The estimable Jane Goodall was the Rose Parade Grand Marshall this past year. When speaking about our ability to save the planet she said, “A million people doing the right thing are a good start.” I mention this because in my last column I wrote of the need for the divine feminine to save the planet. This week I submit to you, my readers, proof.

A few years back, when I first heard of a woman called The Kelp Lady, I couldn’t help but imagine a dowdy, eccentric widow, with stringy, unkempt hair swept around her torso. The kind that talks to one in particular.

My first encounter with the actual Kelp Lady would be at her 1^st annual Kelp Fest at Main Beach. I was curious about this little festival with the quirky name. Maybe I’d find patchouli, incense, some tie-dyed clothes and a Free Hug booth. Instead I met Nancy Caruso, and I have been inspired and awed by the Kelp Lady ever since. Nancy can, not only galvanize an army, she can also draw up the battle plan, identify the obstacles, and call the audiles. And thus was Kelp Fest born four years ago, Laguna’s little eco festival that does!

A little about Nancy: she is a Marine Biologist and teacher who lives in Garden Grove with her quietly brilliant husband Tom. Tom understands the power of a woman to do great work in the world. The proverbial “guy behind the girl.” Which is only possible because he is 100% actualized, and they are 100% equals. They both have a passion for the same things, like diving, skiing, hiking, and re-tracing the Lewis & Clark expedition- which they did one summer across America by boat- just as her granddad had.

Nancy’s brilliance is the fortitude to believe that a small group of dedicated volunteers can completely restore the habitat in our coastal waters by replenishing the kelp, followed by white sea bass and abalone. Laguna has been a great beneficiary of her largess. Not because we as a people possess some special charm. But because Heisler Park once had the densest kelp forest in Orange County.

So Nancy trained over 250 volunteer divers in her 10-year restoration effort known as, wait for it it, The Kelp Project. Her grant-funded program (yes, she writes her own) began in classrooms all over Orange County, where students harvested thousands of baby kelp in their science classes. Her volunteer divers would then plant them one by one, led of course, by Nancy herself. But first, a more daunting task. They had to remove and displace the thousands of sea urchins to distant waters, as they are the primary predators of kelp. This alone took 3 dives a week for 2 years. Don’t try that at home.

Did it work? Have you looked out your window? We are basking in golden, lustrous kelp (what Nancy calls our “underwater rain forest” for its bio diversity), and our fisheries are robust. Some skeptics have suggested the resurgence was due to natural factors such as colder waters, some of which is true. But Nancy planted in areas known as urchin barrens that were completely devoid of any habitat save those prickly little devils. Yet back came the kelp. That’s good science.

As part of the curriculum, Nancy takes her students out to see the kelp each year – many of them from low-income neighborhoods who have never even been on the water. To witness them jumping from their boats and snorkeling into the kelp beds for the first time, giddy with excitement, is a moment I think most educators would treasure. Nancy created the perfect marriage of education and action, students and volunteers.

The 2010 documentary Waiting for Superman, is mostly an indictment of our school system and the failed promise of our teachers. But somewhere in the middle of the film, the star and would-be reformer Geoffrey Canada watches a teacher at work through a window. His voiceover ruminates about what an amazing experience it is to witness a great teacher at work. For those of us lucky enough to have had even one, we know what he means. That’s Nancy to me.

In countless prep meetings for Kelp Fest (there are many and that’s why it’s so good) she treats everyone as equals, regardless of age, gender or ethnicity. Her secret? Enthusiasm. She’s cool, funny, engaging, and just so full of knowledge. She gets everyone involved, and listens. There’s never a bad idea. She doesn’t talk down to kids, treating them as adults. She then synthesizes, distills, and does. Which inspires people. To be heard. To be productive. To make a difference. And to line up behind her. She would make a helluva CEO, but she does far more good as a teacher.

In two weeks I’ll tell you more. I’m out of column inches. But I’ll bid farewell by admonishing you to attend Nancy’s Kelp Fest this Saturday, from 11-4. On the cobblestone at Main Beach. Wander around, get inspired to do good things, and say hello to Nancy. Then meander across the street to the companion festival Earth Day, produced by the good folks at Transition Laguna, and running from 11-6. This one-two punch of ocean and earth awareness will inspire you to become a better eco citizen. You and your kids will learn how to green your lives, have fun, and save money. They’ll be rain barrel and compost bin giveaways, speakers, and unbelievably rootsy Laguna music with Nick Hernandez, World Anthem, Salty Suites, the Dupp Brothers, and the Laguna Beach High School Jazz Band. All free. And don’t miss the Kelp Fest closing drum circle at 3pm. Bring a drum. Check transitionlaguna.org for a complete listing of events.

I wasn’t kidding when I offered Tanzen the Transalator to take the monks kayaking. I had studied Buddhism in college, and always felt it was the one thing I learned stayed with me the rest of my life. And informed and gave me the tools to deal with the uncertainties in life.

