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Those flats consist of highly productive sediments with a rich benthic fauna and are of great importance for migratory waders and shorebirds. Two million birds, at minimum, pass through at the time, and about half that number use it on southward migration. This estuary was however dammed by South Korea in — that resulted in drying off the land. Oceanic megafaunas 'bio-diversities, such as of marine mammals , sea turtles , and larger fish drastically decreased in modern time not only by pollution but also mainly by direct hunting, most extensively Japanese industrial whaling, [20] illegal mass operations by Soviet with supports from Japan.

Those include spotted seals , and cetaceans such as minke whales , killer whales , [22] false killer whales , and finless porpoises , but nonetheless all the remnants of species listed could be in very small numbers. Historically, large whales were very abundant either for summering and wintering in the Yellow and Bohai Seas. For example, a unique population of resident fin whales and gray whales [23] were historically presented, [24] or possibly hosted some North Pacific right whales [25] [26] and Humpback whales 3 whales including a cow calf pair was observed at Changhai County in [27] [27] [28] year-round other than migrating individuals, and many other migratory species such as Baird's beaked whales.

Spotted seals are only species thriving in today's Yellow Sea and being the only resident species as well. A sanctuary for these seals is situated at Baengnyeongdo which is also known for local finless porpoises. Especially rich in fish are the bottom layers. About fish species are exploited commercially, especially sea bream , croakers , lizard fishes , prawns , cutlassfish , horse mackerel , squid, eel , filefish , Pacific herring , chub mackerel , flounder [35] and jellyfish.

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For example, the production volumes for China rose from , tonnes in to 1,, tonnes in Navigation is another traditional activity in the Yellow Sea. About people were killed making it the worst maritime incident in China. Oil exploration has been successful in the Chinese and North Korean portions of the sea, with the proven and estimated reserves of about 9 and 20 billion tonnes, respectively. China initiated collaborations with foreign oil companies in , but this initiative declined later.

The port had been closed and fishing suspended until the end of August. Eight hundred fishing boats and 40 specialized vessels were mobilized to relieve the environmental damage. The Yellow Sea is considered among the most degraded marine areas on earth. In addition to land reclamation , the Yellow Sea ecosystem is facing several other serious environmental problems.

Pollution is widespread and deterioration of pelagic and benthic habitat quality has occurred, and harmful algal blooms frequently occur. There are 25 intentionally introduced species and 9 unintentionally introduced species in the Yellow Sea Large Marine Ecosystem.

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The tidal flats of the Yellow Sea are considered Endangered. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Sea in Northeast Asia between China and Korea. For the film, see The Yellow Sea film. For a vehicle manufacturer, see SG Automotive. See also: Wildlife of China. November International Hydrographic Organization. Retrieved 7 February King, et al. Shorebirds of the Yellow Sea — importance, threats and conservation status. Wetlands International Global Series Vol.

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International Wader Studies Vol. Yellow Sea — driven priorities for Australian shorebird researchers. International Wader Studies Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment. Cetacean Res. Manage: 7— Retrieved 10 March DigitalCommons University of Nebraska - Lincoln. RICE W. Distribution and movements of fin whales in the North Pacific Ocean. Retrieved on 3 January. Apparently, a lot of people had to be deprogrammed in the seventies, and Coach has much faith in this idea.

We sit around a waning fire, sharing the night's second pint of Jose Cuervo. I'm not used to drinking hard stuff. Usually it's just Heineken, while I try to talk to secretaries at Petro Bowl, amid the banging racket of tenpins. Coach wears good cowboy boots, maroon eelskins, and a denim shirt he got when he was thinner. He's retained a full head of sandy-gray hair, still kept in its boxy crew cut. He passes the bottle. Took counterbattery while retaking Quang Tri.

My dad was a chief petty officer. I never met him. Only five months ago, dying of pancreatic cancer, my grandmother told me that Travis Corresi never served on the USS Mullinix. He was just a merchant seaman stationed in Port Arthur for one week in , when my mother was fifteen. They went out only once. Coach taps ash into the fire. His eyes glisten from a web of wrinkles, and I can imagine an event for each line drawn: flying in Vietnam, coaching the Port Arthur Toreadors for fifteen years, losing a wife named Marguerite to encephalitis, losing his only child to the state of California.

The skin around his eyes is a catalogue of gouged disappointments. He takes Vicodin every couple of hours. I think things would be better for him if he had a son. His cigarette trembles in his mouth. Maggie used to say"—he takes a long drag and exhales—"that's a happy kid. She did have to have things just so. Our fire is smoldering ash, red glow dying. We're silent until he tosses his smoke and speaks with grim, exhaling effort. We were both drinking alone at Petro Bowl, and I saw a tall boy in a letterman jacket leave a group of teenagers to approach Coach at the end of the bar.

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These snickering kids watched their friend ask Coach a question. Coach grabbed his throat and threw the boy over a table. I pulled Coach off, and he bucked in my arms until I said into his ear, "Coach. I loved her too. He nods and hoists himself up by holding on to a tire. He opens the tailgate and climbs in; metal squeaks, junk rattles.

