Submarine Skink

Underwater Adventure, Willard Price (1955)

Looking back on my childhood, I’m hit by one big regret: I watched too much TV. Any TV is too much TV, of course, but I watched hours almost every evening. It was what my family did, though, and it was natural to go along. Still, it’s a regret. I wasted all those hours watching a TV screen when I could have been reading.

Fortunately, I managed to read a lot too. And the reading stayed with me. The TV didn’t. For me, reading was always more intimate, more powerful and much more enjoyable. Two of the authors I enjoyed most were Enid Blyton (1897-1968) and Willard Price (1887-1983). I had all of Blyton’s Famous Five series and all-but-two of Price’s Adventure series (Tiger Adventure and Arctic Adventure were the missing ones). And I re-read all the books at the time as I’ve always done if I enjoy a book.

But you can’t step in the same river twice, as Heraclitus said, and you can’t enjoy a book as an adult in the way that you did as a kid. Sometimes you can’t enjoy a book at all. I’ve tried the Famous Five books again and found them bland and uninspired. Blyton wrote down to her readers, using simple words and syntax and situations. It worked and she became the most successful children’s author of all time. But maybe she could have been both simple and subtle, or even simple, subtle and surreal, like J.P. Martin in his excellent Uncle series. I can re-read the Uncle books as an adult and enjoy them as much as I did as a kid. Or maybe even more, because I understand better now how good Martin was as a writer.

Like Martin, unlike Blyton, Willard Price is still enjoyable to read as an adult. He isn’t surreal or subtle, but his books are full of incident and information as they relate the adventures of the young naturalists Hal Hunt, who’s in his “late teens”, and Roger Hunt, who’s in his “early teens”. They’ve been given a year off school by their famous animal-collector father. And they cram a lot into that year as they collect animals and battle villains in exotic settings around the world, from the Amazon jungle to the Arctic wastes.

And maybe there is some surrealism in the books too: I haven’t re-read Elephant Adventure (1964) since I was a kid, but I can still remember things like the giant earthworms at the Mountains of the Moon and the pygmy crawling through the chambers of a slaughtered elephant’s heart. I didn’t remember this book, Underwater Adventure, like that. Except for one incident that I won’t reveal, because that would spoil the plot. One thing that won’t spoil the plot is the news that Hal and Roger beat the villains in the end, despite overwhelming odds and a hurricane.

This time they’ve gone to the Pacific to help a marine biologist collect specimens for his Oceanographic Institute. They meet one of Hal’s old classmates, S.K. Inkham or Skink, as he’s nicknamed. Inkham is young like the Hunt brothers; unlike them he’s lazy, greedy, cunning and cowardly. His villainy is one half of the plot. The other half, as always in the Adventure books, is the animals and the setting. Hal and Roger battle sharks, collect a rare and beautiful monster from the deep, learn about sea-anemones and clownfish, and explore a sunken ship. There’s treasure aboard, but that brings the plot back to Inkham and his villainy. At the beginning he was trying to cripple or kill the Hunt brothers with scorpions or stonefish or sabotaged diving-equipment; later on he’s trying to steal the treasure too.

He fails in both endeavours and the Hunt brothers are where they always are at the end of their books: ready for their next adventure. This time it will be Volcano Adventure (1956). I haven’t re-read that since I was a kid, but I can still remember incidents there. And the book was my introduction to the fascinating world of vulcanology. Willard Price didn’t create great literature, but his books are enjoyable, informative and worth reading at any age.

Read Full Post »

Life Locomotes

Restless Creatures: The Story of Life in Ten Movements, Matt Wilkinson (Icon 2016)

A fascinating book about a fascinating thing: the movement of plants and animals. It’s also a very familiar thing, but it’s far more complex than we often realize. Human beings have been watching horses gallop for thousands of years, but until the nineteenth century no-one was sure what was happening:

The man usually credited for ushering in the modern study of locomotion is the brilliant photographer Eadweard Muybridge. […] His locomotory calling came in 1872, when railroad tycoon and former California governor Leland Stanford invited him to his stock farm in Palo Alto, supposedly to settle a $25,000 bet that a horse periodically becomes airborne when galloping. (ch. 1, “Just Put One Foot in Front of Another”, pg. 16)

To answer the question, Muybridge used a series of still cameras triggered by trip-wires. And yes, galloping horses do become airborne: “not when the legs were at full stretch, as many had supposed, but when the forelimbs and hindlimbs were at their closest approach.” However, Matt Wilkinson calls another man “the true founding father of the science of locomotion”: the French scientist Étienne-Jules Marey, who had been investigating movement using a stylograph. In fact, it was Marey who first proved that galloping horses become airborne (ch. 1, pg. 19). Muybridge’s photographs were dramatic confirmation and the two men began to collaborate.

Marey also pioneered electromyography, or the recording of the electrical impulses generated by moving muscles. Like the rest of modern science, biokinesiology, as the study of animal movement might be called, depends on instruments that supplement or enhance our fallible senses. It also depends on mathematics: there is a lot of physics in this book. You can’t understand walking, flying or swimming without it. Walking is the most mundane, but also in some ways the most interesting, at least in its human form. Bipedalism isn’t an everyday word, but it’s an everyday sight.

