Light at the End of the Tunnel for Crystal Cove Activists

The women looked like typical morning joggers as they crossed the Crystal Cove beach in their T-shirts and fanny packs.

But then they abruptly ducked inside a large concrete culvert. Despite dim shafts of light from miners’ headlamps the women had hastily donned, the tunnel remained dark, and a shallow stream of water was cold underfoot.

“This is the hardest part,” called out Laura Davick as she doubled over and splashed forward.

So began another trek through the pipes Davick first explored last month, searching for the source of water forming a pool on the beach in front of the culvert even on dry summer days. The photographs she took on that first journey created a furor over how the Irvine Co. handles runoff that spread last week all the way to Sacramento.

Because of Davick’s subterranean probe, the state Water Resources Control Board must now decide whether the Irvine Co. can legally pipe runoff from a construction site downhill onto the popular beach at Crystal Cove State Park. The debate could have implications for other landowners along the coast who discharge runoff into biologically sensitive areas, such as the picturesque cove between Corona del Mar and Newport Beach.

State officials say they have not determined that the Irvine Co. did anything wrong. The pipe network appears on planning documents dated as early as 1988, and regulators concur with Irvine Co. officials that the developer received all necessary construction approvals.

But the pipe-climbing has focused new attention on the nagging fact that urban runoff can pollute offshore areas. It has transformed Davick into a would-be Erin Brockovich of the Orange County clean-water set. And even Brockovich didn’t climb through 48-inch wide pipes three times, ruining three pairs of sneakers in the process.

“I think we’ve done enough of it,” she admits. In fact, Davick and her pipe-climbing sidekick, Brenda Stouffer, were contacted last week by the California Occupational Safety and Health Administration and cautioned not to try another pipe trek. They needed little convincing after watching 9,000 gallons of highly treated sewage spew out of the culvert just 36 hours after their last trip.

“It brought to mind that had I been in the wrong place at the wrong time, it could have been dangerous,” Davick said, “but I still think that there’s a little angel that’s been on our shoulder that’s guided us through it.”

Davick, president of the Alliance to Rescue Crystal Cove, lives just up the beach from the culvert, in a cottage that may be subsumed by a proposed resort. She worries that runoff from luxury homes being built on the bluffs will foul the beach where she played as a child, washing away sand and tainting the surf.

So Davick, 43, began her culvert-climbing exploits. She has been joined by Stouffer, 51, of Laguna Niguel, whom she met 20 years ago when they were salesclerks at Bullock’s Wilshire.

“I was in handbags. Now I’m in sandbags,” joked Stouffer, who works for the alliance.

Last Sunday marked the third time the two women donned sneakers and warmup pants to crawl into the pipes. They had the routine down: the low, back-scratching ceiling at the start, the last chance to stand straight and stretch before the culvert plunges under the highway.

When Davick was a child exploring the culvert, she said, it ended just across the highway. Not any more. Now it leads into a 60-inch pipe, with a rivulet of muddy water running along the bottom. The two women straddled the mud, pushing their sneaker soles hard against the pipe walls. They balanced themselves with their nails--newly manicured--pressed into concrete. They scrambled up a sharp incline, sneakers slipping in the muck.

Davick led the way. Here comes the 48-inch pipe, she warned, and the women crouched lower. Here’s the first manhole, and the second. Stenciled date on this pipe: April 23, 1999.

They giggled at the notion of pipe-climbing as the new exercise fad, hardening muscles in the back and thighs.

Finally, a patch of daylight. A manhole above was tilted slightly, and Davick climbed the metal footholds to peer out. Supporting the lid with her shoulder, she reached for her camera, her legs trembling from the weight.

She could see half-stuccoed homes, she said. She suspected they were part of the Irvine Co.’s Crystal Cove development, but she couldn’t say for sure. Exhausted and breathless, she gave up and started downward, reaching with her toe for a foothold that wasn’t there. Stouffer grasped her sneaker and guided her down.

Even after 90 minutes underground, the two retained their sense of humor. When they returned to the incline, they laughed again.

“Magic Mountain!” Davick blurted out. And they slid down the pipe as if it were an amusement park ride, seated right in the muck. The laundry, they later said, was the hardest part.