BP fails to Disperse Oil or Anger

Suspected Corexit foam washing up on Biloxi beach. BP oil spill. , Mississippi. USA

Despite BP, the US Government  and the mainstream media attempting to sound the “all clear” the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution (WHOI) in Massachusetts has produced the first independent peer reviewed scientific study of the oil spill and it contradicts the claims by the company and the government that what little oil remains is disappearing. A vast underwater plume of toxins is stretching out from the well. Unsupported assertions that the “vast majority” of the oil spill has gone were also challenged at a congressional hearing last week- Ian MacDonald, a professor of oceanography at Florida State University criticised the administration’s numbers indicating that only 10-20% of the oil spilled had been removed. BP has made liberal use of the highly toxic Corexit dispersant which has broken up the oil into less visible forms, the combination of which is now washing up on the beaches. Despite the difficulties and restrictions, Jess Hurd has been photographing the continuing disaster, its environmental and human costs:

A wader feeding amoungst the BP oil spill. Grand Isle beach, Louisiana. USA

Corexit washes up as foam on Grand Isle beach, Louisiana. USA.

Dauphin Island beach oil slick, Alabama. USA.

Crab with discoloured gills washed up on Pass Christian beach after the BP oil spill. Crabs should have clearish grey but not black gills.

Dauphin Island beach oil slick, Alabama. USA.

Corexit foam washing up on Biloxi beach. BP oil spill. , Mississippi. USA

Thousands of small tar balls wash up on Grand Isle beach, Louisiana. USA

Oil booms wash up on the beach with oil and corexit. BP oil spill. Pass Christian, Mississippi, USA

Donny and Angel Mastler victims of the BP Gulf Oil disaster, with symptoms of chemical poisoning. Dauphin Island, Alabama. USA

Donny Mastler with symptoms of chemical poisoning. Dauphin Island, Alabama. USA

Workers on the beach clean up operation after the Gulf of Mexico BP oil spill. Grand Isle, Louisiana. USA.

Protest signs using Spongebob Squarepants cartoon characters after the BP oil spill. Grand Isle, Louisiana. USA

Bait shop Fish sign. Sunset on Grand Isle, a fishing community severely affected by the BP oil spill. Louisiana. USA.

Fishermen challenge the local Mayor and the Govenor Hayley Barber about their lack of representation on the Mississippi Gulf of Mexico Commission Biloxi. BP oil spill.

Protest against the oil spill and BP. Louisiana. USA

Abandoned oyster fishing boat at Point a la Hache harbour, Louisiana. Fishermen have an uncertain future as most think the oysters have been killed by the BP oil spill. USA

The Angle Regatta

I glimpse the faces of the mostly young migrant workers as four full coaches leave the power station construction site as the Saturday shift ends. It is a familiar sight in agriculture back home — the grime of total exhaustion tempered with relief and uncertainty is typical of this super exploitable workforce- out here, as I finish my long lovely motorcycle ride to this finger of rock, it is somehow a surprise. I have just passed the MOD firing range on my left, with its observation towers, flagpoles and rusty shell holed tanks — a haven of wildlife which eventually gives way to the fine golden sands and the riptide of Freshwater West, where ravens grunt overhead and the red blue cliffs will soon to be topped with luminous yellow gorse. I throttle back give up speed and position for safety as the spinal road narrows with oncoming tractor trailer and camper van, all smiles and politeness. To my right the deep port blue sound of Milford Haven is presided over by big oil and the incomprehensibly large tankers that ply frozen gas all the way from Qatar to Pembrokeshire.

The flotilla has already cast off as I pick my way around massive potholes and the friendly throng along the lane. The Old Point House — a splendid little 15th century pub often cut off by high tide, is still serving pirates a decent pint. The hillside has sprouted a forest of tents, the pub a majestic marquee, food stalls and a much-in-demand extra outside bar. Children catch crabs off the jetty. The few English accents seemed to fade away as the leisure boat captains retire and I fall into discussion with an ex-refinery worker. He left after the 1994 explosion because he “just didn’t feel safe working there any more”. Now he’s “struggling a bit”, he smiles at his young daughter “I still feel better off”. The catchy traditional sea shanties and full acoustic country set has started in the front bar and the rock band is cranking up outside. The beer is flowing in impressive quantities by the time friends finally arrive en route to Ireland. We are talking with a farmer’s wife, tonight’s only designated driver, of farming. She is apologetic “we have to cover the fields in plastic to stay competitive see” but I have tasted her Pembrokeshire new potatoes cooked within an hour of harvest and can say they are like nothing a supermarket has ever sold me. She is hopeful her daughter is going to get into the RAF- I think Afghanistan and bite my tongue. She is also a nurse on the cancer ward, although it’s “a wonderful and rewarding job” she is worried that if the beds get cut it’ll no longer be viable. Predictably I can contain myself no longer and launch into what natural optimism and selective memory holds to have been “An Eloquent and Erudite Dissection of the ConDems Dastardly Plans to Privatize the NHS to the Detriment of The Common People And Why It Must Be Stopped”. “I’m not much for politics” came the reply, tempered with a sigh of tolerance, “less of us will be working harder whilst the same people at the top will be doing the just the same thing but for more won’t they? I mean it’s always the same isn’t it? It’s just the way things are”.

The queue at the bar is a steady eight deep on three sides as Rob and his young crew cheerfully and efficiently work their socks off hour after hour. The assembled throng gets ever louder and increasingly inebriated. However, the refinery workers, electrical subcontractors, fishermen, shopworkers, soldiers, trawler crew, wives and girlfriends, students and farmworkers, man and boy, women and girl, young and old, local and visitor, all get on famously it seems- I don’t hear a crossed word all night- which is pretty unique. A familiar bassline resonates inside and draws and us out of the sweat into the cool night sea air. Against the surreal backdrop of the bunting clad boats and the malevolently picturesque flaming stacks of industry we all dance, as the band pulls off a fine version of Pink Floyd’s plaintively ambivalent Mon-aaaay…. it’s a gas….

Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash….

Mon-aaaay…. It’s a crime
share it fairly but don’t take a slice of my pie

Mon-aaaaya…. so they say
is the root of all evil to-day
but if you ask for a pay rise it’s no surprise that they’re giving none away, away, away, away, awaaay…

Nestling here in a crux of the Military Industrial Complex, we seem to be simultaneously in possession of the best and worst of worlds.

The Point House and an LNG Tanker © Paul Box