By Summer Brennan
Environmentalists, nationwide politicians, scientists, and the dept of the inner all joined a prolonged conflict for the estuary that had the ability to persuade the way forward for wasteland for many years to return. have been the oyster farmers environmental criminals, or sufferers of presidency fraud? Fought opposed to a backdrop of worry of presidency corruption and the looming specter of weather swap, the conflict struck a countrywide nerve, pitting nature opposed to agriculture and technological know-how opposed to politics, because it sought to figure out who belonged and who didn’t belong, and what it capacity to be wild.
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Additional resources for The Oyster War: The True Story of a Small Farm, Big Politics, and the Future of Wilderness in America
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Emslie, a biologist focusing on seabirds McCrea Cobb, a biologist studying tule elk POLITICIANS Pete McCloskey, California Congressman 1975–1983, Republican Phillip Burton, California Congressman 1964–1983, Democrat Dianne Feinstein, California Senator, Democrat Barbara Boxer, California Senator, Democrat Lynn Woolsey, California Congresswoman, Democrat Steve Kinsey, a county supervisor, de facto “mayor of West Marin” OTHER PLAYERS Greg Sarris, Indian chief, novelist, professor and casino owner Burr Heneman, former director of the Point Reyes Bird Observatory David Weiman, a lobbyist Robert Plotkin, owner of the Point Reyes Light newspaper 2005–2010 Tom Baty, a fisherman, beachcomber and forager Unnamed sharpshooter, wildlife population control specialist with White Buffalo Inc.
Hey, mija,” he said, “vamanos,” and threw me a muddy orange life vest. I caught it, clasping it against my white shirt, which until a second ago had been clean. I wasn’t prepared for something like this. I was wearing my favorite black jeans, not a pair I’d want to get dirty, but I tried not to think about that. He ushered me across a balanced plank that led to the moored motorboat where two men were loading the black mesh bags onto the barge tethered alongside. Both the boat and the barge were old, warped by weather and water away from their original symmetry.
Near my leg lay the pale body of a small, crushed crab. I made my introductions and shook the men’s hands. The tall one was named Ignacio, and the shorter one introduced himself as Oscar. The sun felt hot on the top of my head, and too late I remembered that not only did I not have a hat, but I wasn’t wearing any sunscreen. “Okay, bonita,” Oscar said to me as he gunned the little engine with a wink. ” I asked him as we motored out into the open water. Ignacio crouched on the barge while Oscar navigated.