THE EXXON VALDEZ SPILL: A DECADE AFTER THE DISASTER
BYLINE: Patricia Guthrie
DATE: March 21, 1999
PUBLICATION: The Atlanta Journal and The Atlanta Constitution
Valdez, Alaska - Stan Stephens hears the question so often, he keeps the answer in his pocket. It doesn't look like much. Just a tiny piece of crusted black gunk. "Yes, there's
still a lot of oil out there in the sand, under the rocks, along some shoreline," Stephens says, his sea-blue eyes fixed on the horizon. "Prince William Sound is no longer pristine
country. If you never go ashore and just stay on a boat, you'd never know there was an oil spill. But these bays, they used to be so full of life. And they're just not anymore."
Ten years ago on Good Friday, March 24, the rest of the world learned what 64-year-old Stephens had known for decades: Prince William Sound is one of the most beautiful inlets on Earth.
Or was.
Surrounded by the Chugach Mountains and Chugach National Forest and chock-full of slowly carved glaciers and fjords, the sound includes 11,000 square miles of shore, islands and open water, an area larger than Vermont.
Seen from the deck of the Glacier Spirit, one of five scenic tour boats of Stan Stephens and ice whites are probably as vivid as they appeared 200 years ago when English explorer Capt. James Cook named it for the British monarch's third son. Harems of Stellar sea lions still lounge on rocks surrounding one lucky male. Porpoises still playfully jump in the wake of sightseeing boats. Bald eagles still glide on grand wings. Cruises, or from the air while "flightseeing," the region's sparkling blues, jade greens.
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But many say there are far fewer birds, fish and marine mammals since the oil tanker Exxon Valdez hit Bligh Reef and oozed 11.3 million gallons of crude oil into the sound, the Gulf of Alaska and hundreds of miles southwest into the Alaska Peninsula. Only two of 23 species -- the bald eagle and river otter -- have fully recovered, says the ExxonValdez Oil Spill Trustee Council, which oversees the $900 million settlement Exxon gave the state and federal governments for Prince William Sound restoration.
"There has clearly been progress toward recovery," says Molly McCammon, the
council's executive director. "But it is equally clear that for several species and the
ecosystem in general, there's a long way yet to go."
Exxon disagrees. After spending $2.2 billion on a four-year cleanup and on animal rescue and rehabilitation ($32,000 per bird; $82,000 per otter), Exxon says no species or natural resource remains adversely affected.
"The environment in Prince William Sound is healthy, robust and thriving," said Frank Sprow, Exxon's vice president for environment and safety. "That's evident to anyone who's been there, and it is also the conclusion of many scientists who have done extensive studies of the Prince William Sound ecosystem."
Exxon disputes the advisory council's definition of a "recovered' species, and how it's measuring these populations. The company also says the council fails to consider "natural variability" such as the regional warming trend attributed to El Nino. "When the water temperature is rising three degrees in the past decade, that causes a dramatic change among the plants and animals," said biologist David Page of Maine's Bowdoin College, an Exxon consultant. Trying to find evidence of the 1989 spill today, Page says, "is like trying to tune in NPR on Mars."
Estimates as to how many animals died in the darkened waters immediately after the spill vary, just as opinions on the long-term impact differ.
Hit hardest were birds. An estimated 260,000 to 580,000 got mired in oil and died, with the common murre and pigeon guillemots most affected. But some bird colonies are coming back.
Sea otters, the big sad-eyed critters that became a symbol of Alaska's helplessness during the crisis, are among the species considered "still recovering," as are many fish, clams, mussels and intertidal ecosystems.
An estimated 1,000 to 3,000 sea otters died. About 300 harbor seals perished, but the species was already in serious decline. Among Prince William Sound's 100 killer whales, 14 disappeared after the spill.
The culprits were a black steel ship the length of three football fields, along with one bearded skipper seen in Valdez having a few stiff drinks hours before departing. Like some of the animals, they, too, vanished but may be coming back. Exxon wants to bring back its notorious tanker, the Exxon Valdez (named in honor of the
town), which was banned from Alaskan waters under the 1990 Oil Pollution Act. After undergoing extensive repairs and renamed the SeaRiver Mediterranean, the tanker has been in service in the Mediterranean Sea.
Many Alaskans bitterly oppose the move, saying it's akin to flying the Enola Gay over Japan again. Others who know boats say the tanker is one of the safer, better ones built for the Alaska route. "We'd be working against ourselves if we were to say we don't want that ship," Stephens says. "The spill was human error. It wasn't the boat's fault. But if they want local support to bring that ship back, Exxon should take care of the fishermen."
Joseph Hazelwood, the Exxon captain responsible for grinding the 984-foot tanker on the reef, is scheduled to finally begin 1,000 hours of community service this summer by picking up trash in Anchorage. He was acquitted of intoxication charges and second-degree criminal mischief but found guilty of negligence. Fired by Exxon, Hazelwood returned to his New York roots to work as a shipping accident claims adjuster for the Manhattan maritime law firm representing him. He has remained mum on the events of the midnight wreck. In the decade since the disaster, he has given one major interview, to Outside magazine.
"Am I angst-ridden with guilt? No," he said. "Am I feeling responsible as a professional?
Well, whether it's a mechanical failure or anything else that grounds you, it sticks. "I can't imagine this ever being over. It's always there, like the albatross on the Ancient Mariner."
