The Myth of the 100-foot Whale

Blue whale off the California coast. (Photo: Erik Olsen)

Not So Big: How We Overstate the Length of the Blue Whale, Earth’s Largest Creature

One of the most extraordinary privileges of living in California, especially near the coast, is witnessing the annual arrival of blue whales. I’ve been at sea on several occasions when these giants surfaced nearby, and to see one in person, or even through my drone RC, is astonishing and unforgettable. I once had the rare and mind-blowing opportunity to swim with and film blue whales off the southern tip of Sri Lanka for a story I wrote and produced, an experience that will forever be seared into memory.

For decades, the blue whale has been celebrated as the largest creature ever to exist (Bigger than dinosaurs! True.), with many popular accounts claiming that these animals can reach lengths of 100 feet or more. Yet in all the videos, photographs, and encounters I’ve seen, not a single whale has come close to that. Still, article after article and documentary after documentary continues to repeat the claim that blue whales “reach 100 feet or more.” Nearly every whale-watching company in California repeats the claim, echoed endlessly across Instagram and TikTok.

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But is it true? Most blue whales I’ve seen off the coast of California are half that size or maybe 2/3. It felt misleading to say so otherwise. And so I did a lot of digging: reading, reaching out to experts, poring over historical records, and the fact is that no single blue whale has ever been scientifically measured at 100 feet. Close, as you will soon read, but not 100 feet or more. Especially not off the coast of California.

This discrepancy not only distorts our understanding of these magnificent creatures, but also highlights the broader issue of how media can shape and sometimes mislead public perception of scientific facts.

Blue whale tail fluke in Sri Lanka. (Photo: Erik Olsen)

In other words: the perception that blue whales commonly reach lengths of 100 feet or more likely stems from a combination of historical anecdotes, estimation errors, and a tendency to highlight extreme examples.

All that said, the blue whale (Balaenoptera musculus) is a truly magnificent creature. Hunted nearly to extinction in the 17th to 19th centuries, the blue whale has staged a hopeful recovery in the last five decades, since commercial whaling was outlawed by the international community in 1966 (although some Soviet whale hunting continued into the early 1970s). And California, in particular, has been blessed with the annual appearance of the largest population of blue whales in the world, called the Eastern North Pacific population, consisting of some 2,000 animals. That population makes an annual migration from the warm waters of Baja California to Alaska and back every year. This is the group I’ve seen off Newport Beach.

These numbers are painfully, tragically small compared to what existed before commercial whaling began. Prior to that, it was estimated that there were some 400,000 blue whales on earth. 360,000 were killed in the Antarctic alone. (IMO: this stands as one of the most shameful acts in human history).

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The International Union for Conservation of Nature estimates that there are probably between 5,000 to 15,000 blue whales worldwide today, divided among some five separate populations or groups, including the Eastern North Pacific population. Many now swim so close to shore that an entire whale-watching industry has flourished along the California coast, especially in the south, with many former fishing boats converted into whale-watching vessels..

But back to size, or, more specifically, length: there are two credible references in scientific papers of blue whales that are near 100 feet. The first is a measurement dating back to 1937. This was at an Antarctic whaling station where the animal was said to measure 98 feet. But even that figure is shrouded in some suspicion. First of all, 1937 was a long time ago, and while the size of a foot or meter has not changed, a lot of record-keeping during that time is suspect, as whales were not measured using standard zoological measurement techniques (see below). The 98-foot specimen was recorded by Lieut. Quentin R. Walsh of the US Coast Guard, who was acting as a whaling inspector of the factory ship Ulysses. Sadly, there is scant detail available about this measurement and it remains suspect in the scientific community.

Blue whale in Sri Lanka. (Photo: Erik Olsen)

The second is from a book and a 1973 paper by the late biologist Dale W. Rice, who references a single female in Antarctica whose “authenticated” measurement was also 98 feet. The measurement was conducted by the late Japanese biologist Masaharu Nishiwaki. Nishiwaki and Rice were friends, and while both are deceased, a record of their correspondence exists in a collection of Rice’s papers held by Sally Mizroch, co-trustee of the Dale W. Rice Research Library in Seattle. Reached by email, Dr. Mizroch said that Nishiwaki, who died in 1984, was a very well-respected scientist and that the figure he cited should be treated as reliable.

According to Mizroch, who has reviewed many of the Antarctic whaling records from the whaling era, whales were often measured in pieces after they were cut up, which greatly introduces the possibility for error. That is likely not the case with the 98-foot measurement, which took place in 1947 at a whaling station in Antarctica where Nishiwaki was stationed as a scientific observer.

Proper scientific measurements, the so-called “standard method”, are taken by using a straight line from the tip of the snout to the notch in the tail flukes. This technique was likely not used until well into the 20th century, said Mizroch. In fact, it wasn’t until the 1940s that the use of a metal tape measure became commonplace. According to Dan Bortolotti, author of Wild Blue: A Natural History of the World’s Largest Animal, many of the larger whales in the whaling records — especially those said to be over 100 feet — were probably measured incorrectly or even deliberately exaggerated because bonus money was paid to whalers based on the size of the animal caught.