The offer was sincere. Making sand mandalas for 5 days straight? Poor souls. A bit of a carny act, wouldn’t you say? Like minstrels, traveling to (semi) conscious communities in the West, putting on a dazzling display of non-attachment, all for some much needed financial support. Six straight hours of sand humping without a break, for the hushed and adoring crowd. The fastidiousness, the discipline. We in the west couldn’t stand that long it one place. Unless it was for a limited supply of half off flat screens at Walmart. “Let the boys out,” I thought. “Let ‘em blow off some steam.” I knew the Dalai Lama was playful. And Tanzen said okay.  So we set a date for two days later, my hopes buoyed with a typical Fall run of exquisite weather.

It was around 4pm on Oct. 29. The ocean unbelievably still. Placid as a fat man’s sex drive. And as I faithfully pulled the boats down and prepared them for launch, one question nagged at me: would they wear the robes? Those plum colored mu mus that always screamed “I don’t need no stinkin Halston.” Would they have any conception of the phrase “there’s a time and a place?” They could sink faster than the Broadway run of Spiderman. Would they have on speedos? Or baggie surf trunks, revealing a hint of the Tibetan crack. How bout tats? Any secret, rebellious bad boys under there? With a stash of John Waters films? I was about to find out.

Tanzen came first, bounding around the corner. He was their driver and translator, a man with a ready smile. And then they appeared: it seemed like slow motion as they rounded the corner. And their preferred form of swimwear? Plum colored Tibetan robes. Probably the same one they wear every single day. No, surely they have several backup, like Steve Jobs’s crew neck shirts. Their chaperones were the lovely Rita Robinson, writer for the Indy, and Pam Wickes, Musical Director for the Neighborhood Congregational Church. Two dynamos I happened to know.

I said, “But Tanzen, they have bathing suits under, yes?” “No, Beeely,” and he smiled. They all smiled. I looked at their robes, at the glassy conditions, and thought there’s no way I can ask the monks to wear something else. So I asked if they could swim. They nodded yes. I grabbed the red life jackets and put them on over their robes. I don’t know quite how to explain the look, but I don’t think we’ll see it in a Roxy catalogue soon.Now came the orientation. I take these very seriously. A lot can go wrong out there. The water seems so intuitive to us here. But we forget that many people are landlocked and the idea of floating on a little plastic boat in the middle of the Pacific is as terrifying as, well, the idea to us of living in a landlocked place.  So I asked for their complete focus, using the universal hand gesture of “I’m watching you, Fokker” to keep their eyes trained to mine. I spoke of posture, balance, paddling technique, launching, landing, recovery… but they were hardly listening. Their eyes were trained on the water as they giggled with excitement. Even Tanzen was in a hurry.

“Yes, yes, Beely, we know all that.”
“Really? Are you sure, Tanzen? I don’t think they’re listening, and I don’t think you’re translating one bit. This is serious. People can die.”

This came across as an idle threat for those who see life as suffering and view death as a step towards nirvana. Well, they may have come to the right place. But it wasn’t gonna be on my watch. That’s all Village Laguna needed to hear: “Monk drowns while kayaking” and I’m through! No, I was determined to show them every beautiful nook and cranny of the Laguna kayak experience. So I readied the boats and asked the first two to come up. And oh, roll up your robes please.

It was easy to launch, but it does require getting into the water. The first monk climbed into the bow while I steadied it for the stern paddler, In he hopped. I gave them a little push. And then… nothing. They just sat there.

“Paddle” I admonished. Nothing. 
“Tanzen, tell them to paddle.” 

Still nothing. Did these monks hear anything I said? Did they think there was a motor? Or that I would somehow chant them out to sea? This was troubling. They needed a tugboat to guide them out of the harbor. I quickly grabbed my boat.

“I’ll be right back. Tanzen, quick, how do you say stop, go, left and right in Tibetan?” 
“Pkag. Phebs. Gyon. G.Yas” he told me. 

I kept saying it over and over in my head as I ran the boat into the water and jumped in. I paddled up next to them and started saying “Phebs” while miming the paddle stroke. They reluctantly complied, but their hearts really weren’t into it. They paddled so weakly. And these were the two youngest. It seemed like ages before they were actually paddling, and not before I barked “Gyon” and “G.Yas” to keep them away from the rocks. That’s right, they couldn’t steer either. I finally righted their ship, got them past the surf zone, and reluctantly left them there while I paddled back for the others. “Pkag!” I yelled repeatedly, getting them to nod in ascent. I rushed back to shore, where I found a nervous Pam and Rita waiting.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” Pam said. 
“Why don’t you take them out one at a time, make a loop, and bring them back?” reasoned Rita.

