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‘I’ll run until there’s no sea left’: the gas-mask wearing ultramarathoner circling the Salton Sea

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Sunday, March 17, 2024

On an otherwise desolate horizon, a black dot materialized along the dramatic shoreline of California’s Salton Sea one recent Saturday afternoon. Beachgoers shielded their eyes against the midday glare and watched as the mirage became 49-year-old William Sinclair, an ultramarathon runner and activist who goes by the self-given nickname “Irondad”.The runner’s sudden appearance felt apocalyptic: he wore an ominous full-face gas mask to block out dust, and a pair of snowshoes strapped wing-like to his back, to traverse the area’s expansive mudflats. He dressed all in black, with the exception of neon orange sneakers that were already caked in dirt from running and hiking the past 16 miles, a remote stretch of both cracked and swampy earth that very rarely sees any other human activity.His girlfriend, Larissa Olenicoff, ran up to greet him, wielding a bag of snacks, water and sunscreen. “I don’t know what you need, but I have everything,” she promised.“I don’t know either, but I’m tapped,” he said, briefly stripping off his bulky mask.But after the short break, he still had roughly 76 more miles (or the equivalent of nearly three full marathons) and 38 hours to go: a grueling route spanning the entire circumference of the Salton Sea, which would also require a night of no sleep and the possibility of minor hallucinations from extreme fatigue. Irondad, who requested that he be referred to by his runner name, hopes that his unusual annual pilgrimage will rally people around the plight of the dwindling Salton Sea, an issue that has long been called an “environmental and public health crisis”.A former dock is seen on a Salton Sea beach, with the water much further away, in 2021. Photograph: Aude Guerrucci/ReutersThe runner-turned-activist’s effort may be the most unique advocacy attempt to save the sea yet, but it’s certainly not the first.The Golden state’s largest lake has been steadily receding for decades, exposing more and more of an underlying lakebed laced with arsenic, lead and pesticides from nearby agricultural runoff. As the mud dries, toxic dust rises into the air, leading to high rates of respiratory issues in surrounding communities, such as severe asthma and allergies. Over the years, hundreds of millions of dollars have been allocated towards cleanup and restoration work, to varying effect. Some past environmental projects are still littered around the sea’s edge, like seemingly endless rows of hay bales intended to suppress the dust, which stood symbolically on the dried lakebed next to the starting line of Irondad’s run.But for those who don’t live near the arid shoreline and choking dust of the Salton Sea, the scale of the problem can be easily forgotten – if they’re aware of it in the first place.“It’s absolutely shocking to me how many Californians have never heard of the Salton Sea,” Irondad said. “Much less have any idea about the ecological crisis that the locals here are facing.”By the end of this decade, the Salton Sea could lose more than half of its volume, some researchers have predicted. Irondad’s goal is to run around the sea’s entire perimeter annually and to capture specific data about the sea’s decline, including GPS coordinates in regular intervals to measure its approximate size, year over year.“The plan,” he said, “is to run until there’s no sea left to run around.”Living among environmental ruinTen hours after his first water break, Irondad plodded down the western side of the sea, passing ghostly clumps of dead trees, previously hidden under the water and now re-emerging as the water recedes. There was very little moonlight and the temperature had dropped by 20F overnight. The sea was still.“It’s a little eerie, to be honest,” he said over the phone, the sound of his footsteps on the salt-encrusted beach audible in the background. “And there’s something about that I really like.”The first time the activist laid eyes on the Salton Sea a few years ago, he didn’t know anything about it. He was struck by the giant desert lake’s sheer, otherworldly beauty – and the sense of abandonment. There wasn’t a single boat in the distance, nor any swimmers in the water.‘It’s a little eerie, to be honest,’ Irondad said as he took a break from his run. Photograph: Amanda UlrichHe quickly realized that “something terrible had happened here”. Irondad, like other activists who have taken on long runs to raise awareness about global water issues, decided that a physical feat of endurance might grab people’s attention. In the past, he’s run several Ironman triathlons and different ultramarathons around the world. Last year, he ran around the Salton Sea continuously for the first time.Irondad, whose day job is in software engineering in the Bay Area, now spends half the year in Bombay Beach, one of the tiny, tight-knit communities that sits on the periphery of the Salton Sea.And to live in Bombay Beach is to live among environmental ruin – and to create art from it. On the exposed lakebed (often called “the playa”) where Irondad started and finished his run, dozens of large-scale art installations made from found materials dot the landscape. One wooden sign, topped by a metal pelican, reads: “Bring us back!” Not far away, a giant fish made from rusted sheet metal and driftwood crests a wave of sand, its mouth agape. At the sea’s edge, big punched-out letters simply say “SOS”.In recent years, the town’s unique blend of renegade public art and environmental justice advocacy has drawn visitors from around the world, particularly through an annual arts festival called the Bombay Beach Biennale that takes place every spring – the exact dates of which are now only spread via word of mouth.“We have always had an ecological focus here, almost by necessity. With contextualized art, we’re actually saying things in a much more articulate way, because that is the unique voice the Bombay Beach has,” Irondad said. “This run itself is also intended to be a work of art and activism.”Art installations are spread across the lakebed. Photograph: Amanda UlrichThe runner plans to share data from this year’s journey around the sea at an upcoming Bombay Beach Environmental Day, where other activists, residents and members of environmental groups will gather to discuss the future of the region. Already, Irondad has found some interesting differences between his run this year and last, including changes in the shoreline and vegetation, and a four-mile reduction in the run’s total length – a sign of the shrinking lake, he said.But in a place like the Salton Sea, there are always unforeseen challenges.As Irondad neared the end of his 92-mile trip, the mud along the shore – typically a “pudding”-like consistency – got about thigh-deep. At another point, he was forced to swim across a narrow river and worried that he might be swept out into the wider sea. Eventually, his phone died and the battery of his headlamp waned. After a few hours of radio silence, Olenicoff, his girlfriend, and a friend had to track him down themselves. They eventually found him slowly trekking forward in the pitch dark.At 1.53am on Monday, nearly two full days after he first set out, Irondad finally crossed his makeshift finish line in Bombay Beach.“How do you feel?” Olenicoff asked him as he lightly staggered away from the route, his black clothes turned to light gray by a thick layer of mud.“I feel happy that this is over,” he said, smiling.