So, according to the best records we have, the largest blue whale ever properly measured was 98 feet long. Granted, 98 feet is close to 100 feet, but it’s not 100 feet, and it’s certainly not over 100 feet, as so many otherwise reputable references state.

So, setting aside the fact that so many sources say the blue whale has reached 100 feet or more, and that there is no scientific evidence proving this, a key question to ask is how large can whales become?

Blue whale from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration

Most baleen whales are so-called lunge feeders. They open their mouths wide and lunge at prey like krill or copepods, drawing in hundreds of pounds of food at a time. Lunge-feeding baleen whales, it turns out, are wonderfully efficient feeders. The larger they become, the larger their gulps are, and the more food they draw in. But they also migrate vast distances, and oftentimes have to dive deep to find prey, both of which consume a large amount of energy.

A 2019 scientific paper in Science described how a team of researchers used an ocean-going Fitbit-like tag to track whales’ foraging patterns, hoping to measure the animals’ energetic efficiency, or the total amount of energy gained from foraging, relative to the energy expended in finding and consuming prey. The team concluded that there are likely ecological limits to how large a whale can become and that maximum size in filter feeders “is likely constrained by prey availability across space and time.” That is especially the case in today’s era, when overfishing and illegal fishing, including krill harvesting in Antarctica, have reduced the amount of prey available even in regions that used to be very prolific.

Whale fall off the California Coast (Ocean Exploration Trust)

John Calambokidis, a Senior Research Biologist and co-founder of Cascadia Research, a non-profit research organization formed in 1979 based in Olympia, Washington, has studied blue whales up and down the West Coast for decades. He told California Curated that the persistent use of the 100-foot figure can be misleading, especially when the number is used as a reference to blue whales off the coast of California.

The sizes among different blue whale groups differ significantly depending on their location around the globe. Antarctic whales tend to be much bigger, largely due to the amount of available food in cold Southern waters. The blue whales we see off the coast of California, Oregon, Washington and Alaska, are part of a different group from those in Antarctica. They differ both morphologically and genetically, and they consume different types and quantities of food. North Pacific blue whales, our whales, tend to be smaller and likely have always been so. Calambokidis believes that the chances any blue whales off the West Coast of the US ever reaching anything close to 100 feet is “almost non-existent”.

I emailed Regina Asmutis-Silvia, Executive Director North America of Whale and Dolphin Conservation, to ask about this discrepancy among so many seemingly authoritative outlets. She wrote: “While it appears biologically possible for blue whales to reach or exceed lengths of 100’, the current (and limited) photogrammetry data suggest that the larger blue whales which have been more recently sampled are under 80 feet.” Photogrammetry is the process of using several photos of an object — like a blue whale — to extract a three-dimensional measurement from two-dimensional data. It is widely used in biology, as well as engineering, architecture, and many other disciplines. Photogrammetry measurements are now often acquired by drones and have proven to be a more accurate means of measuring whale size at sea.

Here’s a key point: In the early part of the 20th century and before, whales were measured by whalers for the purpose of whaling, not measured by scientists for the purpose of science. Again, none of this is to say that blue whales aren’t gargantuan animals. They are massive and magnificent, but if we are striving for precision, it is not accurate to declare, as so many articles and other media do, that blue whales reach lengths of 100 feet or more. Or to insinuate that this size is in any way common. This is not to say it’s impossible that whales grew to or above 100 feet, it’s that, according to the scientific records, none ever has.

A relevant point from Dr. Asmutis-Silvia about the early days of Antarctic whaling: “Given that whales are long-lived and we don’t know at what age each species reaches its maximum length, it is possible that we took some very big, very old whales before we started to measure what we were taking.”

In an email exchange with Jeremy Goldbogen, the scientist at Stanford who authored the study in Science above, he says that measurements with drones off California “have been as high as 26 meters” or 85 feet.

So, why does nearly every citation online and elsewhere regularly cite the 100-foot number? It probably has to do with our love of superlatives and round numbers. We have a deep visceral NEED to be able to say that such and such animal is the biggest or the heaviest or the smallest or whatever. And, when it comes down to it, 100 feet is a nice round number that rolls easily off the tongue or typing fingers.

All said, blue whales remain incredible and incredibly large animals, and deserve our appreciation and protection. Their impressive rebound over the last half-century is to be widely celebrated, but let’s not, in the spirit of scientific inquiry, overstate their magnificence. They are magnificent enough.

