Crabbing gave Holland something few other jobs offer. He was his own boss, his office was the Georgia coast, and the clock he punched was set by Mother Nature.
"I loved the freedom of it, being able to work on my own. I loved the outdoors, and I loved fishing," Holland says. "But it was hard work. No one will ever tell you crabbing is easy."
Holland smiles when he talks about the years he toiled, pulling up traps from the deep waters where the Altamaha River meets the Atlantic Ocean. The Altamaha's current moves fast, so he had to rig his traps with 11-pound weights to keep them in place. The weights were attached to floats so Holland would know which ones were his.
The few crabbers who are left today use motorized winches to pull up their traps. But Holland always pulled his up by hand, fighting against the current, the weight of the traps and, he hoped, the added weight of the crabs inside.
He'd dump his catch into a box, then restock the trap with fresh-cut pogeys and lower it back into the swirling water. If there were no crabs, he'd just replace the bait, lower the trap again and aim his boat toward the next float.
That's what crabbers do. Or what they used to do. Four years ago, like hundreds of other Georgians who used to catch crabs or process their meat, Holland quit. He simply wasn't catching enough of them to make a living.
"When I had a very small retail store for crab, for me to operate that store without having to work seven days a week, I needed to catch about five, six boxes [of crab] a day," he says. "Well, when you're getting down to where you're catching two boxes a day, working seven days a week -- I couldn't keep it up. Then it was time, I knew right then, for a change."
Holland's decision wasn't made in haste. He'd watched the crab population slowly and steadily dwindle.
"We started seeing declines, visually, back in the early '90s," he says. "Then it kept getting worse and kept getting worse."
In 1994, crabbers banded together to figure out why the catches continued to shrink. State biologists figured the crabs simply were being over-harvested.
So Holland and the other crabbers asked lawmakers for legislation that would limit the number of crabs that could be caught. The bill passed, and the Blue Crab Management Program was enacted. Since then, only 159 people at a time have been allowed to catch crab commercially. But Holland's traps still came up empty.
Then the state forced crabbers to use traps that had holes of a certain size so that juveniles could escape -- and hopefully grow old enough to mate. But the measly harvests persisted.
Meanwhile, Holland began noticing strange things in the water. Hermit crabs, spadefish and angelfish -- primarily saltwater creatures -- were surviving well upstream from the point where the Altamaha traditionally was freshwater.
One day on the nearby Satilla River, he saw a sponge crab -- a female crab bearing eggs -- near the I-95 bridge, more than 10 miles from the open sea. Usually, crab eggs are born in pure ocean water.
"I crabbed that area 20 years, so it was obvious that something was going on," Holland says. Saltwater was seeping inland because the rivers weren't pushing enough freshwater downstream into the coastal marshes. That spelled trouble for blue crabs.
While they spend their adult lives in the ocean and are hatched there, larval blue crabs move attached to their mothers into the mixed water of marshes and estuaries, where they spend their juvenile and sub-adult phases before crawling back out to sea.
Holland could see something was upsetting the natural equilibrium that normally would keep too much saltwater from seeping into freshwater areas. He figured others would be trying to find out what the problem was, too. After all, crabbing wasn't the only thing at stake. Entire coastal ecosystems were shifting. Lots of saltwater animals -- from shrimp to Red Drum fish -- spend phases of their life cycles in the rich estuaries where freshwater and saltwater mix.
The state Department of Natural Resources has something of an official explanation for the crab decline.
"The prolonged drought during the period from 1998 to 2002 created unfavorable conditions for blue crabs in Georgia's coastal waters," according to the department's website devoted to the "Blue Crab Fishery Crisis." "Catches of blue crabs in the commercial trap fishery and in Department monitoring surveys have declined greatly since 2000, and the 2002 blue crab harvest was the lowest on record."
Last May, the National Marine Fisheries Service even declared Georgia's blue crab fishery a "failure" and a "disaster."
Crabbers aren't the only ones losing their livelihoods because of the crab shortage. Fifteen years ago, six plants processed crabmeat around Brunswick. Those plants employed more than 1,000 people during the summer crabbing season.
The last one to hold out, the Lewis Crab Factory in Brunswick, closed in 1997. Nowadays, crabs are trucked to North Carolina for processing.
A drought would account for why freshwater wasn't able to push saltwater out of estuaries, marshes and rivers -- for four years. But the crab decline that drove Holland out of business began long before the drought started. It appears to be continuing now that the drought is over.
Between 1980 and 2000, Georgia's crab harvest declined from 10.1 million to 3.2 million pounds, according to DNR's Coastal Resources Division. Since then, harvests have kept dropping. And, through October, 2003 yields were tracking another 23 percent below the record-low 2002 numbers.
