| The Magazine of the CALIFORNIA ACADEMY OF SCIENCES |
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feature I Don't Want To See Any Water Earl Herald, Aquarium Pioneer and Aquatic Dynamo
To generations of visitors to the California Academy of Sciences, the name Earl S. Herald was synonymous with the institution itself. His persona was so familiar to Bay Area residents that the whole place was known to most as “the Steinhart,” or “the Aquarium,” with Herald its invincible captain. I met Herald only as a graduate student visiting the Academy's research collections. But during 21 years as his successor, I learned to appreciate the extraordinary imprint that he left upon the Academy, the aquarium industry, and people’s perception of fish. Herald arrived at the Aquarium on August 10, 1948. The Academy was growing along with the post-war economy, and Director Robert C. Miller recognized the need for dedicated management at Steinhart Aquarium. Little did he realize that in hiring Herald, he would land an aquatic dynamo in Golden Gate Park. With degrees from UCLA, UC Berkeley, and Stanford, Herald was a well-educated scientist. After earning his PhD in 1943, Herald entered the war and rose to the rank of captain in the Army’s Sanitary Corps. In 1946 he collected reef fishes at Bikini Atoll after the atomic bomb tests. Before scuba gear was available, he used his swimming prowess to capture several new species of fishes. One of these, a lemon-yellow angelfish, was christened Centropyge heraldi in his honor. Herald went on to study tuna in Manila, where he came to the Academy’s attention via Alvin Seale, Steinhart’s recently retired superintendent. Herald was truly a natural, and the enthusiasm he exuded was irresistible. Moving at breakneck speed, he soon turned a sleepy institution into America’s best-known aquarium. George Lindsay, the Academy’s Executive Director from 1963 to 1982, wrote that “Earl was demanding of his employees, who were expected to share his enthusiasm, ambition, and dedication” but “also solicitous of their welfare, and protective and appreciative.” From his view in the trenches, Walter Schneebeli, the Aquarium’s specimen collector from 1948 to 1981, says that Herald’s arrival at the Steinhart was cyclonic. He told me, “Earl worked day and night, seven days a week,” and expected the same of everyone around him. “If you did, he treated you fairly...but if you didn’t,” Schneebeli grimaced, “he was miserable.” The Aquarium’s live collections multiplied. Reptiles and amphibians expanded from one boa constrictor to become one of the world’s largest and most diverse displays. Herald’s secretary, Phyllis Ensrud, once described his philosophy and the collection: “There are two schools of thought on displaying animals in an aquarium. The ‘Tiffany’ approach considers the epitome to be a single jewel, or, at the very most, a small collection of gems in one tank. On the other hand, the ‘Barbara Hutton’ Woolworth style typifies the old-time, five-and-dime stores’ jumbled windows.” Herald followed the more-is-better approach. Aquarist Lloyd Gomez said that the staff lived by the Herald command, “I don’t want to see any water!” Herald’s collection of friends and acquaintances also grew through his membership in the influential and prestigious Bohemian Club, and by his regular visits to City Hall, where he became close friends with a series of mayors and supervisors. But it was through the medium of television that Herald and the Aquarium became household names, not just in the Bay Area, but worldwide. The Academy produced “Science in Action,” a program that he hosted at 7 p.m. once a week for 14 years, between 1952 and 1966. Filmed live, the program covered subjects ranging from submarines, featuring guest Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz, to pianos with Theodore Steinway. Several Nobel laureates and a plethora of biological topics such as “ten-legged sea dwellers” also made their way onto the show. Half-hours devoted entirely to Herald and a variety of fish topics soon became a staple. With the aid of television, Herald convinced an even larger audience that fish are amazing, multifaceted, and far more captivating than the scaly, slimy meal that appeared on so many Friday night dinner plates. The success of “Science in Action” was due in large part to Herald’s unique panache. Camera shy at first, he quickly gained confidence and appeared knowledgeable (with the help of four scriptwriters) about whatever subject the program was featuring. All programs ended with Herald announcing “Now don’t go away, I’ll be back with the ‘Animal of the Week,’” and reappearing with all manner of strange beasts. Things didn’t always go smoothly. A frightened bandicoot bit its handler; a possum peed on the host’s white lab coat. Without missing a beat, Herald would ad lib, “It’s a good thing television doesn’t include smella-vision,” or, “If your picture is a bit out of focus, it’s because the cameraman just turned green and fainted.” Then there was the episode when Chuck Shaw, a herpetologist from the San Diego Zoo, lost control of a giant reticulated python (Python reticulata). The snake bit Shaw, who bled profusely, but all three protagonists carried on unperturbed. Enormous numbers of people watched the programs each