The California landmark is shrinking, exposing a toxic lakebed that threatens neighbors. ‘Irondad’ is running 92 miles to highlight the crisisOn an otherwise desolate horizon, a black dot materialized along the dramatic shoreline of California’s Salton Sea one recent Saturday afternoon. Beachgoers shielded their eyes against the midday glare and watched as the mirage became 49-year-old William Sinclair, an ultramarathon runner and activist who goes by the self-given nickname “Irondad”.The runner’s sudden appearance felt apocalyptic: he wore an ominous full-face gas mask to block out dust, and a pair of snowshoes strapped wing-like to his back, to traverse the area’s expansive mudflats. He dressed all in black, with the exception of neon orange sneakers that were already caked in dirt from running and hiking the past 16 miles, a remote stretch of both cracked and swampy earth that very rarely sees any other human activity. Continue reading...

On an otherwise desolate horizon, a black dot materialized along the dramatic shoreline of California’s Salton Sea one recent Saturday afternoon. Beachgoers shielded their eyes against the midday glare and watched as the mirage became 49-year-old William Sinclair, an ultramarathon runner and activist who goes by the self-given nickname “Irondad”.

The runner’s sudden appearance felt apocalyptic: he wore an ominous full-face gas mask to block out dust, and a pair of snowshoes strapped wing-like to his back, to traverse the area’s expansive mudflats. He dressed all in black, with the exception of neon orange sneakers that were already caked in dirt from running and hiking the past 16 miles, a remote stretch of both cracked and swampy earth that very rarely sees any other human activity.

His girlfriend, Larissa Olenicoff, ran up to greet him, wielding a bag of snacks, water and sunscreen. “I don’t know what you need, but I have everything,” she promised.

“I don’t know either, but I’m tapped,” he said, briefly stripping off his bulky mask.

But after the short break, he still had roughly 76 more miles (or the equivalent of nearly three full marathons) and 38 hours to go: a grueling route spanning the entire circumference of the Salton Sea, which would also require a night of no sleep and the possibility of minor hallucinations from extreme fatigue. Irondad, who requested that he be referred to by his runner name, hopes that his unusual annual pilgrimage will rally people around the plight of the dwindling Salton Sea, an issue that has long been called an “environmental and public health crisis”.

A former dock is seen on a Salton Sea beach, with the water much further away, in 2021. Photograph: Aude Guerrucci/Reuters

The runner-turned-activist’s effort may be the most unique advocacy attempt to save the sea yet, but it’s certainly not the first.

The Golden state’s largest lake has been steadily receding for decades, exposing more and more of an underlying lakebed laced with arsenic, lead and pesticides from nearby agricultural runoff. As the mud dries, toxic dust rises into the air, leading to high rates of respiratory issues in surrounding communities, such as severe asthma and allergies. Over the years, hundreds of millions of dollars have been allocated towards cleanup and restoration work, to varying effect. Some past environmental projects are still littered around the sea’s edge, like seemingly endless rows of hay bales intended to suppress the dust, which stood symbolically on the dried lakebed next to the starting line of Irondad’s run.

But for those who don’t live near the arid shoreline and choking dust of the Salton Sea, the scale of the problem can be easily forgotten – if they’re aware of it in the first place.

“It’s absolutely shocking to me how many Californians have never heard of the Salton Sea,” Irondad said. “Much less have any idea about the ecological crisis that the locals here are facing.”

By the end of this decade, the Salton Sea could lose more than half of its volume, some researchers have predicted. Irondad’s goal is to run around the sea’s entire perimeter annually and to capture specific data about the sea’s decline, including GPS coordinates in regular intervals to measure its approximate size, year over year.

“The plan,” he said, “is to run until there’s no sea left to run around.”

Living among environmental ruin

Ten hours after his first water break, Irondad plodded down the western side of the sea, passing ghostly clumps of dead trees, previously hidden under the water and now re-emerging as the water recedes. There was very little moonlight and the temperature had dropped by 20F overnight. The sea was still.

“It’s a little eerie, to be honest,” he said over the phone, the sound of his footsteps on the salt-encrusted beach audible in the background. “And there’s something about that I really like.”

The first time the activist laid eyes on the Salton Sea a few years ago, he didn’t know anything about it. He was struck by the giant desert lake’s sheer, otherworldly beauty – and the sense of abandonment. There wasn’t a single boat in the distance, nor any swimmers in the water.

‘It’s a little eerie, to be honest,’ Irondad said as he took a break from his run. Photograph: Amanda Ulrich

He quickly realized that “something terrible had happened here”. Irondad, like other activists who have taken on long runs to raise awareness about global water issues, decided that a physical feat of endurance might grab people’s attention. In the past, he’s run several Ironman triathlons and different ultramarathons around the world. Last year, he ran around the Salton Sea continuously for the first time.

Irondad, whose day job is in software engineering in the Bay Area, now spends half the year in Bombay Beach, one of the tiny, tight-knit communities that sits on the periphery of the Salton Sea.