"Sure [the drought] hurt. There's documented evidence out there that if you go into a drought period, 18 months after the drought starts you will have a drop in blue crab," Holland says. "But the state is in denial. People want you to believe that this all of sudden happened because of a drought we had the late 2000, 2001. That's a lie. That's a myth."
You don't have to be the captain of a trawler to see that four years of drought cannot account for two decades of serious crab decline, or that Georgia's crabbing industry is on the brink of extinction.
Holland found a job that still lets him get out on the water. He's the Altamaha river keeper, the leader of an environmental group dedicated to protecting Georgia's largest river system.
Sometimes Holland's work requires him to be more of a detective than an activist, and the case of the disappearing blue crabs has frustrated and puzzled him more than any other. On a late fall day, he and Chris DeScherer, an attorney with the Southern Environmental Law Center, are following leads inland. They drive 40 miles into the middle of a pine plantation that's set to be cut and dredged by a mining company.
You wouldn't think anything so far inland could have an impact on blue crabs. It looks like nothing but flat land covered in pine trees and underbrush with scattered swampy areas.
But Holland and DeScherer believe the health of those wetlands is directly tied to the health of the blue crab.
Wetlands flush freshwater into coastal estuaries while the ocean pushes back with saltwater. "What's important to the crabs and the shrimp is maintaining the right salinity balance," says Ron Carroll, co-director of the River Basin Science and Policy Center in the University of Georgia's Institute of Ecology. "What the wetlands do is essentially buffer the flow of freshwater. They act like a hydrological control valve on the rivers, and that's mainly where I see the connection to the estuarine critters."
Too much saltwater hurts young fish and shellfish in a variety of ways. It's linked, for example, to an outbreak of a disease that's killing off crabs.
The parasite -- a dinoflaggelate called Hematodinium, if you really want to know -- prevents the crab's blood cells from holding oxygen.
"The crab ends up starving to death for oxygen," Holland says. "I've seen mudflats covered with 20 to 25 of them. I've pulled up crab traps and every one of them in there was dead. And the problem with that is, these animals are cannibalistic. Well now, if one crab dies form this Hematodinium parasite, it's passed along to the next one."
The state says the "outbreak reached epidemic levels during the drought," which contributed to the failure of the crab fishery.
Without enough freshwater flowing to the coast, the parasite thrived, according to Dorset Hurley, a researcher for the Georgia Department of Natural Resources and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration's Sapelo Island research site.
"The crabs are more susceptible to catching [the disease] in higher salinity regimes in their home ranges, which are estuarine waters," Hurley says. In other words, without a regular flow of freshwater, estuaries and marshes aren't as hospitable to crabs as nature intended them to be. Wetlands, Hurley stresses, supply that regular flow by "weeping on a continuum into the salt marsh areas."
Now, just guess what resource is vanishing at about the same pace as crabs. That's right: wetlands.
The Altamaha River's watershed runs from north of Stone Mountain through the heart of the state to the Georgia coast. The river forms when Middle Georgia's Ocmulgee and Oconee rivers join 20 miles south of Vidalia, and it filters through the coast's rich marshlands before emptying into the Atlantic Ocean at Darien. Between 1985 and 2001, 30,400 acres of wetlands in the lower part of the Altamaha basin were converted to pine plantations. And there were similar patterns along other coastal rivers.
But sometimes science takes awhile to catch up with the obvious. Unfortunately for the blue crab, researchers can't conclusively state that a decline in wetlands is to blame for crabbing declines -- not because they don't believe it, but because they don't feel they've studied it enough. There are, everyone admits, other factors, particularly overfishing.
"The problem is people haven't done enough long-term studies to know for sure," says UGA's Carroll. Then he asks, "But have you talked to James Holland? He has a long history with crabbing, and I tend to trust those people."
Unlike the scientists, Holland is certain about the connection and blunt about what he thinks should be done.
"It's clear in my mind that we just can't stand any more loss of wetlands," he says.
With DeScherer, he's followed the clues of the crab debacle inland. They're in the middle of the pine plantation that's about to become a mine.
An Australian company called Iluka Resources Limited plans to dredge at the Brantley County site for titanium and zircon. Zircon is a gemstone and the main component of the metal zirconium. The titanium will be processed in Florida and used in paints, coatings and plastics.
The mine is split down the middle by an unpaved county road, which means DeScherer and Holland can scope out the project as long as they don't leave the road. DeScherer parks his car as far to the side of the road as he can, just past a small swampy area. He gets out carrying a digital camera and takes pictures of the wetlands on both sides of the road.
Holland steps across a drainage ditch and gently takes a black gum stalk into his hand. Black gums are found only in wetlands. Every winter, the tree supplies the black bear with its last meal before the bear goes into hibernation. Holland tries to remember the last time he saw a bear in coastal Georgia, but he can't.