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California’s Wild Laboratory and The Evolutionary Wonders of the Channel Islands

Anacapa Island in California’s Channel Islands (Photo: Erik Olsen)

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I recently took two scuba diving trips out to the Channel Islands to investigate and help remove ghost lobster traps: abandoned or lost gear that poses a serious threat to marine life. While out there, I also had a chance to explore the marine protected areas surrounding Anacapa and Santa Cruz Islands, getting a firsthand look at how these underwater reserves are helping to restore ocean health and marine life (another story on that coming). Diving in the Channel Islands is a great way for certified divers to experience the incredible biodiversity of California’s coastal waters, even if the water is cold as hell.

The Channel Islands are actually relatively close to the California mainland, just 12 miles from Ventura in the case of Anacapa. But the wild and windswept chain feels like a world apart. On a clear day, you can see them from Ventura or Santa Barbara, but oddly, few people actually visit. Compared to other national parks, they remain relatively unknown, which only adds to their quiet allure. Sometimes called the “Galápagos of North America,” these eight islands are a refuge for wildlife and a place where evolution unfolds before your eyes.

U.S. Park Service rangers patrol the marine protected area off of Anacapa Island in California’s Channel Islands
(Photo: Erik Olsen)

(Here’s a cool bit of history: there are eight Channel Islands today, but 20,000 years ago, during the last ice age when sea levels were much lower, four of them—San Miguel, Santa Rosa, Santa Cruz, and Anacapa—were connected as a single landmass called Santarosae.)

For scientists and nature lovers, the Channel Islands are more than just scenic, they’re a natural laboratory. Each island has its own shape, size, and ecological personality, shaped by millions of years of isolation. That makes them an ideal setting for the study of island biogeography, the branch of biology that looks at how species evolve and interact in isolated environments. What happens here offers insight into how life changes and adapts not just on islands, but across the planet.

Island biogeography is anchored in the theory proposed by E.O. Wilson and Robert MacArthur in the 1960s. Their theory, focusing on the balance between immigration and extinction of species on islands, is brilliantly exemplified in the Channel Islands.

The Channel Islands’ rich mosaic of habitats, from windswept cliffs and rocky shores to chaparral-covered hillsides and dense offshore kelp forests, provides an ideal setting for studying how species adapt to varied and changing conditions. Each island functions like a separate ecological experiment, shaped by isolation, resource limits, and time. Evolution has had free rein here, tweaking species in subtle ways and, occasionally, producing striking changes.

One of the most significant studies conducted in the Channel Islands focused on the island fox (Urocyon littoralis), a species found nowhere else on Earth. Research led by the late evolutionary biologist Robert Wayne at UCLA and others showed that the fox populations on each of the six islands they inhabit have evolved in isolation, with distinct genetic lineages and physical traits. This makes them a remarkable example of rapid evolution and adaptive divergence, core processes in island biogeography.

Genetic analyses revealed that each island’s fox population carries unique genetic markers, shaped by long-term separation and adaptation to local environments. These differences aren’t just genetic, they’re physical and behavioral too. Foxes on smaller islands, for instance, tend to be smaller in body size, likely an evolutionary response to limited resources, a phenomenon known as insular dwarfism. Variations in diet, foraging behavior, and even coat coloration have been documented, offering scientists an unparalleled opportunity to study evolutionary processes in a real-world, relatively contained setting.

Excavation of pygmy mammoth bones on the Channel Islands (Photo: National Park Service)

This phenomenon of insular dwarfism isn’t unique to the island fox. One of the most striking examples from the Channel Islands is the pygmy mammoth (Mammuthus exilis), whose fossilized remains were discovered on Santa Rosa Island. Evolving from the much larger Columbian mammoth, these ancient giants shrank to about half their original size after becoming isolated on the islands during the last Ice Age. Limited food, reduced predation, and restricted space drove their dramatic transformation, a powerful illustration of how isolation and environmental pressures can reshape even the largest of species.

Furthermore, the Channel Islands have been instrumental in studying plant species’ colonization and adaptation. Due to their isolation, the islands host a variety of endemic plant species. Research by Kaius Helenurm, including genetic studies on species such as the Santa Cruz Island buckwheat (Eriogonum arborescens) and island mallow (Malva assurgentiflora), has shown how these plants have adapted to the islands’ unique environmental pressures and limited gene flow.

Island mallow (*Malva assurgentiflora*), a vibrant flowering plant found only on the Channel Islands, thrives in the harsh coastal environment—its striking blooms a testament to the power of isolation and adaptation. (Photo: Curtis Clark)

The islands have been a scientific boon to researchers over the decades because they are not only home to many diverse and endemic species, but their proximity to the urban centers and the universities of California make them amazingly accessible. It’s been suggested that if Darwin had landed on the Channel Islands, he arguably could have come up with the theory of natural selection off of California, rather than happening upon the Galapagos. A 2019 book about the islands, titled North America’s Galapagos: The Historic Channel Islands Biological Survey recounts the story of a group of researchers, naturalists, adventurers, cooks, and scientifically curious teenagers who came together on the islands in the late 1930s to embark upon a series of ambitious scientific expeditions never before attempted.