And to live in Bombay Beach is to live among environmental ruin – and to create art from it. On the exposed lakebed (often called “the playa”) where Irondad started and finished his run, dozens of large-scale art installations made from found materials dot the landscape. One wooden sign, topped by a metal pelican, reads: “Bring us back!” Not far away, a giant fish made from rusted sheet metal and driftwood crests a wave of sand, its mouth agape. At the sea’s edge, big punched-out letters simply say “SOS”.

In recent years, the town’s unique blend of renegade public art and environmental justice advocacy has drawn visitors from around the world, particularly through an annual arts festival called the Bombay Beach Biennale that takes place every spring – the exact dates of which are now only spread via word of mouth.

“We have always had an ecological focus here, almost by necessity. With contextualized art, we’re actually saying things in a much more articulate way, because that is the unique voice the Bombay Beach has,” Irondad said. “This run itself is also intended to be a work of art and activism.”

Art installations are spread across the lakebed. Photograph: Amanda Ulrich

The runner plans to share data from this year’s journey around the sea at an upcoming Bombay Beach Environmental Day, where other activists, residents and members of environmental groups will gather to discuss the future of the region. Already, Irondad has found some interesting differences between his run this year and last, including changes in the shoreline and vegetation, and a four-mile reduction in the run’s total length – a sign of the shrinking lake, he said.

But in a place like the Salton Sea, there are always unforeseen challenges.

As Irondad neared the end of his 92-mile trip, the mud along the shore – typically a “pudding”-like consistency – got about thigh-deep. At another point, he was forced to swim across a narrow river and worried that he might be swept out into the wider sea. Eventually, his phone died and the battery of his headlamp waned. After a few hours of radio silence, Olenicoff, his girlfriend, and a friend had to track him down themselves. They eventually found him slowly trekking forward in the pitch dark.

At 1.53am on Monday, nearly two full days after he first set out, Irondad finally crossed his makeshift finish line in Bombay Beach.

“How do you feel?” Olenicoff asked him as he lightly staggered away from the route, his black clothes turned to light gray by a thick layer of mud.

“I feel happy that this is over,” he said, smiling.

Read the full story here.
Photos courtesy of

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Mass protests against New Zealand’s effort to weaken Māori rights — and hurt the planet

"This is about the protection of all that we hold dear."

Earlier this week, tens of thousands of people converged on Aotearoa New Zealand’s Parliament in a show of solidarity against a legislative onslaught against Indigenous rights.  They had marched peacefully for nine days, in what Māori peoples call hīkoi, in an effort to stop the country’s new right-wing government from forcing through a bill that would dilute Indigenous influence on the government by reinterpreting one of its founding documents.  “Māori have been here, we are going to be here forever. You’re never going to assimilate us,” said Catherine Murupaenga-Ikenn, one of the Māori activists who participated in the hīkoi. “This is a great time for revolution.”  Proponents describe the Treaty Principles bill as a push for equal rights for all citizens of Aotearoa, which is how Māori refer to New Zealand: an effort to define principles underlying the Treaty of Waitangi, an English-language agreement signed by some of the country’s colonizing founders and Indigenous Māori that gave the Crown the right to govern the nation in exchange for enshrining Māori rights. “Did the Treaty give different rights to different groups, or does every citizen have equal rights? I believe all New Zealanders deserve to have a say on that question,” said David Seymour, a member of Parliament who leads ACT New Zealand, the country’s right-wing party. (Seymour has Māori ancestry, but leaders of his tribe do not claim him.)  But Māori opponents say the measure would weaken Indigenous rights that not only help address long standing social and economic inequities but are critical to protecting the country’s lands and waters.  “That redefinition could diminish Māori participation and environmental governance, as the treaty currently ensures that Māori involvement in managing national natural resources,” said Mike Smith, a Māori climate activist who has two climate lawsuits pending before the country’s high court. “So by limiting these rights, the bill may weaken the environmental stewardship practices that are rooted in Māori morals and values and thereby impact the country’s ability to address all the environmental challenges, and more particularly combat climate change effectively.”   Seymour pushed back on that characterization. “If it’s true no country can do conservation without something like the Treaty of Waitangi, the world is in trouble,” he said. “In any event New Zealand has had its current conception of the Treaty for over 30 years, and we are a solid, but not the best environmental regulator, so others clearly do better without something like the Treaty.” The Treaty Principles bill isn’t expected to pass in the current Parliament, although it could eventually head to a referendum. But it’s just one part of a broader right-wing backlash against the significant gains that Māori have made in recent decades to win back stolen land and secure better representation and co-governance of government agencies.  Read Next For New Zealand Māori, an uncertain future as fish move away Monica Evans “This is not just about Māori interests and rights. This is about the protection of all that we hold dear,” said Māori activist Tina Ngata who has been hosting online education sessions about the bill. “Indigenous rights have been one of the strongest roadblocks to corporate exploitation.”  Ngata was part of a successful push in 2018 to get Aotearoa New Zealand to ban oil and gas exploration in its waters. The country’s right-wing government, which vaulted into power last year, is now pushing to reverse that ban. The government wants to double its mineral mining exports to $2 billion over the next decade, and has delayed a planned tax on agricultural emissions. It also repealed the Māori Health Authority — which addresses Indigenous health disparities, many of which are expected to worsen with climate change — and is in the processes of deleting references to the Treaty of Waitangi from existing laws.  Smith said that even though his climate litigation isn’t specifically based on the treaty, it lends critical weight to his arguments regarding the government’s obligation to protect the environment.  A website promoting the Treaty Principles bill says it wouldn’t have an effect on co-governance of Aotearoa New Zealand’s rivers and mountains, such as the Tūpuna Maunga Authority that gives Māori tribes of Auckland a say in how the city’s volcanic mountains are managed. It would, however, remove Māori co-governance of the country’s water services, which has been controversial since the prior government announced plans to nationalize water management. Smith sees the measure as an effort to play upon the fears of the non-Māori population and make it easier for private interests to profit. “It’s an indicator that they want to stomp on Māori rights and philosophies and worldviews. It’s an indicator that they just are refusing to fight the challenge that climate change and the global biodiversity crisis demands of us,” he said. Read Next In the wake of historic storms, Māori leaders call for disaster relief and rights Joseph Lee But he has been heartened by the huge amount of support for the Māori cause. A video of a Māori legislator leading the haka in Parliament went viral on social media, underscoring the force of the opposition, which expands beyond Māori peoples and includes a former prime minister and prominent lawyers, health care professionals, translators, church leaders, and the Waitangi Tribunal, a federal commission dedicated to reviewing Māori claims regarding the treaty. That commission is expected to hold a hearing next week to consider the question of whether the Aotearoa New Zealand government has violated Māori rights in its response to climate change. The hearing has been overshadowed by the Treaty Principles controversy, but Smith is watching it closely. The Tribunal only has the power to make recommendations, and can’t force the government to do anything, but its findings could help strengthen Smith’s climate cases before the high court.   The debate over the treaty is complicated by the fact that the English and Māori language versions of the treaty have different meanings. Murupaenga-Ikenn emphasized that the vast majority of Māori chiefs signed the Māori-language version that never relinquished sovereignty.  Murupaenga-Ikenn said she’s been excited by how the Treaty Principles bill has spurred her people into action. She was part of a massive hīkoi 20 years ago to rally in favor of Indigenous ownership of the seabed, but last week’s gathering was far larger, with as many as 55,000 people, and activists hope it’ll bleed into more local protests and stronger voter participation.  If she saw Seymour, the ACT politician behind the bill, Murupaenga-Ikenn said she would thank him. “Thank you very much for putting a reenergized fire under my people to just shake us up and wake us up,” Murupaenga-Ikenn said. “The time is now for a revolution. Thank you, David Seymour.” This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Mass protests against New Zealand’s effort to weaken Māori rights — and hurt the planet on Nov 22, 2024.