I pondered it. But that would be like getting to the rodeo without a stetson. I had to get them all out there together. I looked at the old Buddhists on the beach. Was it even possible to suck more than the young ones? I shuddered to think.

“Rita, you take one monk. Pam, you take the other.” 
“Really?” Rita was an avowed paddler and excited. “but I don’t have a bathing suit.” “Neither do they,” I answered. Just roll up your pants. Hurry, let’s go.” 
“I don’t know how to paddle” a nervous Pam said. 
“Sure you do. You’re from Colorado.” 
“But that’s canoeing.”
“It’s no different,” I blurted. “Get in there. Quick!”

We scurried to launch. The monks in front, the ladies in command. And off we went. We turned north past Shaw’s Cove. The monks were giddy and playful. Splashing, yelping. So childlike. And then I realized that these holy men were in fact, man-boys emotionally. Their lives pre-ordained, no sense of attachment, no real world responsibilities. The sun was setting, the water a transluscent aqua , paddles dipping  though the water like velvet. Of course a pod of dolphin swam by. These were monks! And gradually, ever so precipitously, they quieted down. No more adoscent pranks, The dreamy monks. All calm. Not in a Buddhist way, clearing the mind of thoughts. But in a Western way, the same look I have seen from hundreds on our tour. A sense of awe in the sheer power of nature. Right in our backyard. Tanzen broke the silence.

“Beely, this is what the monks like. Downtown Laguna is too noisy for them?”
Really? Have you tried getting something to eat after 9?” 
“They like the quiet.”

And I looked them over and I realized, sure, these gentle, cloistered men live a monastic life in India, unable to own homes or integrate into society. Kept in quasi Internment camps, more Manzanar than Monastery. And yet, isn’t that the blessing of a monastery? That no matter where you are, you can escape the everyday shackles that cause suffering? And in that moment I reflected in our respective journeys that brought us together that day. We communed with the monks that day: Rita, Pam, me and sea lions. And something bigger than us. The universality of man. A connection to the earth. The sea. And the bright plum robes.

SoAas we transition away from our long Laguna nightmare known as winter (good riddance sub-70 degree’s days and freezing nights when you have to wear a second layer!), we should consider how the mighty Pacific mitigates the gloom — – especially this year. For I come not to bury winter, but to praise it.

Summer may mean languorous days on our sun-kissed beaches and 70 degree water, but it can never match the magnificence of ocean in winter, when the crisp air and unfiltered visibility is rivaled for clarity only by the ocean beneath. This year has proven extra tasty, with people in and on the water talking continuously with each other about the water.

The surging popularity of stand-up paddleboarding has made for a convivial community at sea, which who swaps stories the way fisherman used to. Only they use smart phones to capture and post the catch instead of spears and hooks. And they do it side by side as they glide up to the kelp beds, enjoying the unique perspective afforded just six feet above the water.

The ocean has been on steroids this winter, with bundles of baitfish, gaggles of garibaldi, troupes of sea lions and dolphins, and a propagating population of greay whales – — all tracked overhead by legions of hungry marine birds. They are And framed by a dynamic, ever-changing“Technicolor” sky that settles into a pastel palette at dusk, giving our town a magical essence.

The power of the ocean to calm the nervous system and bring a mystical quiescence is legion among surfers. But now a broader population is enjoying its transcendent benefits, and it is a beautiful site sight to see our sea populated, not by the guttural groans of speedboats, but by human powered paddlers moving gracefully across the horizon.

Which brings us to the question of whether, after a full year, the no-take restrictions of our Marine Protected Areas rReserve have contributed to this resurgence.

Most experts agree it is too early to tell. And though my livelihood depends on a healthy ocean, I must confess I fought the prohibition on the fundamental grounds that our freedoms were being eroded on intuition and not science, and that we could manage our fisheries better through education, seasonality, size and bag limits, and, most importantly, ongoing habitat restoration versus degradation.

But I was pleasantly surprised to read this week that the first major study of the marine reserves of its kind had been released, and the results were positive. According to an article in the Santa Cruz Sentinel, iIn the protected areas established in 2007 between San Mateo and Santa Barbara counties, marine scientists found that populations and sizes of several key species of fish, along with starfish, urchins, and crabs, have increased more in the protected areas established in 2007 between San Mateo and Santa Barbara counties than in unprotected ocean areas nearby.

While the study is in no way conclusive — – many areas showed no change at all — - scientists agree the trends are encouraging. And with daily reports on how sick our oceans are, I now agree we must take every measure available to ensure our aquatic eco-system is as healthy and vital as possible.

This is a bold move by the state of California that is being watched closely and could have far reaching consequences if adapted by other nations. And it’s pretty cool to know that we live in a protected blue as well as green belt. Indeed, we can boast to friends and visitors alike that there is no need to travel to Africa for a safari when we have so much exotic big game right here, and wide open paddleboards instead of enclosed Land Rovers for viewing. See you out there.