The Channel Islands are renowned for their high levels of endemism — species that are found nowhere else in the world. This is a hallmark of island biogeography, as isolated landmasses often lead to the development of unique species. Darwin’s On the Origin of Species was one of the first extensive efforts to describe this phenomenon. For example, as mentioned above, the Channel Islands are home to the island fox (Urocyon littoralis), a small carnivore found only here. Each island has its own subspecies of the fox, differing slightly in size and genetics, a striking example of adaptive radiation, where a single species gives rise to multiple different forms in response to isolation and environmental pressures. That said, the foxes are also incredibly cute, but can be rather annoying if you are camping on the islands because they will ransack your food stores if you do not keep them tightly closed.

Island Fox on Santa Cruz Island (photo: Erik Olsen)

Bird life on the Channel Islands also reveals remarkable diversity and endemism. Much like the finches of the Galápagos, these islands are home to distinct avian species shaped by isolation and adaptation. The Santa Cruz Island Scrub Jay, for instance, is noticeably larger and more vividly colored than its mainland relatives, a reflection of its unique island habitat. Also, jays in pine forests tend to have longer, shallower bills, while those in oak woodlands have shorter, deeper bills. Evolutionary adaptations right out of the Darwinian playbook. Likewise, the San Clemente House Finch has evolved traits suited to its specific environment, illustrating how even common species can diverge dramatically when given time and separation.

The Island Scrub-Jay (*Aphelocoma insularis*), found only on Santa Cruz Island, is larger and more vividly colored than its mainland cousin—an unmistakable symbol of how isolation shapes evolution. (Photo: National Park Service)

The impacts of invasive species on island ecosystems, another critical aspect of island biogeography, are also evident in the Channel Islands. The islands have been an superb laboratory for the practice of conservation and human-driven species recovery. For example, efforts to remove invasive species, like pigs and rats, and the subsequent recovery of native species, like the island fox, provide real-time insights into ecological restoration and the resilience of island ecosystems.

These efforts at conservation and species recovery extend beyond the island fox. In 1997, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service identified that 13 plant species native to the northern Channel Islands in California were in dire need of protection under the Endangered Species Act. This need arose due to several decades of habitat degradation, primarily attributed to extensive sheep grazing. These conservation efforts have yielded good news. For instance, the island bedstraw (Galium buxifolium) expanded from 19 known sites with approximately 500–600 individuals in 1997 to 42 sites with over 15,700 individuals. Similarly, the Santa Cruz Island dudleya (Dudleya nesiotica) population stabilized at around 120,000 plants. As a result of these recoveries, both species were removed from the federal endangered species list in 2023, coinciding with the 50th anniversary of the Endangered Species Act.

Santa Cruz Island Dudleya (Photo: National Park Service)

Conservation efforts at the Channel Islands extend beneath the waves, where marine protected areas (MPAs) have played a crucial role in restoring the rich biodiversity of the underwater world. I’ve seen the rich abundance of sea life firsthand on several dives at the Channel Islands, where the biodiversity feels noticeably greater than at many mainland dive sites in Southern California.

The Channel Islands Marine Protected Areas (MPAs), established in 2003, were among the first of their kind in California. The MPAs around Anacapa, Santa Cruz, and other islands act as refuges where fishing and other extractive activities are limited or prohibited, allowing marine ecosystems to recover and thrive. Over the past two decades, scientists have documented increases in the size and abundance of key species such as kelp bass, lobsters, and sheephead, alongside the resurgence of lush kelp forests that anchor a vibrant web of marine life. These protections have not only benefited wildlife but have also created living laboratories for researchers to study ecological resilience, predator-prey dynamics, and the long-term impacts of marine conservation, all taking place in the context of island biogeography.

Kelp bass in the kelp forest at the Channel Islands (Photo: Erik Olsen)

What makes all of this possible is the remarkable decision to keep these islands protected and undeveloped. Unlike much of the California coast, the Channel Islands were set aside, managed by the National Park Service and NOAA as both a national park and a marine sanctuary. These protections have preserved not just the landscapes, but the evolutionary stories still unfolding in real time. It’s a rare and precious thing to have a living laboratory of biodiversity right in our backyard, and a powerful reminder of why preserving wild places matters.

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The Scourge of Ghost Lobster Traps and the Battle to Save Marine Life in California

Ghost lobster trap off Santa Cruz Island in California’s Channel Islands (Photo: Erik Olsen)

Lobster is delicious. Let’s just get that out of the way. Yes, I’m sure there are some who either don’t enjoy the taste of this prolific crustacean, or who are allergic, but for my part, lobster (with a small vial of melted butter) is ambrosia from the sea.

But beyond its place on the plate, the California spiny lobster plays a vital ecological role: hunting sea urchins, hiding in rocky reefs, and helping to keep kelp forests in balance. Its value extends far beyond what it fetches at market. But beneath the surface, particularly around the Channel Islands lurks a growing problem that doesn’t just threaten lobsters. It threatens the entire marine ecosystem: ghost traps.

