The Incredible Edible Piping Plover

It’s impossible to know what they’re thinking. Young lovers, nestled in the shallows of Rockaway Beach, watching the sapphire sea sparkle beneath the sun.  Like many New Yorkers, they are supremely opportunistic, moving onto real estate vacated by a struggling municipality.  Their grasp on this prime beach property, is tenuous, but thanks to Sarah Aucoin and local developers, they need not fear eviction when, at the end of every summer, they spread their wings and fly south.

The piping plover is a squat little bird with knobby knees.  With sand-colored feathers stretching across its back and a fluffy white chest, the bird resembles a corpulent customer trying on a small raincoat.   But it runs in quick, short spurts, dispelling any doubts about its fitness. 

The birds began using Rockaway Beach as a mating ground in the 1990s when, for a variety of reasons, a section of the beach had been closed to the public.  Infrequent rakings and a lack of traffic allowed the area to develop into a massive undulation of sand with sparse grass and small depressions: the perfect mating habitat for the six inch, two ounce bird.

 But perfection was transient. Dunes are generally unstable, either washing back into the sea, or growing into stabilized ground.  The Rockaway dune shifted towards stability, sprouting thick grasses, which are not preferable for plovers.

Beachgoers rediscovered the Rockaways and a neighborhood development plan meant even more threats towards the little birds.  The plovers, a federally threatened species, were facing eviction from their summer home.

When they were first noticed in Rockaway about ten years ago, the plovers were making good on land left to itself.  Abandoned property on one side and the sea on another had left a stretch of beach undisturbed by pedestrian visitors.

The birds, 20 to 50 pairs of them, began to come every March to mate.  Plovers are serially monogamous, says Sarah Aucoin, deputy director of the Urban Park Rangers.  They settled down with a single mate for the season, made nests, deposited several eggs, and dined on worms, beetles and the occasional clam.  When the chicks hatched, they would wander the dune in search of enough food to prepare them for the autumn move to North Carolina, or, perhaps, the Bahamas

But plover paradise began to crumble as the years wore on.  The city raked the area less, allowing thicker grasses to sprout.  While such a thing is good for dune stabilization, which helps stay beachfront erosion, it is bad for piping plovers. 

Like Goldilocks and her warm oatmeal, the birds need just enough grass, but not too much. In a sense, the birds require a dune that is in a particular phase of its life, somewhere between empty sand and shrubby overgrowth.  The changing conditions on Rockaway Beach were forcing the plovers to seek new breeding ground.

“They’re plovers,” said Aucoin.  “They can do what they want.” Aucoin, however, wanted the birds to stay.  With beach crowds increasing, Aucoin said the parks department didn’t want to fence off more beach, or patrol the area.  Instead, the goal was to optimize the existing plover habitat. 

So Aucoin began a navigation of the Department of Environmental Conservation and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to secure permits to create, at the dune, the perfect plover site.  Discerning the Plover’s picky preferences, Aucoin and the Rangers thinned the grass in areas permitted by the D.E.C.

 “It was a lot of work,” Aucoin said.  The grass had to be hand -picked and replanted on the back side of the dune, in a compromise between D.E.C.’s desire for dune stabilization and the needs of the birds. 

“Plover nesting success increased dramatically,” said Aucoin, who won an award for her efforts at this year’s graduation ceremony for the Urban Park Service.  “The D.E.C. folks that I worked with from the Erosion Control unit in Albany were fantastic – they were able to balance these competing interests beautifully, protecting the dune AND allowing us to do habitat enhancement for the plovers,” she wrote in an email.

But at the end of 2001, a different kind of doomsday seemed to menace the birds, when a redevelopment plan for Arverne, the neighborhood adjacent to the habitat, threatened the birds with increased human traffic.  The developers, already working closely with the city on other aspects of the project, chose to combine efforts with the parks department as well.  It was all part of the approval process,” said Gerry Romski, attorney for Arverne-by-the-Sea.  

The development informs potential residents of the habitat’s presence up front.  “We have literature here on the piping plover that we hand out,” said Laura Sporny, sales manager for Arverne-the-the-Sea, which abuts the western edge of the plover habitat. 