Until recently, many people viewed wetlands as mosquito-ridden swamps best logged, drained and paved over. They were that sorry swatch of land sandwiched between the BP and the Hardee's at the highway exit on the way to the beach.
But wetlands are incredibly valuable. They stifle flood surges, minimize droughts, offer refuge to wild and rare animals, harbor diverse plant species, filter out pollution, and pump a steady flow of water downstream to cities, farms and coastal marshes. And they are rapidly disappearing: In all, about a quarter of Georgia's wetlands have been drained, paved over, developed or destroyed in some other fashion.
Under the Clean Water Act, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers is charged with wetlands protection. When the state of Georgia wants to dam a river or build a reservoir, it has to get a permit from the Corps. When a developer wants to fill in a wetland to build a subdivision, when a timber company wants to fill in a wetland to grow pine trees, or when a mining company wants to dredge a wetland for titanium, they all must seek permission from the Corps.
Still, protecting wetlands has been among the most contentious battlegrounds in the effort to clean up the nation's waterways. While scientists have found more and more value in wetlands, industry groups have carved away at the regulations meant to protect them.
Iluka's titanium mine is one tiny front in that contest between public good and private gain. And it's a skirmish that hinges on yet another push by industry to make it easier to develop wetlands.
The Clean Water Act says the Corps doesn't have any authority over wetlands that are "isolated" -- that is, not connected to other wetlands, lakes or streams. Before a 2001 Supreme Court ruling, however, the Corps could exert control over isolated wetlands under a separate federal law if it found those wetlands to be home to migratory birds. But the Supreme Court said the Corps didn't have authority over wetlands just because migratory birds were found there. Now, if a wetland is deemed isolated, the Corps doesn't have jurisdiction.
In some parts of the country, that ruling hasn't had much of an impact because state and local laws help protect wetlands. But in Georgia, there are no state or local laws to protect wetlands. That means isolated wetlands can now be filled in, dredged, mined, or destroyed any kind of way without any kind of acknowledgment [See story, above].
"Before the court case, people at least had to go through the permit process with the Corps of Engineers," says Kathy Chapman, a biologist with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. "But now, with the court case, it's up to the Corps districts to interpret the wetlands on a particular site as to whether they are isolated or connected."
And the Corps doesn't even have standards to separate isolated wetlands from wetlands that fall under the Corps' jurisdiction. That's a crucial shortcoming because it creates a gray area between protected and unprotected wetlands. Corps biologists say they are as frustrated about the lack of clarity as anybody else.
"There is no real guidance on how to implement [the Supreme Court ruling]. In other words, there's no guidance on what really is an isolated wetland," says David Crosby, a biologist with the Corps' Savannah District. "What we're trying to do is see if there is any connection. If you go on a site and there's no ditch and no evidence that water flows out of that [wetland] system and goes somewhere else, then we pretty much are calling those isolated wetlands."
The problem with Crosby's practice is that any hydrologist can tell you coastal wetlands are almost always interconnected. They often form the tip of vast aquifers that lie under the state's coastal region. In many cases, they even flow above ground through culverts to other bodies of water.
"What concerns us the most is some of the calls they [Corps biologists] have been making is calling these areas isolated," DeScherer says. "But in our view, they are clearly adjacent and clearly connected to navigable waters. That's our primary concern: [The Corps'] view of an isolated wetland is way broader than we think it should be."
For instance, the Corps found a big chunk of isolated wetlands -- 302 acres -- right where Iluka is planning its titanium mine. On one side of a sandy county road that splits the property is a wetland that the Corps says is connected to other wetlands; that land is protected by the agency's permitting rules.
The wetland on the other side of the road is an isolated wetland, according to the Corps. The road is all that splits the two wetlands, and a pipe that runs underneath the road actually does connect them -- but the Corps still claims the wetland on the north side is "isolated."
Elliott Mallard, operations manager for the mining operation, says his company's policy is to restore wetlands. "We proposed all along that we were not going to destroy any wetlands that we impacted, whether they are isolated or not," Mallard says.
The mining operation will work like this: The company will scoop up the topsoil on a 15-acre area, process it, and then put most of it back. Mallard says the company will keep an average of two out of every 100 grains of sand because that's roughly the proportion of the land that's commercially valuable.
"We put the 98 [grains of sand] back and then we can contour the landscape as it was and plant the same species there," Mallard says. Then, they'll move on to the next 15-acre area.
But such restorations are a bit like repairing your car after it has been totaled: The "restored" wetland might clunk along, but it doesn't operate nearly as well. And DeScherer notes that nobody will be looking over the company's shoulder to ensure the planned restoration will take place.
"Once the Corps makes a decision [that wetlands are isolated], it prevents other agencies from weighing in, so the whole project goes on without any sort of oversight," DeScherer says.