Dive ship Spectre off of Anacapa Island in California’s Channel Islands (Photo: Erik Olsen)

In Southern California, lobster fishing is both a cultural tradition and a thriving industry, worth an estimated $44 million annually to California’s economy from commercial landings as well as recreational fishing, tourism, and seafood markets.

In late April, I traveled to the Channel Islands with my colleague Tod Mesirow to see the problem of ghost lobster traps firsthand. We were aboard the Spectre dive ship and pulled out of Ventura Harbor on an overcast morning, the sky a uniform gray that blurred the line between sea and cloud. The swell was gentle, but the air carried a sense of anticipati on. We were invited by the Benioff Ocean Science Laboratory, which is conducting research and outreach in the area. Our visit took us to Anacapa and Santa Cruz Islands, where I would be diving to observe the traps littering the sea floor. Tod, meanwhile, remained topside, capturing footage and speaking with marine scientists. Even before entering the water, we could see the toll: frayed lines tangled in kelp, buoys adrift, and entire areas where dive teams had marked clusters of lost gear.

California spiny lobsters alive when the ghost trap was recovered (Photo: Erik Olsen)

Ghost traps are lobster pots that have been lost or abandoned at sea. Made of durable metal mesh and often outfitted with bait containers and strong ropes, these traps are built to last. And they do. For years. Sometimes decades. The problem is, even when their human operators are long gone, these traps keep fishing.

“It’s not uncommon to find multiple animals dead inside a single trap,” said Douglas McCauley, a marine science professor at UC Santa Barbara and director of the Benioff Ocean Science Laboratory who was onboard with us and leading the project. “It’s heartbreaking. These traps are still doing exactly what they were built to do, just without anyone coming back to check them.”

Douglas McCauley, director of the Benioff Ocean Science Laboratory at the University of California Santa Barbara holding a lobster caught in a ghost trap off the coast of the Channel Islands (Photo: Erik Olsen)

Around the Channel Islands National Marine Sanctuary, where fishing pressure is high and waters can be rough, thousands of traps are lost every season. Currents, storms, or boat propellers can sever buoys from their lines, leaving the traps invisible and unrecoverable. Yet they keep doing what they were designed to do: lure lobsters and other sea creatures inside, where they die and become bait for the next unfortunate animal. It’s a vicious cycle known as “ghost fishing.”

“They call them ghost traps because, like a ghost sailing ship, they keep doing their thing. They keep fishing.” said McCauley.

Statewide, the numbers are staggering. Approximately 6,500 traps are reported lost off the California coast each fishing season, according to The California Department of Fish and Wildlife. The folks at the Benioff Ocean Science Laboratory said as many as 6,000 may lie off the coast of the Channel Islands alone. Ocean Divers removing marine debris have found traps stacked three and four high in underwater ravines—rusting, tangled, but still deadly. These ghost traps don’t just catch lobsters; they also trap protected species like sheephead, cabezon, octopuses, and even the occasional sea turtle or diving seabird.

Diver and Project Scientist Chase Brewster of the Benioff Ocean Science Laboratory collecting data on ghost lobster traps near California’s Channel Islands (Photo: Erik Olsen)

Nowhere is this more evident than around the Channel Islands. These rugged islands are home to some of California’s richest kelp forests and underwater canyons. The islands and their surrounding waters are home to over 2,000 plant and animal species, with 145 of them being unique to the islands and found nowhere else on Earth. In fact, the Channel Islands are often referred to as North America’s Galapagos for the immense diversity of species here.

The islands are also the site of the state’s most productive spiny lobster fisheries. Every fall, hundreds of commercial and recreational fishers flood the area, setting thousands of traps in a race to catch California spiny lobsters (Panulirus interruptus). But rough swells and heavy gear mean traps go missing. Boats sometimes cut the lines of traps, making them near impossible to retrieve from the surface. And because this region is a patchwork of state waters, federal waters, and marine protected areas (MPAs), cleanup and regulation are anything but straightforward.

California Spiny Lobster off Anacapa Island (Photo: Erik Olsen)

The traps are often difficult to locate, partly because of their remote placement and the notoriously rough waters around the Channel Islands. But the Benioff Ocean Science Laboratory has a powerful asset: side scan sonar. From the ship, they can scan and map the seafloor, where the ghost traps often appear as dark, rectangular shapes against the sand. Once spotted, the team uses GPS to log their exact location.

“It’s creates a picture made of sound on the seafloor and you see these large lego blocks staring at you in bright yellow on the screen and those are your lobster traps,” sayd McCauley. “There’s nothing else except a ghost trap that looks like that.”