The 117 acre development has taken other measures to ensure the continued presence of the plover.  “You can’t have loose cats,” said Romski.  Household predators pose a distinct threat to the birds, especially the helpless hatchlings that wobble around the dune looking for food.  There is a piping plover protection fund.  “Every homeowner makes a contribution every year,” said Romski.  “[Residents] recognize they have to live in harmony with the plover and they make adjustments.  No one complains”

With more development planned for the future, Sarah Aucoin of the Rangers anticipates an increase in the pressures in the area, and more potential threats to the birds.  But through outreach to the public and by working with developers, and state and federal departments, Sarah is optimistic about the birds’ future as honored guests of New York City.  “We want to help people see [the plovers] as a resource.  How odd, how unlikely it is.”  Aucoin is applying this year for a larger testing area to secure the plover’s presence for years to come.

Through all this, the birds remain oblivious.  They’re most likely unaware of the massive, coordinated efforts among Aucoin, the federal and state departments, and the Arverne developers.  The birds simply continue to come every March, meeting and mating, then flying off into warmer, more southerly territories.

For all the efforts to save their habitat, the only thing the piping plovers know is their home will be here next year, when they return for another summer in the shallows of the great dune on Rockaway Beach.

Night of the Un-Dead

The butterfly king spread his leopard-print wings and the lights went dim above him. Frank Zappa appeared behind Dweezil, who had assembled with the rest of the band, glittering like metal objects under the white stage lights. The acrid scent of cheap reefer drifted to the upper section of the Beacon Theater. A house full of silver-haired ghosts of a different age settled in for a three-hour show.

On Halloween, the boundary between reality and un-reality was breached here, in the famed concert venue on Broadway at West 74^th St.

Outside the hall, the city was overrun with midget goblins and immature devils, scampering up and down brownstone staircases in search of candy, in sight of mom and dad. Vulgarity stripped of its malice; innocence in horns.

Inside, that distinction dissolved. In the bathroom on the top floor, where the urinals are flush with the wall and there are no courteous divisions, a disheveled fellow was self-ingratiating. I got the hell out of there.

In the theater, the edifice above the stage looked like wrought iron in the darkness. A dingy red glow came from behind. Then the senior Zappa appeared on stage, an analog projection of the ghost whose vocal track was set on top of live music. Old Zappa, young Zappa. Dead, un-dead.

Zappa’s music is precision off-kilter. Elevator xylophone melted into heavy-metal riffs. Adam Wallitt, sitting to the side, asked if he could sit on my left. “I’m a little deaf,” he said.

“At this moment,” I said after a thick rhythm crested, “so am I.”

Wallitt looked at me plainly. Either he didn’t hear or it wasn’t funny.

He could hear the high notes, he explained, but not the low ones. This seat, closer to the center section, was better. I heard, in the aural melee, the shuffling consonants of his speech.

Devon Stein moved into the seat next to Adam. Stein had gotten the tickets for tonight’s show, Zappa Plays Zappa, Dweezil’s musical project to cover his father’s original music. Stein gave two tickets to Josh Gould, who spared one for me.

The scenes behind Dweezil appeared to be from Zappa’s movie, “Baby Snakes,” according to Stein, a steadfast Zappa fan. “Baby Snakes” was filmed at Frank Zappa’s 1977 Halloween concert at the Palladium Theater in New York City.

Dweezil sank into a long groove. The guitar climbed high on a singular, twisting note. Tiny finger movements, invisible from up here, transgressed an unholy line between organic and unnatural. Wallitt whistled while he stood. It struck me, the dead playing with the living, the deaf hearing music, the un-vulgar goblins running amok outside and the horrific vulgarity of the third-floor men’s room. It came together during that long guitar scream. The silver students of the seventies music scene, smoking their last joints. This was a graveyard. A dying scene on the day of the dead.; an entire culture on its way out.

After a couple of hours, a sonic landscape resolved: rectangular ships adrift on paper waves. The Beacon took on the appearance of a womb, a circular fold of smooth muscle encircling the ceiling, pulsing and erotic in the shifting dark. A hypodermic stalactite, ostensibly some sort of chandelier, hung down from the center of that fearsome, orgasmic roof. The air was thick with smoke and it was becoming easier to imagine that Frank had never died of prostate cancer in 1993.

After 11 p.m. the stentorian riffs neared their close. Frank appeared, after a long respite, on the screen again. Viscous guitar and scenes from twenty years ago, Dweezil playing dad’s music dressed in what appeared to be pajamas, Frank behind him in a billowing red blouse and tight red pants. Even from beyond the grave, Frank exuded a musky sexuality.

The band came to its close. The members, some from the original band, bowed and faded into backstage. I readied to leave.

“Frank’s been dead fifteen years already, “said Gould, standing above me.

“Not tonight,” I said, seeing that boundary crumble and dissolve. “Tonight, he’s alive again.”