That means Fish and Wildlife biologists won't be brought in to make sure Iluka doesn't vacuum up the habitat of an endangered species, and it means state inspectors won't check to make sure Iluka is following water quality laws.
In October, DeScherer sent Iluka an e-mail threatening to sue if the company proceeded with its plans. A month later, Iluka asked the Corps to re-examine the wetlands, and to make sure they're isolated after all.
DeScherer considers that good news. It would take only one ruling or settlement to establish a more concrete, scientific way of determining what falls within the Corps' jurisdiction in coastal Georgia.
"This," he says, "gives us and our clients an opportunity to weigh in to the Corps and EPA [Environmental Protection Agency] with a letter articulating the reasons why we believe all of these wetlands are still protected under the Clean Water Act."DeScherer also is investigating three residential developments where the Corps has declared more than 200 acres of wetlands isolated. Four environmental groups hired DeScherer to exert the same kind of pressure on private developers that he's placed on Iluka.
The groups -- the Altamaha Riverkeeper, Save Our Satilla, the National Wildlife Federation and the Center for a Sustainable Coast -- grew suspicious of the Savannah District for repeatedly finding isolated wetlands where swank developments were planned. The developments -- one near Savannah and another two on the southern end of Georgia's coast -- are each more than 1,000 acres and have their own golf courses. Two have their own yacht clubs and marinas.
The most controversial, Cumberland Harbour, will be a gated, waterfront community of 1,200 homes with at least three marinas and a yacht club. It's under construction on a peninsula directly across the sound from Cumberland Island National Seashore.
Even the Fish and Wildlife Service, in an Aug. 25 letter, questioned a Corps decision to let Cumberland Harbour's developers fill in an indeterminate amount of wetlands.
"A concern was the large ditching/de-watering system, and the lack of visible erosion control measures," Fish and Wildlife biologists wrote. "The amount of water that was flowing through the ditches/trenches and the water pooling associated with this process caused us to question the 'isolated' nature of the wetlands. The Corps maintains that the extensive amount of water accumulation was due to rainfall events."
Fish and Wildlife employees also noted that the peninsula, now a construction site, is home to threatened and endangered animals. "Of the federally protected species within the action area, we are particularly concerned about the potential adverse impacts to the West Indian manatee ... the wood stork, Eastern indigo snake, and bald eagle."
Cumberland Harbour's developer claims the property didn't have any habitats for endangered species until the company started changing the landscape. "We've really tried to protect what we've got out there," says Paul Veivel, a vice president for Land Resources Inc. "But we are in a business where we have to have a return on our investment for our investors, and we've gone to large steps to balance that."
Veivel also says he got a second opinion from state officials to make sure the wetlands were isolated. "We always [get a second opinion]," he says, "because we use the environment as part of our sales tool."
And Cumberland Harbour's plots surely will sell. Like the other two developments -- the Heritage and Sanctuary Cove -- Cumberland Harbour's name evokes the romantic serenity of Georgia's coast. Soon cable subscribers will get to see the development, or at least the very first home built there. Home and Garden Television selected Cumberland Harbour to build its $1.2 million 2004 "Dream Home." The house has its own deep-water dock, screened in, of course, and a four-story tower.
Other million-dollar homes will go up in a month. And the project's marinas will fill up with 50-foot yachts. It's a far cry from Jim Holland's modest house. His back yard is a crabber's graveyard. The wood shack he built for his crab store is now just a mess of two-by-fours and sheet metal.
The 20-foot-by-50-foot cinder block building that housed Holland's soft shell crab tanks still stands. Now, it's a storage shed for his lawnmower and duck decoys. Ten feet away is a shiny industrial freezer. It was used to hold Holland's harvests. After sitting idle for four years, it still works, and Holland is proud he found a buyer for it.
The traps, the ones with the 11-pound attachment to keep them from floating away, were gathered up for some college study or a recycling program -- Holland forgets which.
In all -- three boats, trailers, traps, buildings, insulation for the soft shell business, tanks, pumps -- Holland figures he put close to $150,000 into his crabbing business.
It was a good living while it lasted. He says he made back every dime he sunk into his business, and then some.
Holland's boats don't sit idle now. He uses them to give students, activists and reporters tours of the rivers and the coastal waters, and to investigate complaints he gets about polluters from neighbors who worry about the declining water quality along the coast.
"Let me tell you something," he says. "What happens here on dry land affects what happens 500 miles offshore, believe you me. Because each little ecosystem thrives and lives off the others, beginning in Stone Mountain, Ga. What goes on up there hits every ecosystem along the way, all the way down here because it's all tied together.
"Hell, the Indians had more sense then we all do put together, and they didn't' have a microscope."
michael.wall@creativeloafing.com