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Queensland First Nations group lodges racial discrimination complaint against Adani

Adani rejects allegations that press releases and social media posts implied members of the group were not ‘legitimate’ Aboriginal people with a connection to sacred siteGet our breaking news email, free app or daily news podcastA group of Wangan and Jagalingou First Nations people have lodged a racial discrimination complaint against coalminer Adani, alleging the company engaged in a decade-long “pattern of conduct” that included making offensive statements and social media posts.The complaint to the Australian Human Rights Commission alleges Adani breached the federal Racial Discrimination Act by attempting to block them in 2023 from accessing Doongmabulla Springs, a sacred site near the Carmichael coalmine in outback Queensland.Sign up for Guardian Australia’s breaking news email Continue reading...

A group of Wangan and Jagalingou First Nations people have lodged a racial discrimination complaint against coalminer Adani, alleging the company engaged in a decade-long “pattern of conduct” that included making offensive statements and social media posts.The complaint to the Australian Human Rights Commission alleges Adani breached the federal Racial Discrimination Act by attempting to block them in 2023 from accessing Doongmabulla Springs, a sacred site near the Carmichael coalmine in outback Queensland.The claim also alleges Adani breached section 18C of the act, which prohibits offensive, insulting, humiliating or intimidatory comments, in press releases and social media posts that implied members of the group were not “legitimate” or “genuine” Aboriginal people with a connection to the site.Statements by Adani, cited in the complaint, allegedly imply that members of the group were “activists” rather than First Nations people attempting to practise culture.On Thursday, Bravus Mining and Resources, the trading name of Adani’s Australian mining arm, made statements accusing the Wangan and Jagalingou opponents of the mine of acting “at the behest of anti-fossil fuel groups”.Wangan and Jagalingou traditional owner Adrian Burragubba, a longstanding opponent of the Carmichael mine, released a statement on Thursday on behalf of the group lodging a federal anti-discrimination case. The statement accused Adani of engaging in a “smear campaign” against them.Burragubba said: “We have endured years of discrimination and vilification from Adani, and we’re not putting up with this any more.“Adani has been on notice about their conduct since our lawyers sent a concerns notice last year, and they refused to take action. Legal recourse is the only answer.”The federal anti-discrimination case lodged by Burragubba, his son Gurridyula, and nine other family members alleges Adani breached section 9 of the act by seeking to “verbally and physically obstruct and prevent” Burragubba and others from accessing the Doongmabulla Springs “in order to perform cultural rites and share cultural knowledge”.Guardian Australia published video of a brief standoff at the site in September last year.The complaint alleges that social media posts on the Bravus Facebook page attracted offensive comments – which the company failed to remove – which describe members of the group as “filth” and “deserving of being killed”.“This company thinks it can impair our human rights, destroy our lands and waters and smash our culture, and then denigrate us in the eyes of the world,” Burragubba said.“And they are barracked on by people on their social media channels without any moderation. Well, we intend to change the racism and resentment directed at Aboriginal people who stand up for their rights,” he said.skip past newsletter promotionSign up to Breaking News AustraliaGet the most important news as it breaksPrivacy Notice: Newsletters may contain info about charities, online ads, and content funded by outside parties. For more information see our Privacy Policy. We use Google reCaptcha to protect our website and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.after newsletter promotionSeven of 12 members of a Wangan and Jagalingou native title applicant group agreed to a land-use agreement with Adani in 2016, as required under complex native title laws. Others, including Burragubba, were opposed to the mine and have campaigned against it. One of their key concerns is about the potential for water to be affected at Doongmabulla Springs.Adani has repeatedly claimed scientists and others with concerns about environmental impact of the mine are anti-coal campaigners.The company said on Thursday it had not been notified about a complaint.“We wholly reject the allegations made by Mr Burragubba in this latest attempt to stop Bravus from telling our side of the story and sharing facts with the public about our interactions with him and members of his ‘family council’,” a spokesperson for Bravus said.The statement said Gurridyula had been prosecuted for assaulting two mine workers and made public threats to workers via social media.“Mr Burragubba and his allies in the anti-fossil fuel movement have tried for many years to discredit our company and stop our Carmichael mine which has been operating safely and responsibly in line with Queensland and Australian law and in partnership with the majority traditional owner group.“Mr Burragubba has acted at the behest of anti-fossil fuel groups such as the Sunrise Project.“We have a right to defend our business and shine a light on the behaviour of Mr Burragubba, [Gurridyula], and any others who act for their cause, and we will continue to do so.”

