losers

Tonight I'm feeling sort of weepy. It could be PMS, but I'm thinking it's more about the fate of the shorebirds who make their living in the San Francisco Bay. You know, the ones who are now oil-covered and dead. I don't know if I'm more upset with the ship that hit the Bay Bridge or the Coast Guard who trusted their initial reports. Apparently, the crew estimated they'd spilled only 140 gallons of fuel. Twelve hours passed before the Coast Guard realized this estimate was off by, oh, I don't know, about 58,000 gallons. Of course it was dark then, so another 12 hours passed before anyone started containing the oil that is poisoning the wildlife.

The pictures are haunting. I even recognize some of the people in them - staffers with The Marine Mammal Center, picking up birds from the beach right down the hill from the hospital. I can't see them without seeing myself. Though I haven't yet made the time to attend official Oiled Wildlife Training, as a volunteer with TMMC, I would be called upon to do the same thing if we had a spill down here. Except we'd be scooping up a lot of dead otters, too. And it won't stop at birds. My heart aches for the sexy male sea lions who gather at Pier 39 and for those extraordinary Bay Area red-pelaged harbor seals.

Then I called my folks. All they knew was that the Bridge was okay. Great job, America's media, getting to the heart of the story. Maybe tomorrow they will mention how the Coast Guard failed to drug test the boat's crew for 24 hours. Maybe then they'll let you know how San Francisco's mayor is chomping at the bit ready to sue whoever is responsible for this.

My uncle might be right. I might have to be an environmental lawyer, after all.

So tonight I am grateful that I am not a shorebird. And I'm grateful I haven't had to work an oil spill myself. And I'm grateful there's a bottle of wine in the kitchen. I'm thinking it's time to open it.