. She collapsed to her knees and before she could fall flat he brought the brick down on the top of her grey head the way Raskolnikov did in Crime and Punishment. The heavy blow was enough to crack her skull, which resulted in massive bleeding and she was dead within minutes.

Deon explored the kitchen cupboards and the fridge and gorged himself on what he found. He also drank the contents of an almost full bottle of sherry. Feeling replete and more than a little drunk he staggered into the widow’s bedroom and got into her bed without removing his boots. He soon fell into a deep sleep.

The widow’s granddaughter drove a 7 year-old Chevy Spark that the old lady had helped her to buy. It was bright red. Twice or three times a week the granddaughter called in on her on the way to work to see if she was in need of anything. Because it was early the young woman let herself in with her own front door key.

“Grandma,” she called in a cheery voice. “It’s me. Are you awake?”

There was no reply, so she made her way to the bedroom. The curtains being drawn, the light was dim.

“Are you awake, Grandma?”

There was only the sound of snoring. How strange it was that Grandma had pulled the duvet right up over her head.

“Grandma!” she called again, more loudly this time. The snoring stopped.

Not far away there lived an old man who took his dog for a walk at the same time every morning. He kept the dog on a leash and carried a walking stick to ward off other dogs. As he passed the widow’s house he heard the young woman’s scream.

“What the hell is going on there?” he asked the dog. “That red car belongs to the granddaughter. We had better take a look.”

The front door stood open and the sound of strife from within caused him to hurry inside and follow it to its source. Just as he had begun to suspect, a rape was under way.

“Stop that, you bastard!” he shouted, and whacked the rapist on the back of the head with his walking stick. At the same time he released the dog. Distracted from the urgent business he had been engaged in, Deon extricated himself and tried to get up. He was hampered by his trousers, which were down at his knees, and by the dog, which had grasped his forearm in its jaws. The old man first jabbed the fellow in one of his eyes with the end of his stick and then again hit him on the head. When both of these actions failed to subdue the struggling assailant the old man went in search of a heavier weapon.

In the kitchen he found the body of the widow, and lying next to her the brick.

“This should do the trick,” he said aloud and picked it up. Back in the bedroom he raised it on high and brought it down with as much force as he could muster, and this did indeed do the trick. The young woman, shaking and sobbing, was able to get to her feet and the dog was obliged to cut short its meal.

The old man was rewarded with a good close-up of shapely breasts in their prime before being hidden from view. For this he was grateful, not having set eyes on such youthful beauty since the time he visited a prostitute on his last business trip before he retired many years ago.

 

This is a cautionary tale illustrating the danger faced by well-meaning young women who are deluded into believing that their good deeds will somehow provide them with immunity from ill fate.

(From the Nursery Rhymes and Fairy Tales collection.)

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White Supremacy

At the end of this story the reader will be asked to choose between two possible interpretations of the outcome.

The Story. A public figure well known for his contemptuous attitude towards black people – let’s call him Steve - is abducted and taken deep into a sprawling squatter camp. He is led to a tiny shack made of iron sheets, cardboard and plastic, and told he must stay there for three weeks in order for him to experience what it is like to live in poverty. He only has the clothes on his back and nothing else. He is given a loaf of bread and a can of pilchards. He is told that if he tries to escape, or make contact with the outside world, he will have his balls cut off.

The Idyllic Life

This scene from the early 1970s is set in the public bar (Europeans) of the Majestic Hotel in Kalk Bay. Long after the bar was closed down, the building was renovated and is now the home of Kalk Bay Books.

They were seated on their barstools looking out through the open door to the harbour and the sea beyond the wall. Both felt pleasantly weary after a morning on Fish Hoek beach playing touch rugby with Ivor’s mates, fooling about in the waves and soaking up the hot sun and the cool southeaster. Now it was easy to feel the relaxed freedom of mild intoxication, and Ivor waxed eloquent on the merits of a playboy existence.

“Man, this is lekker. This is the way to live. What could be better? What more does a man need?”

“Well, maybe some good food. In the medical trade I believe it’s known as hypoglycaemia. I have all the symptoms: faintness, weakness, tremulousness, visual disturbances, confusion, palsy, personality change and, above all, hunger.” They ordered fish cakes and fried potato chips, and Ivor continued to extol the free-and-easy lifestyle of an unencumbered bachelor.