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Cape Town faces no limit on sewage discharge into the ocean

The environmental minister has removed the limits on the amount of sewage Cape Town can release into the ocean. The post Cape Town faces no limit on sewage discharge into the ocean appeared first on SA People.

Following a decision by Minister of Fisheries, Forestry, and the Environment Dion George, the City of Cape Town is now allowed to discharge an unlimited amount of untreated sewage into the ocean. This exemption temporarily lifts volume restrictions on sewage discharged through the city’s three marine outfalls in Green Point, Camps Bay, and Hout Bay, pending appeals against the permits issued for these operations, writes GroundUp. The permits, which allow for 25 million, 11.3 million, and 5 million litres of sewage discharge per day at the respective outfalls, have been contested by environmental groups and residents. These parties argue that the practice violates constitutional rights to a healthy environment and has not undergone adequate risk assessments or public consultation. Raw effluent is discharged from these outfalls daily. The only treatment the sewage receives before being released into the ocean is that it is ‘sieved’ to remove solids. Minister George revealed that as of August 2024, the limits on daily sewage discharge had been suspended due to ongoing appeals. This means the City is no longer restricted by the initial permit conditions. According to GroundUp, the City had already been exceeding those limits before the suspension. In October for example, daily discharges at Green Point exceeded permit limits by 700 000 litres per day. Environmental concerns Environmental activists and organisations like the National Sea Rescue Institute (NSRI) have raised serious concerns. They argue that releasing untreated sewage into the Table Mountain National Park Marine Protected Area could harm marine ecosystems. It also poses public health risks. A 2017 CSIR report highlighted that while the ocean’s high-energy environment has a better capacity to dilute pollutants than say, an estuary, “of importance is the volume of effluent discharged.” Persistent sewage discharge could overwhelm the system, leading to chronic toxicity and long-term damage to marine life. Thus the current and increasing quantities of untreated effluent have raised alarm bells. Environmental activist Caroline Marx, who sits on the City’s mayoral advisory committee for water quality, criticised the minister’s decision to allow unrestricted sewage discharge, citing the risks to a Marine Protected Area. She also pointed out that compliance issues with the Hout Bay outfall permit went ignored for years until ActionSA filed a criminal case. Legal and operational issues The City has faced compliance challenges for years. Documents revealed by ActionSA show that the Hout Bay outfall exceeded permit limits on 104 out of 181 days in early 2023. The City also failed to establish a Permit Advisory Forum as required. These violations have led to compliance notices and a criminal case against the City, which is now under investigation by the National Prosecuting Authority. ‘No other option’ for sewage Water and sanitation mayco member Zahid Badroodien said that Cape Town is growing and so are volumes of sewage—and that there was no other option at the moment but to utilise the outfalls. However, City officials say they are exploring long-term solutions, such as new wastewater treatment facilities or diverting sewage to existing plants. The post Cape Town faces no limit on sewage discharge into the ocean appeared first on SA People.

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Has nuclear power entered a new era of acceptance amid global warming?

Public support for nuclear power is the highest its been in more than a decade as the nation struggles to reduce its reliance on planet-warming fossil fuels.