He calls out, "Hey—is it kidnapping if you don't ask for a ransom? More rattling, and then the steady rasp of his snores. I stir embers with a stick. I want to believe we're doing the right thing—that the girl out west is the same one I knew in high school, and all she really needs is to be reminded of who she is. Rilke said to "raise the submerged sensations of that ample past," but later I'll understand that's slippery advice, because memory can be interpretive. Later I'll realize that the synaptic fields where it lives are the same spaces where longing and desire exist, and sometimes memory is only a vehicle for those things.

But even now, beside the cooling ash of our campfire, I don't trust my motivations. That's one of my basic traits, and it's mostly rooted in a broken jaw—the small metal cross in my chin reminding me that what I want and what I'm entitled to are traditionally separate things. To understand what I mean, you have to imagine me at fourteen: five foot eight, a hundred and thirty pounds, in oversized shoulder pads and a helmet I can remove without unsnapping it.

April sun smothers the field. Cheerleaders sit in the bleachers, evaluating the world and hiding cigarettes. I chew my mouthpiece compulsively. I've been reading about Nick Adams and going to war and getting shot. I meet derisive stares, knowing I have my ethos, imagining theories about pain and honor.

When we move to open-field tackling, I'm first to volunteer. Coach Duprene sets me against Eric Dempsey, a six-foot-something senior who's an all-district linebacker. This may be cruel. At the time, though, I think, He's taking me seriously. He's giving me a chance. When the whistle blows, Coach tosses Eric the ball. I don't hesitate. I get my center of gravity low and straighten my spine by sinking my head into my shoulders and looking upward. I don't swerve or go for his knees. A sudden gust and I actually hear myself break. Red, shocking pain. I roll over on the ground, sun stabbing my eyes, grass in my mouth, warm copper tastes, dirt.

Before I black out, I glimpse the girls in the bleachers, little dots of color all in a line. So, at twenty-one, I imagine life's chief lesson is that you have to limit your longing, or it can fester until it gets your jaw broken. That twitching metal cross stains my expectations with dread. My eyes dart around in the dark.

A log, a moon, noise of wind over rock. Coach cutting Z s. Imagined sounds echo in my ears: the clatter of bowling pins falling, artillery booming into a destroyer's foredeck. My jaw sleeps. No rain. Telephone poles resemble crosses in the sun. A large green sign says welcome to california. Coach's head dips and rises. I think he's taking more Vicodin. Coach stares silent and bleary at the road.

He fiddles with the radio and finds Merle Haggard singing "Mama Tried. The way she gathered up her books, I knew she was expecting this. I watched her leave from the window, wanting to reach through it as she crossed the concrete walkway. Her sadness felt so real to me, so close. At San Diego we take Highway 15 north. Later we rise into an elevated space of signs: slogans and bold primary colors.

Vehicles swarm us. I wonder if my mother made it this far. Her first postcards came from Nevada. There are five postcards altogether, kept in a shoebox on the floor of my closet. Suppose one day near the end of senior year you came home and your mother was gone. Your grandmother explained that your mom would be away for a while. A cryptic note began "Now that you're seventeen," and talked about each person having to "follow their own heart. Cars pull us and we merge, rising higher on the concrete slope. Below us parking lots are everywhere, as if we were flying over a city of parking lots.

The air becomes a radiant gloom, a bleached fog. Enormous buildings vanish into this haze. Something is burning—the odor is that of something stale, decomposing. Coach's face crinkles. A Volvo honks as we drift into the wrong lane. In February of my senior year a story was told in the track team's locker room.

They said Amanda had gotten wild. She rode back from a basketball game on the team bus, and something crazy happened. Howls and laughter. I dressed in a hurry, trying not to believe this. The truck squeals onto the shoulder. Coach slams it into park. I sink into the driver's seat. The engine rumbles and Coach slumps against the window. With my hands on the wheel, I feel new and worthy. This is what we see: Dry concrete reservoirs, asphalt everywhere, heat-warped air. People wearing sunglasses that make them look like insects. Convenience stores and billboards—pictures of bronze, muscled flesh, cleavage.

I glance at my slight, pale biceps. Once I saw Amanda crossing a flooded football field, kicking up water with her bare feet, and I devised a year-long muscle-building program. Self-improvement notes still litter my house: "A fragment of sacred duty saves you from great fear. Papers crackle as I crush them, and my footsteps boom on hardwood floors throughout my house. At a gas station Coach waits in the truck while a Persian helps me with the map. He says the zip code, , is "in the valley. Coach pops two Vicodins. Streets and sidewalks radiate heat like a skillet.

The sign is a simple red-letter job on smoky glass doors, tinted so you can't see inside. A few cars in the parking lot. A hillock rises at the far end of the mall, and on top sits a T. Coach has been staring out the window. He raps his fingernails against the door and rubs the brown bottle of chloroform. He hasn't spoken since I got directions. Let me talk to them—I'll make up a story. Trust me, I sort of got a plan. I leave him leaning against the truck.

