Fight to Preserve County’s Lagoons Waged by 4 Tough Citizens’ Groups

Regg Antle may be a founder and past president of the Buena Vista Lagoon Foundation, but call him a typical environmentalist and you’re tempting fury.

“I’m a hard-driving businessman and conservative Republican who simply believes preserving Buena Vista Lagoon is more important than building another shopping center,” Antle said.

An ophthalmologist who hunted ducks during his youth in South Dakota, Antle would never chain himself to a tree in defense of the environment--and he doesn’t hesitate to criticize those who would. But that’s not to say the Oceanside resident won’t resort to creative tactics to deliver a message.

“About four years ago, my wife and I heard about a meeting on the lagoon and decided it would be fun to dress people up like ducks and attend,” Antle said. “So we made up costumes for Mr. Buena Vista Duck, his girlfriend, Sue, and Darth Duck, the evil developer duck from the north.”

The gag, Antle recalls, attracted the public interest needed to form the nonprofit foundation that looks after Buena Vista Lagoon, which lies between Oceanside and Carlsbad.

Antle is one of scores of dedicated North County residents who have banded together over the past decade to form aggressive lobbying groups with a single mission--to save the lagoons.

Their numbers include doctors, lawyers, scientists, business executives, artists and retirees--seemingly odd bedfellows united by a desire to preserve a semblance of nature in the county’s rapidly urbanizing northern reaches.

Like Antle, many of these self-appointed guardians describe themselves as “backyard environmentalists” whose activism was triggered by the condominium project, shopping mall or marina that somebody threatened to build down the block on their lagoons.

Others became involved out of a love of birds, while some are amateur botanists who enjoy poking about in the mud flats and vegetation of the wetlands.

Still other members admit they rarely stop to visit the lagoons but instead treasure them as rare oases in the urban sprawl--visually inviting gaps in development that provide a breath of fresh air during a hectic freeway drive.

There are four formally incorporated coalitions of lagoon advocates in North County today: the San Elijo Alliance and the Los Penasquitos, Batiquitos and Buena Vista lagoon foundations. The histories, personalities and successes of these groups vary, as do the motives and perceived responsibilities of their members.

But whatever their differences, these champions of North County’s lagoons share a common goal: the protection of environmentally sensitive areas for the enjoyment of future generations.

Jesse LaGrange doesn’t mind being referred to as “one of those nuts up on the hill.” In fact, she’s rather proud of the label.

Because Jesse, who treasures wetlands as “a rare and not fully understood companion for our oceans,” would do just about anything to protect Los Penasquitos Lagoon from the ravages of development--or any other menace.

Since 1965, when she and her husband, Lee, built their Del Mar Terrace home overlooking the lagoon, Jesse has led troops of neighborhood folk on missions to shovel open the Penasquitos slough’s mouth, assisted state agencies on lagoon bird counts and “thrown many a fit” in response to abuses of and threats to the resource. When piles of dirt and refuse began appearing mysteriously in a corner of the lagoon, for example, Jesse investigated and learned that San Diego city workers were cleaning out storm drains at North City West and dumping their loads in Los Penasquitos. It took repeated calls to the Coastal Commission, but she got the practice stopped.

It is Jesse whom everyone calls when something is amiss at the lagoon. And Lee, a former chemist who now repairs gill nets for local fishermen, has studied the hydrological peculiarities of Penasquitos and designed a widely praised plan to restore its tidal dynamics.

Perhaps most notably, the LaGranges have compiled a detailed photographic history of Los Penasquitos Lagoon that spans 20 years. Their numerous binders contain page after page of snapshots accompanied by highly descriptive captions.

“If we go to a hearing and the officials ask for proof, well, I’ve got it right here,” said Jesse, who grew up near the Suisun Marsh in Petaluma. “Without the facts, you’ve got no credibility and you may as well pack it up.”

Although well-versed on the ecological merits of lagoons, Jesse speaks most enthusiastically of their value as “a fine experimental playground for children.”