When Heather Hoff took a job at Diablo Canyon nuclear power plant, she was skeptical of nuclear energy — so much so that she resolved to report anything questionable to the anti-nuclear group Mothers for Peace.Instead, after working at the plant for over a decade and asking every question she could think of about operations and safety, she co-founded her own group, Mothers for Nuclear, in 2016 to keep the plant alive.“I was pretty nervous,” said Hoff, 45. “It felt very lonely — no one else was doing that. We looked around for allies — other pro-nuclear groups. … There just weren’t very many.”Today, however, public support for nuclear power is the highest its been in more than a decade as government and private industry struggle to reduce reliance on planet-warming fossil fuels. Aggressive and impactful reporting on climate change, the environment, health and science. Although a string of nuclear disasters decades ago had caused the majority of older Americans to distrust the technology, this hasn’t been the case for younger generations. Old-school environmentalists “grew up in the generation of Three Mile Island and Chernobyl. ... The Gen Zers today did not,” said David Weisman, 63, who has been involved in the movement to get Diablo Canyon shut down since the ’90s and works as the legislative director of the Alliance for Nuclear Responsibility. “They don’t remember how paralyzed with fright the nation was the week after Three Mile Island. ... They don’t recall the shock of Chernobyl less than seven years later.” Public support for nuclear power is the highest its been in more than a decade. Here, the domed reactors of the Diablo Canyon Power Plant rise along the California coast. (Brian van der Brug/Los Angeles Times) Many of these younger nuclear advocates — outwardly vocal on social media sites such as X and Instagram — hope the renewed interest will fuel a second renaissance in nuclear power, one that helps California, the U.S. and the globe meet ambitious climate goals.“I think we are the generation that’s ready to make this change, and accept facts over feelings, and ready to transition to a cleaner, more reliable and safer energy source,” said Veronica Annala, 23, a college student at Texas A&M and president of the school’s new Nuclear Advocacy Resource Organization. In the past few months alone, Microsoft announced plans to fund the reopening of Three Mile Island’s shuttered unit to power a data center. Amazon and Google have also invested in new, cutting-edge nuclear technology to meet clean energy goals.While some advocates wish nuclear revitalization wasn’t being driven by energy-hungry AI technology, the excitement around nuclear power is more palpable than it has been in a generation, they say.“There’s so many things happening at the same time. ... This is the actual nuclear renaissance,” said Gabriel Ivory, 22, a student at Texas A&M and vice president of NARO. “When you look at Three Mile Island restarting — that was something nobody would have ever even thought of.”This enthusiasm has also been accompanied by a surprising political shift. During the Cold War nuclear energy frenzy of the 1970s and ’80s, nuclear supporters — often Republicans — touted the jobs the plants would create, and argued that the United States needed to remain a commanding leader of nuclear technology and weaponry on the global stage.Meanwhile, environmental groups, often aligned with the Democratic Party, opposed nuclear power based on the potential negative impact on surrounding ecosystems, the thorny problem of storing spent fuel and the small but real risk of a nuclear meltdown.“In America … it has been highly politicized,” said Jenifer Avellaneda Diaz, 29, who works in the industry and runs the advocacy account Nuclear Hazelnut. “That is a little bit shameful, because we have great experts here — a lot of doctors, a lot of scientists, a lot of engineers, mathematicians, physicists.”Today, younger Republicans are 11% less likely to support new nuclear plants in the U.S. than their older counterparts. Meanwhile the opposite is true for the left: Younger Democrats are 9% more likely to support new nuclear than older Democrats, according to a poll by the Pew Research Center. As a result, while Republicans older than 65 are 27% more likely to support nuclear energy than their Democratic peers, Republicans age 18 to 29 are only 7% more likely to support it than their Democratic counterparts.“Young Democrats and young Republicans may be looking at numbers — but two separate sets of numbers,” said Weisman. “The young Republicans may be looking at the cost per megawatt hour, and the young Democrats are looking at a different number: parts per million of CO2 in the atmosphere.”Brendan Pittman, 33 — who founded the Berkeley Amend movement, aiming to get his city to drop its “nuclear-free zone” status — said he’s noticed that younger people have become more open to learning about nuclear energy.“Now, as we’re getting into energy crises, and we’re talking more about, ‘How do we solve this?’ Younger people are taking a more rational and nuanced review of all energy, and they’re coming to the same conclusion: Yeah, nuclear checks all the boxes,” Pittman said.