The story of how SeaDoc Society went from a big idea to a proper organization with a staff, a mission and… a name—as told by a formative board member who played a pivotal role in our inception.
By Gary E. Davis
Long before I learned about the Salish Sea, I was fascinated by coastal ecosystems. My first playgrounds were literally the intertidal pools of San Diego, California. My first job as an adult was in commercial fishing, plying the waters at the Los Coronados Islands in Mexico and near my home port of Point Loma, the high promontory that defines San Diego’s western shore.
In my first three years of fishing, from 1957 to 1959, we caught mainly warm-water fish around the islands and along mainland shores, including large yellowtail jacks, bonito, and barracuda. Occasionally, we ventured further offshore in search of striped marlin, achieving a record daily limit of ten marlin for our five sportfishing clients on one particular day.
During the next few years, from 1960 to 1962, the fish we had been catching were nowhere to be found in their typical haunts. After searching for a month, we found large schools of albacore and bluefin tuna in cooler waters 20 to 60 miles offshore; it was more than enough to keep us in business. However, in 1963, warm waters returned and the tuna vanished. It was clear that I had to know more about ocean dynamics to become a more effective fisherman, so I went to school.
At San Diego State University and Scripps Institution of Oceanography, I learned about the global atmospheric phenomena known as El Niño and La Niña, representing the warm and cool phases of long-term climate patterns observed in the tropical Pacific. Additionally, I was introduced to the emerging field of ecology, in which we studied the relationships between living organisms and their environment. Ecology led me to understand that national parks are more than favorite family vacation destinations and that their stewardship protects coastal marine ecosystems. I also discovered that park stewards aim to preserve intact ecosystems for future generations to use and enjoy.
Ultimately, I realized I had found my lifelong career pursuit: exploring the unknown, inventing solutions for environmental stewardship, and embarking on adventures with others to improve the health of our planet; that’s what scientists do, so I became one.
By the time I received the invitation to participate in a one-day conference on marine ecosystem health at the Rosario Resort on Orcas Island in 1999, I had spent 34 years as a research scientist and aquanaut, helping to understand and steward national parks from the Virgin Islands and Florida’s Everglades to California’s Channel Islands. I established the first national park research center in South Florida to guide the restoration and stewardship of Everglades, Dry Tortugas, and Biscayne National Parks.
Additionally, I designed, implemented, and demonstrated the efficacy of a prototype ecological vital signs monitoring program to inform the management of Channel Islands National Park. Afterward, I persuaded and assisted 270 other national park sites to create similar programs, organizing 32 networks of 600 collaborating scientists across various biomes, including mountains, deserts, forests, grasslands, coastal areas, and more, throughout the U.S. from Alaska to Hawaii and Maine to the U.S. Virgin Islands.
The concise format of the Resario Conference invitation was abundantly clear.
Speakers were each given a total of five minutes, with two slides for illustration and clarity: one to introduce themselves and the other to outline elements of a marine environmental health program for the Salish Sea. I was eager to hear new ideas from conference participants and discuss our diverse experiences with coastal ecosystem health.
My content slide for the conference summarized the four-point approach we had taken for the national park stewardship monitoring networks; the second slide resembled this:
“For park managers to be adequate stewards, i.e., to conserve the parks and to provide for their enjoyment in a way that leaves them unimpaired for future generations, they must be able to sustain these four activities:
Know and understand the park’s ecosystems—inventories and monitoring,
Restore and sustain ecological integrity—fix broken bits,
Protect resource integrity—prevent and mitigate threats and
Connect people emotionally to the parks’ ecosystems using evidence.”
Shortly after the conference, I was invited to join an advisory panel for the Marine Environmental Health Program (MEHP) for the Salish Sea, managed by the Karen C. Drayer Wildlife Health Center at the UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine. Our first order of business was locating the right person to shepherd this nascent effort to support ongoing efforts by others to improve the Salish Sea’s environmental health. Dr. Kirsten Gillardi served as the advisory panel’s contact with UC Davis. Impressively, she quickly identified an incredibly well-qualified individual with practical experience as a veterinarian and graduate training in ecology, Dr. Joe Gaydos.
During my next visit to Orcas Island for an advisory panel meeting, Kirsten invited me to meet Joe informally over dinner at a local restaurant to get acquainted. Sitting at a small upstairs window table for two overlooking the main intersection in Eastsound, we engaged in a lively discussion late into the evening, sharing our personal and professional stories. We discovered many commonalities, and I believed that Joe was an excellent fit for MEHP. At that moment, I had no idea how ideally suited he would be for his new roles as a leader, communication exemplar, and consummate professional scientist.
Later, I learned that our discussion was more enthusiastic than we had realized, and at least one Orcas Island resident, former astronaut Bill Anders, overheard us. While recounting my career to Joe, I mentioned taking Scott Carpenter's place as an aquanaut on Project Tektite in 1969. When Bill heard Scott’s name in our conversation, it piqued his interest because they were friends and fellow astronauts. Bill also became interested in other topics Joe and I discussed over dinner related to marine ecosystem health and contacted Joe later. Islands hold few secrets.
Word about MEHP was spreading, but at a slow pace. Joe’s brilliant communication skills and charisma became evident early in his tenure. Although MEHP was supposed to be a catchy and descriptive program name for public appeal, it sounded rather bureaucratic and uninspiring, failing to meet my mantra for successful environmental health programs: Know, Restore, Protect, and Connect.
The name/acronym MEHP could not connect with or resonate with most people. The advisory panel frequently discussed this challenge but struggled to find a solution until we heard about the new research boat Joe was outfitting. Joe had christened the vessel “SeaDoc.” We all loved his clever, short, catchy name.
Soon after, we recognized Joe’s inspired naming and changed MEHP to SeaDoc. Thus, the SeaDoc Society was born with a memorable name, signifying a marine environmental health program engaging both medicine and ecology. From the moment we found our name, events began unfolding in ways that would become legendary. The SeaDoc Society lives!
Photo by Kendrick Moholt
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