week either on public television or one of many commercial stations. The show received dozens of local, national, and international awards. Were it not for the high costs of production, it might have continued to this day. Attendance at the Aquarium mushroomed during the halcyon days of the 1950s. Counters installed at its doors conservatively tallied nearly 2 million visitors a year. With that traffic came the irksome behavior unique to our species: coin tossing. When San Franciscans are asked to honestly answer the question “As a child, did you ever throw pennies at the alligators in the Steinhart Swamp?” their shifty eyes evince the answer. Assuming that the large slumbering reptiles weren’t real, despite numerous warning signs along the railing, they felt compelled to throw something to make the beasts move. Herald discovered, to his chagrin, that by allowing the staff responsible for the weekly coin removal to keep the change, he was indirectly encouraging them to salt the Swamp with more coins to induce further contributions. Rather than fight it, Herald encouraged the habit by placing red plastic signs along the railing that read “Alligator Wishing Well: throw a coin and make a wish, and with your gift we will buy a fish!” The results were remarkable. Before the signage, the average monthly income was $76.48. After signs went up, so did the take - by 203 percent! Herald reported that a variety of other items were removed, including marbles, bottle caps, “a well-worn set of false teeth...and unmentionables such as a black bra of a type routinely advertised on the late-late TV movies.” The signs came down after Herald’s departure. The income disappeared, but so did the occasional injury to an animal’s body and dignity. As the Aquarium matured and its fame grew, its blemishes became more obvious. Year-round, continuous operation, the pumping and spilling of saltwater, and the creation of a steamy indoor tropical environment all took their toll on the equipment. Herald used the many salty stalactites and stalagmites to convince City Hall to retrofit the aquarium. The State Safety Inspection provided the coup de grace when it warned that salt corrosion had so deteriorated the structure’s steel reinforcement that the viewing level might soon collapse into the basement. “The Citizens’ Committee to Save Our Steinhart Aquarium,” headed by Congressman J. W. Maillard III, comprised a broad base of San Francisco’s movers and shakers. Herald used every media skill he had learned from “Science in Action” to make the case for renovation. Television spots, radio appeals, and mailings with Herald’s stern grimace made it clear that “Only you can save Steinhart Aquarium.” On June 3, 1958, voters approved Proposition B by a wide margin and $1,575,000 was allocated for improvements to be made as soon as possible. The reconstruction began in 1962, the first time in its 39-year history that the Steinhart was closed to the public. Reopening day was June 28, 1963. The refurbished aquarium was a smashing success. Three and a half million people visited that year—at the time, the most ever recorded for a San Francisco attraction. The number of tanks doubled to 178 on display and 192 in reserve. The Swamp was modified so that the central entrance to the Aquarium hallway, located in the middle of the back wall, became a large reptile display. The entrances to the Aquarium became long, tank-lined corridors along the east and west sides of the Swamp. Elaborate mosaics by artist William Wagner, one of Herald’s many admirers, were installed along the west corridor and behind the scenes to explain the water systems to visitors. The central tank of the main corridor, which awaited the famous coelacanth fish, remained empty. Herald sought the living fossil but never obtained permission to capture it. But the true stars of the 1963 renovation were the dolphins. A new 63,500 gallon tank housed two frisky Pacific white-sided dolphins (Atractosteus obliquidens), a gift from Marineland of the Pacific in Palos Verdes. They were soon joined by two more white-sides, an Atlantic bottlenose porpoise (Tursiops truncatus), and several harbor seal pups (Phoca vitulina) abandoned by their parents. It was quite a scene (on both sides of the tank) four times each day as the dolphins and seals were fed by a soggy trainer and encouraged to jump as high as the adjoining rooftop. Herald was also intrigued by freshwater dolphins. He eventually obtained an Amazon boutu (Inia geoffrensis) from Iquitos, Peru, a gift from the San Francisco Aquarium Society. Named “Whiskers,” it was displayed in the southeast corner tank along with immense alligator garfish (Lepisosteus spatula). The pink-skinned dolphin soon became the center of an institutional controversy. George Lindsay, the Academy’s strong-willed Director and also Director of the Steinhart, wanted to move the alligator garfish and replace them with a mate for Whiskers. Herald wanted the garfish left where they were. This minor disagreement over display philosophy came down to a battle of wills between the two men. Herald vented his frustration in an article co-written with Aquarium Curator Robert Dempster for Aquarium Journal: Of course it is difficult to maintain a sane viewpoint on this animal when the Academy Director, Dr. George