“I remember getting signatures on the streets of Berkeley, and I would say most young people — when I said we’re looking to support nuclear energy — they would just stop me and say, ‘Oh you’re supporting nuclear energy? Where do I sign?’” he said. “I didn’t even have to sell it.”This newfound enthusiasm has also affected the nuclear industry, where two dominant age groups have emerged: baby boomers who mostly took nuclear jobs for consistent work, and millennials and Gen Zers who made a motivated choice to enter a stigmatized field, advocates in the industry say.“You get all sorts of different backgrounds, and that really just blooms into all sorts of fresh new ideas, and I think that’s part of what’s making the industry exciting right now,” said Matt Wargon, 33, past chair of the Young Members Group of the American Nuclear Society.Like the workers themselves, the industry has formed two bubbles: the traditional plants that have been operating for decades and a slew of new technologies — from small reactors that could power or heat single factories to a potentially safer class of large-scale reactors that use molten salt in their cores instead of pressurized water.At existing plants, younger folks have injected innovation into longstanding operation norms, improving safety and efficiency. At the startups, those who’ve worked in the industry for decades provide “invaluable” knowledge that simply isn’t in textbooks, industry workers say. Steam rises from the cooling towers of the Alvin W. Vogtle Electric Generating Plant, in Waynesboro, Ga. (Mike Stewart / Associated Press) The infusion of new talent and ideas is a significant change from when Pennsylvania’s Three Mile Island disaster in 1979 and the Chernobyl meltdown in 1986 devastated the industry. Regulations became stricter, and development on new reactors and new technology slowed to a halt.False narratives around the technology ricocheted through society. Both Hoff and Avellaneda Diaz recall their parents worrying about radiation affecting their ability to have children. (The average worker at Diablo receives significantly less radiation in a week than a passenger does on a single East Coast to West Coast airplane flight.)“Radiation is invisible — you can’t see it. You can’t smell it. You can’t hear it,” said Wargon. “And people tend to fear the unknown. … So if you tell them, ‘Oh this power plant has a lot of radiation coming out of it,’ it’s hard to dispel [the misinformation and fear].”Only as the memories faded and new generations entered the workforce did the reputation of nuclear power slowly recover.Advocates also say that college campuses have become a leading space for nuclear advocacy, with Nuclear is Clean Energy (NiCE) clubs popping up at multiple California schools in the past few years.In August, Ivory held up a big “I [heart] nuclear energy,” sign behind an ESPN college football broadcast. It quickly spread on social media and even caught the attention of the U.S. Department of Energy.Nuclear advocates say the internet and easy access to accurate information has also helped their cause.“That was certainly a revolution because right now, it’s super easy to Google it,” Avellaneda Diaz said. “Back then you needed to go to the library, get the book — it was not that easy to get the information or be informed.”A poll conducted by Ann Bisconti, a scientist and nuclear public opinion expert, found that 74% of people who said they felt very well informed strongly favored the use of nuclear energy in the U.S., whereas only 6% who felt not at all informed supported it.As such, public outreach and education has become a core tenant of the new nuclear advocacy movement.“Let’s be real,” Annala said, “our generation has the whole internet at our fingertips ... so, just starting the conversations is really the big thing.”Advocates speculate that the ability to rapidly disseminate information on nuclear energy to combat misconceptions might have helped prevent nuclear energy from becoming politically and culturally toxic after the Fukushima accident, unlike with Chernobyl and Three Mile Island.While the Texas A&M students were quite young when the disaster unfolded, both Wargon and Pittman were in college in 2011 when an earthquake and tsunami in Japan crippled the power systems at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant, triggering a meltdown. Avellaneda Diaz was in high school.Hoff was working at Diablo Canyon when Fukushima happened. The public scare, in part pushed by the media, almost led her to quit her job.Instead, after taking the time to analyze the causes of the meltdown and the errors made, she decided to embrace nuclear.For her, Fukushima was a reminder that nuclear power comes with risk — however small — but that even in a worst-case scenario, operators are skilled at preventing a disaster. (PG&E says a Fukushima flooding episode would be impossible at Diablo Canyon.) Environmental activists in Seoul march during a rally marking the 12th anniversary of the Fukushima nuclear disaster. (Ahn Young-joon / Associated Press) Today, Hoff writes the emergency protocols for Diablo Canyon and hopes the industry will learn again how to engage with the public.She said that’s what happened with her when she first — somewhat reluctantly — took a job at Diablo.“I was a little obnoxious for the first few years,” Hoff said of her constant questioning and search for a critical flaw.Instead of pushing back against her, the plant welcomed it. Newsletter Toward a more sustainable California Get Boiling Point, our newsletter exploring climate change, energy and the environment, and become part of the conversation — and the solution. You may occasionally receive promotional content from the Los Angeles Times.