The office has lime-green carpeting, stamped down and pocked with cigarette burns. It smells vaguely like rubbing alcohol and Vaseline. A door behind the front desk is closed. Those aren't her breasts. A receptionist greets me, an older woman with overcooked skin—orange, papery. She wears flared eyeglasses. Smiling, I show our driver's licenses. We drove a long, long way. She's from Texas. We're looking for her.

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We don't want to make trouble. But it's—the thing is … he's dying. He's dying and he just wants to see his only daughter before he goes. She looks past me, out the window. In the parking lot Coach appears folded. His back is bowed and he coughs into his hand, smoke blanketing him and dissolving into dusklight. He really does look sick.

I'll be right back. A moment later she reappears. You can come in. A bag from McDonald's spills french fries across his desk. His face is acne-scarred. He scans our licenses. The receptionist clasps her hands in the doorway. I tell the story of Coach's cancer while eyeing stacks of videotapes on the desk, explaining how difficult it was to drive the old man here from Port Arthur.

The man chews fries as I talk. At the end he asks me for a contact number and says the most he can do is pass the message along to Amanda. He's sorry, they can't just give out addresses, especially to family. The woman catches me at the outer door. She passes me a slip of yellow paper.

On the paper is an address. Coach nods and falls into his seat. Back on the highway he stares at the chloroform and says, "I don't know. I don't know about this. A ranch-style house in Van Nuys. Pal- metto and ferns, palm trees with ridged skin and no foliage. A yellow Corvette in the driveway. From a bay window pale, lemon-colored light lies in three rectangles on the trim green lawn. Around are similar houses, warm air. We park across the street and turn off the lights. The porch light is off, and a dim pink glow emits from the doorbell.

I walk toward it, through darkness between windows, the doorbell like the end of a tunnel. I would watch her green eyes, the smile that always closed them. I remember her face lit by a Bunsen burner's quivering flame, laughter bursting from her like confetti. Once, I saw her slap Junior Wendell's hand away from her skirt, and I felt the confinement of a teenage girl. The way her mind was full of longings—a knot of emotions constantly rising to the surface, washing over her, carrying her through a harrowed suburban field, past the shopping mall and long acres of bluestem grass, into the back seats of cars, truckbeds.

From Port Arthur? The movie I own is called The Devil's Garage , and it has the smooth, false texture of something shot on video. The star of the story needs to get her car fixed, but doesn't have enough money. The door opens the length of a chain lock, and a dog's black nose sniffs the gap. A pair of brown eyes, female and bloodshot, glide over me. The door closes, and I hear metal sliding loose. In the second it takes for the door to swing wide, I become conscious of my looks, until I remember that I don't have acne anymore and my haircut is better than it was in high school.

She has dark skin, and her reddish hair is pulled back. She holds a large brown Rottweiler by its collar. Light from inside silhouettes her, making her robe almost translucent blue. Her voice is familiar but rawer, deep. She manifests from the light, becoming solid, as if stepping from the place where I keep her in my mind. Her eyebrows are plucked into precise waves; her cheeks and chest shine with lotion.

She stares, eyes fractured with red, and tilts her head. The dog whines, and she crouches to scratch its ears. Bobby Corresi? She points furiously in his direction. What do you want? Get him out of here! Before I can reply, a man steps onto the porch. He is about my height, but with hard muscles and toasted skin.

He wears a white tank top, jogging pants, and lots of earrings. His short, glossy hair stands up straight. He puts an arm around Amanda's waist and stares at me. She barely regards him. You don't come near this house! The man next to her shifts his eyes from me to Coach and back again. Through all this I notice with somber clarity how sweet she smells. Can I talk to you? Please—just for a second. We really drove a long way. I just want to talk. She huffs loud. Murmurs come from inside the house. Coach's cigarette smoke plumes up on the far side of his truck like a phantom tulip.

When the door opens again, Amanda points over my shoulder. He stays outside. She and the dog step to one side, and I move into a foyer with a dried-flower arrangement standing on a nice marble table, and then into diffused light and the scent of incense, jasmine maybe, a television's flickering blue in a living room of brown, thick-cushioned furniture. Maroon walls, pictures of landscapes, some odor lingering from the kitchen.

Amanda mutes the TV. She motions me to the couch and curls her legs beneath her, covering them with the robe. Pete the dog lies on a cushion between us. I feel my chest tightening. Her lips look bee-stung, and I suppose it's collagen or something.

Her breasts are too round and firm under the robe. Her eyes are brown. What do you think—are you judging me? You bring my dad out here, and, and what—" she rubs her nose and talks fast. Even though it's cool in here, beads of sweat have broken across her brow. We're, like, lab partners freshman year?

So you know me or something? I can't get over her eyes. On her ankle is a cuneiform tattoo. I mean, I don't think I'm even going to again. I've got offers for, like, TV and stuff. I remember the hair-tugging. She always did do that. There's so little I recognize here. She throws up her hands.