But Don’t Go Near the Water

I was having a pleasant conversation with Dorothy Green the other day about sludge, raw sewage and carcinogenic croaker fish, when she leaned forward across the table and said, “There’s a new danger afoot.”

What with crude oil lapping at our shores from coast to coast and the ozone layer going to hell in a hand basket, I didn’t need another ecological disaster to worry about. But people like Dorothy are not easily put off.

She is, to be sure, a soft-spoken woman with the patient manner of a kindergarten teacher. But don’t be fooled.

I have been around environmentalists long enough to know how quickly they can turn into snarling, salivating werewolves when they feel their world is threatened by scum, smog or stupidity.

“A new danger?” I said, trying to look concerned and vulnerable at the same time. Environmentalists love it when they can seduce a journalist.

She nodded and in a tone that Pasteur must have used when he discovered the tapeworm, Dorothy whispered, “Storm drains.”

Storm drains?

I don’t know what I had expected her to say, but it wasn’t storm drains. The moment deserved more. Killer bees, perhaps, that have mated with white sharks and crave human flesh.

“Storm drains,” she said again. “Think about it.”

Why, hell yes.

Dorothy is president of Heal the Bay, an organization dedicated to making the water once more safe to go back into. The bay in question is, of course, Santa Monica, wherein sewage and toxic chemicals form the soup of our aquatic recreation.

I sought out Dorothy because of a pamphlet that warned about eating fish caught in the bay. They are loaded with DDT and PCBs. The healthy diet I have been pursuing with the dedication of a Trappist monk could be killing me.

I felt betrayed, like my cockateel had suddenly cursed me.

Fish caught elsewhere, preferably away from industrial areas, are the safest to eat. But how, you ask, do you determine the origin of a fish unless you catch it yourself?

Even then you can’t be sure it’s safe unless you troll with a chemist.

“The best thing to do is cook your own fish,” Dorothy said. “Broil or bake it on a rack so the fat drains off because that’s where the toxics are. Don’t eat the skin or the liver.”

“Isn’t there just a sauce I can pour on it to make it OK to eat?” I asked. That was my mother’s solution. Anything that tasted bad got sauced.

Dorothy looked at me as though I had suggested putting a fan on my roof to fight air pollution. “No sauce,” she said, “will neutralize DDT.”

DDT isn’t dumped into the bay anymore, but there’s an old deposit off the Palos Verdes Peninsula, wherein contaminated worms abide.

The worms are eaten by little fish that are eaten by bigger fish that are eaten by fitness junkies who think that by avoiding red meat they will live forever. Au contraries.

The chemicals bioaccumulate, Dorothy said. That means the more fish we eat, the greater our chances of dying an ugly death. Back to burgers and fries.

Efforts, however modest, are at least being made to rid the bay of sewage and industrial waste. But the filth-laden storm drains flow like the River Shannon directly into the ocean without treatment.

“It’s a witch’s brew,” Dorothy said. “The first rain of the season is the worst, but it’s never good.”

Whatever might be dumped in the gutter is what you could be swimming around in this weekend if you’re anywhere near a drain outlet.

Motor oils, brake fluids, animal droppings, toilet bowl cleaners, paint thinners, dead rats, flea powders, weed killers, chicken entrails and half-eaten pepperoni pizzas are all bobbing about in the slimy urban runoff.

“Nice, huh?” Dorothy said when she saw the look on my face. I was visualizing little babies splashing happily near storm drain outlets.

“It certainly is a problem,” I said to Dorothy.

She smiled and nodded.

I know this. Until Dorothy informs us otherwise, I would avoid eating fish and frolicking in the surf. You might stay clear of the Santa Monica Pier as well.

You never know when something green and slimy and smelling slightly of pepperoni pizza will come crawling out of the water, calling your name. If it does, don’t answer.