Lindsay, casually suggests that we discard the leviathan alligator gar who share the dolphin tank in order to make more room for Whiskers and a proposed mate. Needless to say, Whiskers’ future should prove interesting. Whiskers got a new tankmate in 1966, when he was joined by another boutu named “Buddy.” Herald won that round, as the alligator garfish stayed where they were. Pleased with the public’s interest in freshwater dolphins, Herald attempted to achieve another Steinhart first with the capture and display of a blind river dolphin (Platanista gangetica), or susu, of the Ganges, Indus, and Brahmaputra river systems of Asia. In 72 ad, Pliny the Elder wrote about their curious anatomy and the muddy rivers that they inhabit. Herald and his associates obtained three susu while on expedition to Sukkar, west Pakistan, and were faced with the formidable task of transporting them halfway around the world. Returning via Karachi, they made a brief rest stop and left the dolphins in a clearwater swimming pool. There, they were apparently the first to discover that these dolphins swim on their sides, a unique and curious adaptation. Sadly, the rigors of capture and transport were such that none of them survived for long. However, the results of Herald’s research on susu anatomy, swimming behavior, and echolocation were published in 1969 as a cover story in the prestigious journal Science. The remaining dolphins were favorites for decades, but a manatee named Butterball was probably the most memorable mammal in the Aquarium’s history. Herald’s friend, Academy trustee Wilson Meyer, happened upon an ailing Amazonian manatee (Trichechus inunguis) for sale at a Colombian fish market in 1967. He and Maurice Rakowicz, a former Steinhart employee, ransomed the rotund beast and were able to get it to San Francisco. There, veterinarian Frederic Frye treated the bone and tissue infections in the manateee’s harpoon wound. Butterball survived to became one of very few Amazonian sea cows in captivity, as well as the longest-lived. He became the subject of two masters theses and two doctoral dissertations, as well as six research publications on manatee blood, chromosomes, and vocalizations. Over the next 17 years, he was seen by more than 25 million visitors. Herald had occasional clashes with his superiors, who never relinquished to him the title of Aquarium Director. But the average San Franciscan remained quite confused as to who was in charge of that place in Golden Gate Park. Largely as a result of Herald’s gregarious personality and widespread television exposure, the public knew it as “the Steinhart” or “the Aquarium,” not “the Academy.” When requesting a ride to “the Academy,” visitors, Academy Directors, and Trustees were (and still are) often told by cabbies, “whaddya mean?” But if they were to answer “the Steinhart,” the response was inevitably, “why didnya say so?” Herald apparently relished the confusion. Director George Lindsay told me years later that Herald was as talented as he was difficult to work with. Lindsay sheepishly related an experience in 1971 when Charles Schroeder, upon his retirement as Director of the world-famous San Diego Zoo, asked Lindsay’s advice concerning a possible successor. Lindsay wasted no time in writing his friend that he could think of no individual as well qualified for the position as Herald—only to be told later that Schroeder had received a nearly identical letter from Herald nominating Lindsay for the job. Herald’s newly renovated Aquarium drew raves from the public and scientists alike, and he received numerous accolades for the feat. Perhaps the most flattering was an invitation to lead the new National Aquarium to be built in Washington, D.C. He passed on that offer and continued to lead the Steinhart and to research the pipefishes. With considerable assistance from his wife Olivia, he helped create many of the 626 “Science in Action” episodes and authored 93 publications. One of his two books, Living Fishes of the World, has been translated into eleven languages. Through Herald’s association and friendship with art collector and underwater photographer Edwin Janss of Southern California, Herald was able to visit Palau, one of the best diving locations on Earth. He also visited the Revillagigedo Islands and the Galápagos aboard Janss’s research vessel. With amateur fish-collector Lester Gunther, Jr., he organized the Steinhart Divers, an avocational scuba group. He also made numerous research trips to Baja California to dive and collect specimens. There, at Cabo San Lucas, Herald tragically drowned at age 59 in January 1973. He was scuba diving in pursuit of his lifetime quarry, rare and exotic fish. Earl Herald’s legacy at the Academy and within the aquarium industry is unrivaled. He made the Bay Area aware of the exciting science education available at the Academy. He was a role model from whom many scientists and naturalists derived their inspiration. His “Science in Action” show set the standard for subsequent science television hosts. And his books, appearances, lectures, and shows educated millions. But above all, he taught us to appreciate fish. John E. McCosker, ex-superintendent of Steinhart Aquarium, is now curator of aquatic biology at the California Academy of Sciences. |