When the tide is out, the table is set.
But now when the tide is out, the table is dirty.
Taking a twist on this old native adage about the abundance of tasty treats found in the receding tide, Patience Anderson Faulkner explains the spill's impact on her culture and
people. Living in Cordova, a fishing village of 2,500 residents with generational ties to salmon and herring livelihoods, Faulkner is a member of the Eyak tribe.
Although oil never licked the shores of Cordova, the town is considered the hardest hit by diminished fishing. State fishing permits, once worth $200,000 to $300,000, have fallen to one-tenth their original price. Youths no longer see a future in this serene village. And families that once walked the beaches at low tide scooping up clams and oysters for dinner now buy grocery store food instead.
"It breaks my heart to see what has happened," says Faulkner, 51. "I see the resentment every day in people's faces. We had the largest fishing fleet in the sound.
Kids would earn their college tuition in one fishing season. Now even the older
gentlemen are not even able to make a living." Some of that is due to disease that has decimated herring; some is due to the falling
price of salmon.
A long-term study by J. Steven Picou, a University of South Alabama sociologist, found the psychological stress of area natives and commercial fishermen to be similar to that of rape victims and those in bereavement.
David Grimes, a 46-year-old Cordova fisherman and wilderness guide, said it took
several years to see the impact. Herring first crashed in 1993 when the adult herring in the sound failed to reproduce. The ones that were caught had mutations.
"It just shatters you to the core," Grimes says. "It must be like when Atlanta burned
down. It's like going through the ashes here when we see oil still welling up."
But the fish populations are coming back, and Grimes has hope. "Time and Mother
Nature do the healing," he says.
Commercial fishing operators and native corporations are among the major plaintiffs
that sued Exxon. In 1994, an Anchorage jury awarded $5 billion in punitive damages, the equivalent of Exxon's after-tax income that year.
Calling it "unjust and excessive," Exxon appealed the decision to the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals, where the case is pending. The company already has paid $300 million to 11,000 area people and businesses, more than one-third to Cordovans.
But people here remember the company's promise when it flew in executives 10 years ago after the disaster. John Devens, who was mayor of Valdez at the time, recalls the company's vow: "We will have all your beaches cleaned and we will resolve every financial claim."
Devens, a former Atlantan, says Exxon reneged on that promise, and it doesn't surprise him. "There was an arrogance that permeated the spill that came from Exxon officials," he says. "And they're still arrogant."
Devens is executive director of the Prince William Sound Regional Citizens' Advisory Council, created in 1990 as an oil industry watchdog group. It's funded by Alyeska Pipeline Service Co., a consortium of seven oil companies, including Exxon. Alyeska also operates what's considered the world's safest oil tanker system. The Ship Escort/Response Vessel System costs $60 million annually, with 250 employees who work around the clock, escorting tankers in tugboats and equipped with a spill response vessel. Seven skimmer barges and miles of containment boom are on call.
Since the spill, the U.S. Coast Guard has received better radar tracking equipment, and oil tanker captains now are tested for alcohol.
"Prevention is the center of our focus," said escort/response system engineer Pete
Chapman. "No one can guarantee that there'll never be another oil spill, but at least we now have more devices to suck, skim, mop, contain and corral it."
If other good has arisen from the muck, it includes new standards and more wilderness land and tourism.
The spill set a "polluter pays" precedent that led Congress to enact tougher oil spill
liability and to provide further protection by requiring double-hulled oil tankers by 2015. The $900 million Exxon settlement led to 655,000 additional acres of protected wilderness in the region. The recently opened Alaska SeaLife Center in Seward, west of Valdez, was funded in part with $26 million from the Exxon settlement. Part aquarium, part research facility, the center is equipped to handle injured or oiled marine mammals.
And, in an odd twist, visits to Prince William Sound have soared since 1991. Meanwhile, sports outlets keep popping up, attracting "extreme" skiers, sea kayakers, dog mushers and ice climbers.
A plump otter passes the day on its back, clam in paw, circling the Arco tanker as the ship fills with black gold.
It seems odd as these two symbols of one of the world's most notorious man-made environmental disasters freely share space.
But such is the dual Last Frontier/Big Oil personality of Alaska. Like an arranged marriage, it must work. No town knows this better than Valdez, where people either operate their own business-- with a natural resource or tourism bent -- or work for "Uncle Al," the nickname for Alyeska. The oil consortium, housed on a hill overlooking Valdez, employs about one fourth of the 4,000 residents. Its concrete complex is ground zero for an engineering marvel: the Trans-Alaska Pipeline, which took 70,000 workers, $8 billion and three years to construct. Oil began flowing in 1977 and since then has accounted for 20 percent of the nation's oil supply.
Snaking 800 miles down from the North Slope's Prudhoe Bay in the Arctic, about 1.2 million barrels of oil daily make the trip. About $2 billion a year, or 85 percent of Alaska's revenue, is generated from taxes and royalties on oil.
When oil prices drop globally, Alaska feels it. In Valdez, the oil terminal's property taxes make up 92 percent of the town's tax base. But many folks around here can't separate the rich oil business from what it wrought a decade ago: the nation's largest oil spill.
"I wish the oil pipeline never came to Valdez," Stephens says, checking the lines on Glacier Spirit as he ties it up for the night. "The worst mistake we ever made was jeopardizing the bay."
copyright 1999 The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
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