“You know, one doesn’t need much to live like this. The best things in life aren’t free, but they don’t cost a whole pile of money. It’s a pity we don’t live in a society that caters for individuals like us. A modest pension for life and in return a commitment to stay out of the job market, make room for those obsessed with the capitalist work ethic, those driven by insatiable greed to possess THINGS. And we could undergo voluntary vasectomies, thereby helping to diminish all this rampant procreation that has overcrowded and overloaded the planet. It makes economic sense. But no, the society we find ourselves in is terrified of the likes of us.” He shook his head regretfully. “They would be threatened by our incomprehensible happiness.”

Henry was in full agreement with these sentiments. “I’m afraid you are dreaming of a utopian world beyond the realms of possibility. We can’t look to Society for any assistance. On the contrary.” A coloured waiter of diminutive proportions appeared behind the bar bearing a tray laden with four fat fish cakes, one large platter of golden yellow chips, smoking hot, salt, pepper, vinegar and a large plastic squeeze-me tomato of sauce.

“God, but this looks good! This is the ultimate! Place before me a naked young wench, all eager and panting, and require me to choose – I’d toss a towel to her and tell her to await my pleasure, and I’d sate myself on this superior pleasure. Then I’d see to her. Probably in a half-hearted, unsatisfactory way. But what the fuck? A man must eat.” He squirted a puddle of tomato sauce onto his plate, took up a fish cake in his left hand, dunked it in the sauce and took a mouthful. With his right hand he began on the chips. Henry followed suit with grunts and other non-verbal utterances of appreciation.

At length Henry paused to drink deeply of his beer before asking a rhetorical question. “Do you know why these fish cakes are such good value for money? The ingredients would be in the dust bin if we weren’t eating them.”

“Tastes alright to me.” Ivor looked unperturbed but gave the last half of his second fish cake a precautionary sniff. “Smells alright too.”

“I’m not suggesting anything unsavoury or unsafe. It’s just that I happen to know a little about the preparation of this dish. Mrs Hildagonda De Groot, the housekeeper at Ingachini, was a very competent cook and, being Dutch, hated to throw away food of any description. If it wasn’t fit for European consumption it was fed to the dogs and the black staff. Whenever we had fish we knew we would be getting fish cakes a few days later. A very simple recipe: a cup or two of leftover fish flaked finely, two or three leftover potatoes mashed, a grated onion, one beaten egg, one tablespoon of cake flour, a sprig of chopped parsley, a few scrapes of nutmeg, a dash of Worcester sauce, salt and pepper. Throw the whole lot in a bowl and mix till stiff, then fry spoonfuls in hot oil. As easy as that. It makes sense for a hotel to recycle the leftovers and sell them cheap to the dronkies in the public bar.”

Ivor was almost finished with his meal and was looking thoughtful. “What you’re actually saying is that there exists the possibility that the food that I have just eaten was partially masticated in a former life. The fish might have borne the denture marks of Colonel Blithering-Wickforth, or some other honoured guest. The potato might have been lodged in the windpipe of some old codger before being coughed up onto the floor and then converted into fish cake.”

“Exactly.” With a split match Henry picked a morsel from his teeth, took a mouthful of beer and proceeded to light up his pipe. He blew a cloud of smoke towards the door and watched its transformation as it drifted into the sunlight. “Apart from dreaming of the Perfect Society, have you no other ideas on how to lead this idyllic life without having to work? Surely there must be a way.”

From The Life Of Henry Fuckit

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Dynamic Soaring

'To identify birds in the air their characteristics of flight can be most helpful, allowing one to distinguish between different families and even species. When watching a bird on the wing one needs to be asking all sorts of questions. For example, does it flap intermittently and glide, soar, wheel and bank like an albatross or petrel? Or does it flap almost continuously like a skua? Is flapping rapid and with stiff wings like that of a shearwater, or is it slow with flexible, graceful wing movements like that of a gull? Is flight light, buoyant and tern-like, or heavy and ponderous like that of a giant fulmar? One gets to know that a shearwater's flight is rapid, a skua's is deliberate, and a gull's is leisurely. If it's erratic it'll probably be a prion, and if it's direct, a cormorant. We must also note how high the bird flies: just above the waves like a storm petrel, above the horizon like a gadfly petrel, at deck height like a Cape pigeon, or high over the masthead as a gull sometimes does. And then there's swimming style. That can tell you a lot too. Does it porpoise in and out of the water like a penguin, or does it ride on the surface? Does it dive and plunge, or remain visible at all times? Does it ride low in the water with only the head, neck and back exposed, or does it bob buoyantly like….'