“They can learn all about tides, getting stuck in the mud and how sand dollars travel--sidling along like little space vehicles,” Jesse said. “They can learn what sea snails and sea slugs look like and develop an appreciation for nature--right in the midst of our urban setting.”

As government officials involved with wetlands management see it, groups like North County’s four lagoon preservation coalitions are irreplaceable allies in the ongoing battle over the state’s coastal resources.

“But for citizen involvement, citizen struggles, citizen initiatives and citizens standing up and screaming about trees, birds and lagoons, we would not have the environmental standards we have today,” said Peter Douglas, deputy director of the California Coastal Commission. “These groups are invaluable because they question the assumptions of bureaucrats and are a constant reminder that there is still an environmental constituency.”

Those who volunteer as guardians of North County’s lagoons assume many responsibilities, from conducting nature walks to keeping the wetlands free of trash. But above all, both members and officials say, their most vital role is as watchdogs--vigilant lobbyists who ensure that the Coastal Act and other environmental protections are upheld.

“The presence of an active foundation is absolutely imperative, because if nobody cares, well then why shouldn’t developers be allowed to build right on the lagoon?” said Earl Lauppe, a veteran wildlife biologist with the state Department of Fish and Game. “Unless there are people speaking for the birds and the plants, then the politicians have no incentive to look out for them.”

In a small community, lagoon boosters are particularly effective because they “aren’t outsiders or agency officials, but taxpayers, voters, neighbors and friends,” said Joan Jackson, a leader of the Sierra Club’s San Diego chapter and chairwoman of the Los Penasquitos Lagoon Foundation. “Locally elected representatives will think twice about allowing some obscene development right on the edge of these lagoons if they risk running into lagoon lovers at the grocery store.”

By sponsoring films on the wetlands’ native inhabitants, raising money to build nature centers and by merely acting as a burr in the side of the body politic, the lagoons’ local guardians arouse interest, command attention and cannot be ignored.

Pausing during a recent conversation at her Leucadia home, Anne Omsted begged not to be thought “too melodramatic,” but she made “a confession”:

“These lagoons are sort of like my stepchildren. They’re priceless. Beautiful. Mysterious. And I’ve got a very personal stake in ensuring they’re around a while longer.”

An endlessly energetic woman who punctuates her speech with dramatic gestures and loud exclamations, Omsted was among those who established the Batiquitos Lagoon Foundation in February, 1983. The genesis of that group says a lot about Anne Omsted.

“It was April of ’82 and the lagoon mouth had been closed all winter, so it was full of water and simply beautiful,” Omsted recalled. But one day, the Leucadia County Water District opened the mouth of the lagoon--located on Carlsbad’s southern border--because the water level was so high it had begun backing up the district’s sewer pumps. (Opening a lagoon to the sea generally enhances its health. But a complicated set of conditions at Batiquitos prevents the tide from regularly refilling that lagoon with water.)

“There was this huge emotional response because the lagoon was beautiful, and we didn’t want it emptied,” Omsted said. “So a bunch of nutty people, including me, got out there with shovels and sandbags trying to block the mouth. It was dumb, and it failed, because of course you can’t stop the ocean. But it did prompt us to form the Committee to Organize the Batiquitos Lagoon Foundation, and here we are.”

Omsted is still obsessed with the mouth of Batiquitos Lagoon. When it is open and the tide sweeps in and out, cleansing the lagoon of decaying algae blooms, Omsted can usually be found nearby.

“I’ll spend hours down there. It’s fascinating, and very soothing. I try to guess how long it will take for the mouth to close again and try to predict the different patterns the water will make. I guess I figure if I watch long enough, maybe one day I’ll know something about hydrology.”

Executive director of the Los Penasquitos Lagoon Foundation and a past president of the Leucadia-Encinitas Town Council, Omsted labors on behalf of the lagoons because “when it comes to quality of life, they’re about all we’ve got left.

“The county is handing out building permits like candy, so investing time in land-use matters is worthless. If we want to preserve any sense of serenity in North County, if we want to keep this area from looking like Mira Mesa, these lagoons are our only hope.”