Plunging into the frigid waters off Santa Cruz Island was a jolt to the system. Visibility was limited, just 10 to 15 feet, but I followed two scientists from the Benioff Ocean Science Laboratory down to a depth of 45 feet. Their task: to attach a rope to the trap so it could be hauled up by the boat’s winch.

Dive ship Spectre off the coast of Santa Cruz Island in California’s Channel Islands (Photo: Erik Olsen)

The water was thick with suspended particles, the light dimming quickly as we dropped lower. My 7mm wetsuit was just barely enough to stave off the cold. On the seafloor, the ghost trap emerged, a large rectangular cage resting dark and ominous in the sand. And it was teeming with life. Fish darted around its edges, lobsters clambered along the frame, and inside, several animals moved about, trapped and slowly dying. It was easy to see how a single trap could wreak quiet havoc for years.

California law technically requires all lobster traps to include biodegradable “escape panels” with zinc hinges that degrade over time, eventually allowing trapped animals to escape. But enforcement is tricky, and the panels don’t always work as intended. In practice, many traps, especially older or illegally modified ones, keep fishing long after they should have stopped. That’s what we were out here to find.

A baby octopus caught in a ghost trap in the waters off California’s Channel Islands (Photo: Erik Olsen)

Complicating matters is the fact that once a trap goes missing, there’s no easy way to retrieve it. Fishers are not legally allowed to touch traps that aren’t theirs, even if they’re obviously abandoned. And while a few small nonprofits and volunteer dive teams conduct periodic ghost gear removal missions, they can’t keep pace with the scale of the problem.

“At this fishery, we can’t get them all,” says McCauley. “But by going through and getting some species out and getting them back in the water, we’re making a difference. But in the process, we’re coming up with new ideas, new technologies, new research methods, which we think could play a role in and actually stopping this problem in the first instance.”

Once abundant along California’s coast, this large abalone spotted off Santa Cruz Island is a rare sight today—a quiet reminder of how overfishing, disease, and environmental change have decimated their populations. (Photo: Erik Olsen)

Back topside, the recovery team aboard the Spectre used a powerful hydraulic winch to haul the trap onto the deck. After climbing out of the cold water, still shivering, I joined the others to get a closer look. The trap was heavy and foul-smelling, but what stood out most was what was inside: lobsters, maybe ten or more. Some had perished, but many were alive and thrashed their tails when lifted by the scientists. Females could be identified by their broader, flatter tail fins—adapted to hold eggs. The team carefully measured each one before tossing them back into the sea, the lobsters flipping backward through the air and disappearing into the depths.

There were other animals, too. Large, rounded crabs known as Sheep crabs, common to these waters, scuttled at the bottom of the trap. Sea snails were clustered along the mesh, and in one cage, there were dozens of them, clinging and crawling with slow purpose. Even baby octopuses made appearances, slithering out onto the deck like confused aliens. I picked one up gently, marveling at its strange, intelligent eyes and soft, shifting forms, before tossing it back into the sea in hopes it would have another chance at life.

Ghost lobster trap lies on the seafloor off of Santa Cruz Island in California’s Channel Islands (Photo: Erik Olsen)

By then, the day had brightened and the sun had come out, easing the chill that lingered after the dive. The traps would be taken back to Ventura, where they’d likely be documented and disposed of. But this day wasn’t just about saving individual animals or pulling traps off the seafloor—it was about data. The Benioff team wants to understand just how big of a problem ghost traps really are. It’s not just about the number of traps lost each season, but the broader ecological toll: how many animals get caught, how many die, and how these traps alter the underwater food web. Every recovered trap adds a piece to the puzzle. This trip was about science as much as rescue.

State agencies, including the California Department of Fish and Wildlife (CDFW), have started pilot programs aimed at tackling ghost gear. In 2023, CDFW launched a limited recovery permit program that allows fishers to collect derelict traps at the end of the season, provided they notify the state. But participation is voluntary and poorly funded.

Elsewhere, states like Maine and Florida have created large-scale, state-funded programs to identify and remove ghost traps, often employing fishers in the off-season. California, despite having the nation’s fourth-largest lobster fishery, has yet to make a similar investment.

Ghost lobster traps recovered from the seafloor off the coast of California’s Channel Islands (Photo: Erik Olsen)

Some solutions are already within reach. Mandating GPS-equipped buoys for commercial traps could help track and retrieve gear before it’s lost. More robust escape hatch designs, made from materials that dissolve in weeks rather than months, would shorten the lifespan of a lost trap. And expanding retrieval programs with funding from fishing license fees or federal grants could make a big dent in ghost gear accumulation.

But even more powerful than regulation may be public awareness. Ghost traps are out of sight, but their damage is far from invisible. Every trap left behind in the Channel Islands’ waters becomes another threat to biodiversity, another source of plastic and metal waste, and another reminder that marine stewardship doesn’t stop when the fishing season ends.