'I say, old chap. Sorry to interrupt the eloquent flow, but what's that one over there? Much bigger than these other specimens. Doesn't seem to flap its wings at all.'

'Ah, well done Professor.' He didn't need his binoculars. 'Our first albatross, and a wanderer at that. Diomedea exulans. You'll make a good bird spotter.'

'Can I use your glasses? Gee, but that's fantastic.' Henry was excited. 'Massive wings, hey? And it just never flaps. Incredible! How does it do it?'

'The largest of the flying seabirds. Those long narrow wings can span in excess of eleven feet. Beautiful to watch, isn't it? But they need strong winds for that effortless gliding flight. If you watch for a while you'll see it follows a regular pattern in the air, rising into the wind, coasting across it, and then losing altitude but gaining speed while it dips to leeward and banks to turn and rise into the wind once more. In this way it's capable of planing on those flexed pinions for days at a time, never flapping, but making slight adjustments at the wrist and elbows to change effective wing area.’

……

When Fred Kelly and Jimmy Potsherd also began to evince a more than passing interest in poetry Henry felt obliged to steer the conversation back to the original topic.

'Bob, you were saying its possible for an albatross to fly for days without flapping. Without rest, without sleep, without food. I find this truly amazing. Where does the energy come from? This borders on the supernatural. How does it do it?'

'It was Lord Rayleigh, back in 1883, who first offered a feasible explanation of the principles involved. As he pointed out, the energy necessary to maintain flight can be derived from the variability of the wind. The velocity of the bird relative to the air, not its velocity relative to the ground, determines the forces acting on it. The bird can at any time, by climbing upward, turn some of its kinetic energy into potential energy and vice versa. Put simply, this dynamic soaring, as it's called, is merely a process of correcting for the turbulence in the air in such a way that potential energy is gained. I hope I'm not boring you. Some people find this detailed analysis of so simple and basic a phenomenon just too remote and tiresomely technical.'

On behalf of them all Henry assured him of their keen interest and urged him to continue. He noticed Sammy Coolrich was lighting up her first joint of the day. It was that top grade Durban Poison he had acquired for her and which had elicited her delighted approval. He now mistook the faraway expression in her eyes as she exhaled to be pure narcotic pleasure, when in fact it was generated more by a contemplative process taking place than by the effects of cannabis sativa. This process had been triggered when the ornithologist alluded to relativity.

'Well, as I was saying, a bird can gain energy from the small-scale turbulence of the air merely by making minute adjustments to its flight. And the best example of dynamic soaring is provided by the albatross, which uses the gradient of wind velocities near the surface of the sea. We really are privileged to have this demonstrated to us right now as I speak.' Indeed, the huge white bird had moved in closer to the ship and seemed to be tracking their progress in order to perform its graceful artistry just for them. 'It is known that the velocity of the wind diminishes down to the surface of the water because of the influence of friction at the surface and of eddy motion in the air; by a variety of turning manoeuvres the albatross can take good advantage of such a gradient. At the end of a downward glide, with the wind behind it, it nears the surface of the water. In order to gain altitude it turns and faces upwind (into the wind); the initial speed gained during the preceding glide generates lift and the bird climbs. During the climb the bird's air speed (but not the speed relative to the water below) remains constant because of the progressively increasing velocity of the wind at higher levels. Upon reaching a certain altitude, at a level where the bird cannot climb higher without losing air speed, the albatross turns and faces downwind (goes in the direction of the wind) to begin its downward glide. At this point the bird begins to gain air speed for two reasons: one, the force of gravity (the potential energy of height) becomes the kinetic energy of motion and two, it is entering air which is moving more slowly over the water. Therefore, as the albatross enters the lower altitudes it continues to gain speed relative to the progressively diminishing tail winds. When the bird again nears sea level, it turns upwind and repeats the manoeuvre. The natural way to combine these effects is to describe circles in an inclined plane, always descending when moving to leeward and ascending when moving to windward.

In strong winds a very swift bird like the albatross (whose average speed is 72ft. per second) can extract sufficient energy from the air to enable it to glide for considerable distances in the troughs of waves.'

(This extract is taken from Section 85 of The Life of Henry Fuckit, which can be read here. The discussion about dynamic soaring is based on an article in the 1972 edition of Gough Island’s Encyclopaedia Britannica. With advances in Physics the explanation has been revised over the years to include factors such as the aerodynamic forces acting on the bird, the effect of acceleration, the effect of the wind gradient, and the transfer of momentum between the bird and the wind.)a

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