Of the four lagoon advocacy groups in North County, the 400-member San Elijo Alliance is the respected veteran of the lot.

Founded in 1970 and by far the oldest of the groups, the alliance is distinctive because many of its successes on behalf of the lagoon, which divides Cardiff and Solana Beach, took place before laws mandating coastal protection were on the books.

“I guess we were sort of the pioneers, and it was rather exhausting, running down to the Board of Supervisors every week and flapping our wings until they made the right decision,” said alliance President Scott Englehorn, an environmental consultant.

Organized to defeat a residential project that would have turned San Elijo into a miniature Marina del Rey, the group throughout the 1970s maintained an effective chorus of protest against various development proposals for the lagoon.

In 1975, members convinced the county to begin acquiring San Elijo from private landowners toward a goal of dedicating the lagoon as a regional park and ecological reserve. In June, 1983, that goal was realized.

Now, however, there is talk among some members of abandoning their activist role and consolidating with the San Elijo Lagoon Foundation, whose members own property in the lagoon and are organized to raise money and oversee the continued management of San Elijo.

“The feeling is, now that we’ve achieved our major goal, which was public ownership of most of the lagoon, maybe it’s time to call it a day,” said Englehorn, who admits he has qualms about the idea.

State officials, pointing to an ongoing erosion of environmental protection, say they are sad to hear lagoon activists talk of disbanding and warn such champions against assuming the battle is over.

“I think it’s a real mistake for any environmental group to be lulled into a false sense of security and think that, because of the Coastal Act and other guidelines, our lagoons no longer need champions,” Douglas said. “If the public’s vigilance is reduced, I have no doubt that our resources will not only be at risk but be diminished and in some cases lost.”

Antle and other lagoon activists agree.

“You can never let up. And the way things are going politically these days, we may not have a Coastal Act or Coastal Commission at the end of the year,” Antle said, referring to Gov. George Deukmejian’s public statement that he sees no need for a permanent coastal panel.

But Antle, whose activism is motivated by his fear that San Diego’s north coast may “become a trash heap like Orange County,” also believes the time has come for environmental organizations to modernize their tactics. The Buena Vista Lagoon Foundation, he says, has done just that, incorporating developers and others historically regarded as foes of the environment into the group’s governing structure.

“These hard-core environmentalists have the best intentions in the world, but they’ve got to realize that screaming doesn’t cut it any more,” Antle said. “Without businessmen, developers, lawyers and people from all sectors of life on your side, you don’t have credibility and you don’t get anywhere.”

Antle said his group is distinctive in another way: “How many environmental groups you know would turn down a $25,000 grant from the state?” he said. The grant, tendered by the California Coastal Conservancy, was to finance a stewardship plan for the lagoon.

“We said, ‘No thanks, we’ll take a loan and pay you back,’ ” Antle recalled. “We don’t want to be at the public trough like everyone else.”

Other lagoon defenders also say times have changed. Most notably, few environmentalists in North County today regard the developer as the ultimate enemy, a profit-hungry opponent out to rape the land no matter the consequences.

Instead, most environmentalists say they recognize a landowner’s right to build on his property and prefer to focus on working with developers for the benefit of a given resource.

“I don’t care what Don Sammis does on the shore of Batiquitos--he can raise slaves there for all I care --just as long as he opens the mouth of that lagoon,” Omsted said.

Jesse LaGrange, meanwhile, said she doesn’t believe “these developers really mean to abuse the lagoon. It’s just that they don’t realize what they’re doing, and we have to be around to tell them, before it’s too late.”

The essence of this new ecological philosophy for the ‘80s, Antle believes, is “realism.”

“The environmental tide has peaked and crested, but it has left behind people like me, who realize that, no, we’re not going to preserve every tree, every weed and every creek in San Diego County. But by God, we’re going to preserve a part of it.”

Tuesday: Restoration and careful management are needed to save the lagoons, but restoration is fraught with controversy over techniques and objectives.