Key to the whole effort is data:

“Every one of the animals that we put back in the water today, we’ll be taking a measure,” says McCauley. “After a little bit of crunching in the lab, we’ll be able to say, oh, actually, you know, every single trap undercuts the fishery by x percent for every single year that we don’t solve the problem.”

Doug McCauley with a lobster trap retrieved from the seafloor off the coast of California’s Channel Islands (Photo: Erik Olsen)

As we headed back toward Ventura, Tod and I talked with Douglas McCauley and Project Scientist Neil Nathan from the Benioff Ocean Science Laboratory. The team had collected a total of 13 traps that day alone, and 34 over the several days they’d been out. There was a sense of satisfaction on board, quiet but real. Each trap removed was a small win for the ecosystem, a little less pressure on an already strained marine environment.

“I would call today an incredible success, ” said Neil Nathan. “Feeling great about the number of traps we collected.”

California has long been a leader in ocean conservation. If it wants to stay that way, it needs to take ghost fishing seriously, not just around the Channel Islands, but up and down the coast. After all, we owe it to the lobsters, yes, but also to the underwater forests, reef communities, and countless species whose lives are tangled in the nets we leave behind.

The Lost Island of Santarosae off California’s Coast

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Imagine a massive island off the coast of California roughly thrice the size of Maui, a lush and wild place where miniature mammoths once roamed and ancient humans hunted in the shadows of towering trees. This island once existed and it’s called Santarosae, and while it is gone now, it was once a thriving ecosystem, teeming with life. Its story provides a captivating window into the ever-changing natural history of the California coast region.

During the last Ice Age, approximately 20,000 to 25,000 years ago, when sea levels were significantly lower, Santarosae Island was a single, expansive landmass that now comprises most of California’s Channel Islands. As the cooler Pleistocene climate transitioned into the warmer Holocene (the epoch we are in now), the Earth’s oceans heated and expanded. Continental ice sheets and glaciers melted, releasing vast amounts of water and causing sea levels to rise dramatically.

At its peak, Santarosae was massive—four of today’s Channel Islands (San Miguel, Santa Rosa, Santa Cruz, and Anacapa) were all connected into a single landmass. It spanned around 1,500 square miles, making it a significant feature of the Pacific coast landscape. Today, only remnants remain in the form of those four separate islands, but evidence of Santarosae’s ancient past continues to reveal itself to scientists.

Map depicting the reconstructed geography of Santarosae.

Anacapa was the first to break away, around 10,300 to 10,900 years ago, as rising waters gradually submerged the narrow isthmus that once connected it to the rest of Santarosae. This slow disintegration of the super island was witnessed by the humans already inhabiting the region. Having arrived between 12,710 and 13,010 years ago, possibly even earlier, these early settlers likely traveled by boat, following the “kelp highway“—a rich, coastal ecosystem of underwater seaweed forests stretching from northern Japan and Kamchatka, along the southern shores of Beringia, down the Pacific Northwest, and into Baja California. For these early explorers, Santarosae would have appeared as a land of abundant resources.

One of the island’s most captivating features was its population of pygmy mammoths, found exclusively on Santarosae. Standing between 4.5 to 7 feet tall at the shoulder and weighing around 2,000 pounds, these miniaturized versions of mainland Columbian mammoths were about the size of a large horse and evolved to suit their isolated island habitat (see our story on the island biogeography of the Channel Islands). The reasons for their dwarfism stem from a phenomenon called island rule, where species on islands often shrink due to limited resources and isolation, as well as a shortage of predators. Despite their smaller size, these island-dwelling mammoths likely shared many characteristics with their larger relatives, including a similar body shape, short fur, and a large head. These mammoths roamed Santarosae until they disappeared around 13,000 years ago, coinciding with both climate changes and the arrival of humans.

Pygmy Mammoth excavation on the Channel Islands (NPS)

The first discovery of “elephant” remains on Santa Rosa Island was reported in 1873. Over time, additional excavations provided insight into the island’s mammoth population, which gradually became smaller over generations, eventually disappearing at the end of the Pleistocene. Notably, paleontological digs conducted on Santa Rosa Island in 1927 and 1928 unearthed the remains of a new species, Mammuthus exilis. In the 1940s and 1950s, Philip Orr of the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History recovered further specimens while conducting archaeological and geological work on the island.

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Most pygmy mammoth remains have been discovered on Santa Rosa and San Miguel Islands, with fewer finds from Santa Cruz Island and even fewer from San Nicolas Island, which lies outside the Channel Islands National Park.

Santarosae was not just a wilderness for megafauna—it was home to some of the earliest known human settlers in North America. Archaeological discoveries, such as the remains of a 13,000-year-old woman unearthed on Santa Rosa Island, point to a sophisticated maritime culture. These ancient humans, likely ancestors of the Chumash people, navigated the waters around Santarosae in plank canoes, hunting seals, birds, and fish, while gathering plants and shellfish.