What does it involve? How did it evolve? And how important was it in making us human? Wilkinson looks at all these questions and you’ll suddenly start seeing your legs and feet in a different way. What wonders of bioengineering they are! And what a lot of things happen in the simple process of “just putting one foot in front of another”. Scientists still don’t understand these things properly: for example, they can’t say whether or not sport shoes are dangerous, “lulling us into a false sense of security, causing us to pass dreadful shocks up our legs and spine without our being aware of them” (ch. 1, pg. 29).

But there’s much more here than horse and human locomotion: Wilkinson discusses everything from eels, whales, pterodactyls, bats and cheetahs to amoebas, annelid worms, fruit-flies, zombified ants and the “gliding seed of the Javan cucumber Alsomitra macrocarpa”. He also discusses the nervous systems, genes and evolution behind all those different kinds of movement. This book is both fascinating and fun, but I have one criticism: its prose doesn’t always move as lightly and gracefully as some of its subjects do. Wilkinson mentions both Stephen Jay Gould and Richard Dawkins. I wish he’d written more like the latter and less like the former. If he had, a good book would have become even better.

Read Full Post »

Fresh Flesh

The Complete Illustrated Guide to Freshwater Fish & River Creatures, Daniel Gilpin and Dr Jenny Schmid-Araya (Hermes House 2011)

Fresh-water fish are special in part because fresh water seemingly isn’t. It’s the transparent stuff that human beings drink and bathe in. It’s an everyday thing that, in most parts of the world, falls regularly from the sky. And yet very strange creatures live in it: fish, which breathe water and drown in air. That inversion of normality doesn’t seem so remarkable in the sea: the saltiness of the water doesn’t seem to contradict the strangeness of the citizens, as it were. Instead, saltiness and citizens go together.

The difficulty of keeping a marine aquarium seems appropriate too. What else should you expect? But a freshwater aquarium seems special in part because it’s so simple. Even if the water has to be heated, it still seems everyday, like bathwater. But it’s bathwater with aliens in it.

In truth, of course, it’s human beings who are the aliens. Water is where life began. Fish are still there, breathing in the natural way, not the unnatural one. The ocean is the womb of life and when life left the ocean, it had to find ways to re-create it. Blood is a portable ocean and human beings have gills for a time when they’re embryos. We were fish once. Fish still are. But they’ve continued to evolve and to find new habitats. As the introduction to this book points out, moving from the sea to fresh water is like moving from a continent to an island. The world shrinks and fresh-water fish don’t generally have such big ranges as marine ones. Some species are confined to single rivers or single lakes or even single pools, which makes them vulnerable to pollution and desiccation.

But some fish can survive desiccation:

West African lungfish, Protopterus annectens

This fish inhabits temporary swamps and floodplains. When these habitats start to dry, the fish buries itself in the mud and secretes a thin layer of slime around its body. This dries to form a fragile cocoon which helps to maintain moisture. By slowing its body metabolism, it can survive within this cocoon for a year or more, although it normally re-emerges within a few months, when the rains return. … Once the water within its burrow has [evaporated] it relies entirely on its primitive lung to obtain oxygen. (“Africa: Knifefish, Elephantfish, Bichir and Lungfish”, pg. 157)

So lungfish are a step towards life on land. Elsewhere, other fish step in other directions. Electrophorus electricus, the electric eel of South America, isn’t truly an eel but is truly alien. It uses electricity both as a weapon and as a sense, because it lives where vision isn’t always useful: in the “calm, turbid waters” of streams, rivers and swamps (“South America: Sharks, Rays, Sawfish and Electric Eel”, pg. 127). Some cave-dwelling fish have lost their eyes entirely, like Typhlichthys subterraneus, the southern cavefish of Tennessee and Kentucky (pg. 111).

But Toxotes chatareus, the archerfish of Asia and northern Australia, has excellent eyesight, because it can squirt jets of water and “shoot insects” from overhanging branches up to five feet away: “Once it has knocked its target into the water it darts across to snap it up” (“Asia and Oceania: Other Perch-Like Fish”, pg. 231).

This makes it popular with some aquarists. Other fish are popular for their appearance, not their behaviour. Fresh-water fish can’t match the range of colour and patterns found in salt-water fish, but a shoal of neon or cardinal tetras, Paracheirodon innesi and P. axelrodi, is like a cloud of swimming jewels. Surprisingly for such a well-known aquarium fish, the neon tetra is restricted “in the wild to the tributary streams of the Solimões River, which flows into the Amazon” (“South America: Tetras”, pg. 140).

The paintings here capture the beauty of both species: one of the good things about the natural history series to which this encyclopaedia belongs is that it uses paintings to illustrate the main text, not photography. Capturing the shine, shape and colour of fish is a challenge to artists, so when they meet the challenge their art rewards the observer. The amphibians, reptiles and mammals also covered here are less challenging, so less rewarding, but they’re few in number and fish dominate the book. I like that dominance and I like the maps that open each geographic section. Rivers and lakes are prominently marked, from the Amazon to the Mississippi, from the Nile to the Euphrates, from Lake Victoria to the Caspian Sea. There’s lots of interesting information here and lots of attractive art.

Fish are strange creatures and that strangeness seems to strengthen in that everyday liquid we call fresh water. But water is strange too, wherever you find it and whatever it tastes like. It’s still being studied, still throwing up surprises, despite the simplicity of its composition: two atoms of hydrogen to one atom of oxygen. We should remember that as we read books like this.

Read Full Post »