Archaeologists excavate a anthropological site at the Channel Islands (NPS)

The island provided ample resources, but it wasn’t isolated from the rest of the world. The people of Santarosae were part of a complex trade network that stretched across the California coast. Evidence of these connections can be seen in the tools and materials found on the island, some of which came from distant sources. As sea levels rose, however, these early inhabitants had to adapt to the shrinking island, eventually migrating to the mainland.

Santarosae’s landscape during the Ice Age was strikingly different from what we see on today’s Channel Islands. Dense forests of pines, oaks, and other vegetation covered much of the island, supporting a rich diversity of life. The island’s topography included hills, valleys, and freshwater sources, offering an ideal environment for both humans and animals. As the climate warmed and sea levels rose, the island’s ecology shifted. Forests retreated, and the landscape began to resemble the wind-swept, scrubby terrain seen on the modern Channel Islands.

The rise in sea levels didn’t just transform the landscape; it also altered the ecosystems. Many of the animals, like the pygmy mammoths, couldn’t survive the changing conditions (or human hunters), while new species adapted to the shrinking landmass. Birds, insects, and plant species began to dominate, and the island ecosystems became more specialized.

Today, the remnants of Santarosae offer an invaluable window into the past. The Channel Islands National Park protects much of the area, and researchers continue to uncover clues about the island’s history. Ongoing archaeological digs and ecological studies on the islands help piece together the story of Santarosae’s people, animals, and landscape.

Tourists now enjoy the natural beauty of the Channel Islands (Erik Olsen)

For those who visit the Channel Islands today, it’s hard to imagine the ancient world of Santarosae—a much larger island teeming with life. But the remnants of this lost island still hold secrets waiting to be uncovered, offering a fascinating glimpse into California’s distant past and a reminder of how the forces of nature continually reshape our world.

Though Santarosae is now submerged, its influence is still a significant part of California’s natural history.

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The Enigmatic Island Fox: A Tale of Survival and Conservation

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In the rugged, isolated beauty of California’s Channel Islands, a small, curious creature scampers through the chapparal, playing a crucial role in the archipelago’s ecosystem. It’s the Island Fox (Urocyon littoralis), a species that encapsulates both the vulnerability and resilience of island ecosystems.

The island fox only lives on six of the eight Channel Islands off the coast of southern California–they are found nowhere else on Earth. Each island population is recognized as a separate endemic or unique subspecies. This divergence is a classic case of allopatric speciation, where geographic isolation leads to the evolution of different species.

The Island Fox, notably smaller than its mainland cousin, the gray fox, stands as a striking example of insular dwarfism – a phenomenon found in the theory of island biogeography where species evolve smaller sizes on islands. It should be noted that island biogeography, which explores the distribution of species and ecosystems in island environments, finds a perfect case study in the Channel Islands. For instance, the discovery of remains of the pygmy mammoth (Mammuthus exilis) on Santa Rosa Island provides a classic example of how isolation and limited resources can lead to significant evolutionary changes.

Skeleton of the Pygmy Mammoth at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History

The Island Fox is known for its curiosity and intelligence. It’s primarily nocturnal but is often active during the day, especially when tourists and their food are around. Visitors to the most popular Channel Islands like Anacapa, Santa Rosa, and Santa Cruz may regularly see the foxes scurrying around campsites looking for scraps of food. They readily approach humans, perhaps an unfortunate sign that they have become too habituated to humans. The island fox is an omnivore, with a diet ranging from fruits and insects to small mammals and birds. Its diet shifts with the seasons, reflecting the availability of different food sources on the islands.

Island Foxes typically form monogamous pairs during the breeding season, which runs from January to March. The female gives birth to a litter of two to four pups around 50 days after mating. These pups are weaned and ready to fend for themselves after about 9 months, reaching sexual maturity at 10 months. The average lifespan of an Island Fox in the wild is 4 to 6 years, though they can live longer in captivity.

Island Fox on the Channel Islands (Photo: Erik Olsen)

The story of the Island Fox’s conservation is one of remarkable success but also a stark reminder of the fragility of island ecosystems. In the late 1990s, the Island Fox population faced a catastrophic decline, primarily due to predation by golden eagles and a disease outbreak. By 2004, fewer than 100 foxes remained on some islands, leading to their classification as an endangered species.

Island Fox looking for food scraps. (Photo: Erik Olsen)

A concerted effort by conservationists, including the National Park Service and the Nature Conservancy, initiated a recovery program. This program involved breeding foxes in captivity, vaccinating them against diseases, and relocating golden eagles while reintroducing bald eagles, a natural competitor. Remarkably, by 2016, the Island Fox populations had bounced back sufficiently for them to be removed from the endangered species list, marking one of the fastest recoveries of an endangered species in U.S. history.

The Island Fox’s journey from the brink of extinction to a conservation success story is a testament to the power of dedicated conservation efforts. It also highlights the importance of maintaining ecological balance in sensitive environments like the Channel Islands.

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