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How British College Students Convinced Authorities That Flying Saucers Were Invading the U.K.

To raise awareness for a charity event, aspiring engineers planted six UFOs across southern England on a single day in 1967

This story was originally published on Narratively, an award-winning storytelling platform that celebrates humanity through the most authentic, unexpected and extraordinary true narratives. To read more from Narratively and support the kind of ad-free, independent media its team is creating, you can subscribe to Narratively here at a 30 percent discount. Neil Batey, a shaggy-haired, 15-year-old paperboy, was on his way to deliver newspapers when he spotted a strange object. It was early on a warm and still Monday morning, September 4, 1967. He had walked across a cricket field from his family’s home in Clevedon, a seaside town in Somerset, in southwest England, on his way to the newsstand to pick up his deliveries. He saw it as he came over Dial Hill, the town’s highest point. “Just off the footpath, in the long grass,” Batey says, “was a large silver flying saucer.” It was a shiny disk, a little over four feet in diameter, with a dome shape on top, and it was emitting a strange mechanical beep. “If I’m perfectly honest, I didn’t know what it was,” Batey says. “But it was definitely flying saucer-shaped.” He hurried down to the newsstand and told the intrigued owner, Robert Seeley, what he had found. The pair sped in Seeley’s Humber convertible up to the hill, where Batey showed him the object. “He said, ‘Oh, my god!’” Batey recalls. “And we both drove back to the paper shop, and he phoned the police.” That same morning, some 30 miles east, at Elm Tree Farm near the country market town of Chippenham, Wiltshire, Mary Puntis (then Mary Jennings) was woken by shouting. A 23-year-old teacher, Puntis was staying with her parents at their farm on the last day of her school’s summer break. “I worked on the farm during the holidays to help out,” Puntis says. “Dad had told me I could have a day off to get ready for school the next day. So I was in bed having a bit of a lie-in. And then Dad came shouting up the stairs: ‘Mary, get up! Get up, quick! Bring your camera! There’s a flying saucer in the field!’” Puntis went downstairs and found her father, Dick Jennings, speaking on the phone with the police. “I think you better get up here,” he was saying. “There’s something in the field. I don’t know what it is. It looks like a flying saucer.” “Oh yes, Mr. Jennings?” Puntis recalls the police dispatcher replying sarcastically. “Are there any little green men?” “Well, I haven’t seen any, but you better get up here,” Dick said. Then he drove back to the field in his tractor. “And I thought, ‘I better go, I suppose,’” Puntis says. So she and her younger brother, Martin, got in her Mini car and followed the tractor up a hedgerow lane to the field. “Halfway up the field, fairly close to the hedge, I could see this silver disk,” Puntis says. She told Martin to wait in the car and trudged in rubber boots through the furrowed field to the object. Unbeknownst to Puntis, it was identical to the one Batey had just found. It was about the same width as Puntis’ Mini and had a perfectly smooth metallic sheen with no visible joins or openings. “The only way you could describe it was that it looked like a flying saucer,” she says. “We were just befuddled.” Chippenham is about 20 miles away from Warminster, the site of Great Britain’s biggest mass UFO sighting. Over a prolonged period in 1965, around 200 witnesses saw unusual objects in the sky and heard strange sounds. Fiery and glowing lights and booming and droning noises were accompanied by mysterious occurrences, including power failures and birds falling from the sky. The phenomenon became known as the “Warminster Thing.” Experts and officials were unable to provide a satisfactory explanation, and the area became regarded as Britain’s epicenter for UFO sightings. Had the “Thing” returned? Two police officers arrived and ordered Puntis and her father to move away from the object. Puntis describes the officers as nervous and cautious. “They wouldn’t go in the field to begin with,” she says. “They peered at it over the hedge.” Then a reporter from the Wiltshire Gazette & Herald arrived, followed by a uniformed flight officer from the nearby Royal Air Force (RAF) Colerne base. Puntis handed the Gazette reporter her camera to take photographs. She says the RAF officer, David Pepper, “got quite brave” and approached the object. With the reluctant police officers, he lifted the heavy disk onto its side and was startled when it began to beep. Pepper told a reporter that he had never seen anything like it. “Eventually,” Puntis says, “the RAF decided they were going to take it away and blow it up.” By this time, the police and the Gazette had received reports suggesting that more of these “flying saucers” had been found across southern England. “I was talking to the Gazette man on the edge of the field,” Puntis says, “and it wasn’t too long before we realized that something big was happening.” The objects found in Clevedon and Chippenham were two of six identical silver disks found on the same morning at equidistant locations along a plumb-straight line that bisected southern England. A map of the locations where the six disks were found Illustration by Julie Benbassat Thirty miles east of Chippenham, in the village of Welford, Berkshire, postal worker Eva Rood found one of the saucers while on her delivery round. Baffled police took it to their station, where officials from the United Kingdom’s Ministry of Defense were called in to investigate, and United States Air Force military police from the local air base arrived to take photos. (The U.S. Air Force has maintained a presence in the U.K. since World War II.) A fourth saucer was found another 30 miles east, at Winkfield, also in Berkshire, near NASA’s only U.K.-based satellite tracking station. One of the station’s engineers, Roger Kenyon, threw pennies at the silver disk to check that it wouldn’t explode. Then he turned it over to the police, who decided that the most appropriate response was to place it in their “lost and found” office. “Well, where else do you put something that comes under the heading of ‘Found’?” a police officer at the scene told the Daily Mirror. Thirty miles east of Winkfield, at Sundridge Park Golf Club in the London borough of Bromley, caddy Harry Huxley found saucer number five. Police bundled the saucer into a van and transported it to their station, where the officers became so annoyed by the constant beeping that they dumped it outside while they waited for Ministry of Defense officials to arrive. The sixth saucer wasn’t found until around lunchtime. This one was another 30 miles away, on vacant land in Rushenden, a village on the Isle of Sheppey, off Kent on England’s east coast—about 150 miles away from the first site at Clevedon. Police cordoned off the area, and the fire brigade scanned the object with a radiation survey meter. Stretched across England’s green fields and rolling hills, the six silver saucers appeared alien and otherworldly—but what were they? Were they from outer space? Were they from the Soviet Union? Were they aircraft or pieces of aircraft? Fallen satellites or unexploded bombs? At Rushenden, a large crowd was gathering, and children were delighted by the arrival of an RAF helicopter that the Ministry of Defense had scrambled from the nearby base at Manston. Creating something of a slapstick spectacle, the RAF crew attempted to lift the unidentified object into the helicopter, but it was too heavy, so they dropped it. When it hit the ground, the saucer split open, spraying the crew with a putrid, gloopy liquid. Back in Clevedon, the police had taken the first saucer, the one Batey had found, away on a roof rack. Batey had changed into his smartest shirt and tie and gone to the police station, where he was photographed with the saucer for newspapers and filmed with it for Pathé News. Two engineers arrived from local precision-tool manufacturer Willcocks to assist the police in identifying the object and figuring out what was inside. Adopting the kind of bumbling carelessness that characterized the overall response to the supposed invasion, they set upon the disk with a hacksaw and then attacked it with a chisel. Eventually, they managed to make a small hole—and also unleashed a foul stench. Unidentified Flying Objects (1967) “A smell as bad as bad eggs came out,” engineer Reg Willard told the Birmingham Post. Inside was the same off-white substance that had sprayed the RAF crew. “I know this sounds silly,” Willard added, “[but] I have read these science fiction stories and wondered if this was an alien attempt to establish life on this planet.” Despite concerns, Willard’s colleague was photographed dipping his fingers into the saucer to taste the substance. A sample was sent to scientists for more detailed analysis. In Chippenham, officials took the saucer found by the Jennings family to a garbage dump. There, experts from a British Army bomb disposal unit attached specially prepared explosives and blew it apart—with little regard for the well-being of any potential alien occupants. Out poured the foul-smelling gloop, described by the Western Daily Press as a “pig-swill-like mixture.” When police and Army personnel inspected the guts of the wreckage, they found a secret compartment. The engineers back at Clevedon, with their hacksaws and chisels, had also discovered the compartment, which contained a wired-together contraption consisting of a loudspeaker, a transistor with a mercury switch and an Exide brand battery. It now seemed unlikely that these UFOs were of extraterrestrial origin. As Willard told the Nottingham Guardian Journal, “They are made in Britain—not Mars.” The flying saucer invasion that had flustered and baffled police, military and government officials across Britain was a remarkable hoax. Earlier that morning, around 2 a.m., a group of young men operating in six teams of two or three had fanned out across the breadth of southern England. Each team had a vehicle filled with camping gear. If anyone asked, they planned to say they were setting out to spend the night under the stars. But hidden beneath their gear, each of the six teams had a large silver disk. Under the cover of darkness, they separately placed these disks in six very specific locations. Then, they retreated from the scene and waited for their respective flying saucers to be discovered. The young men were student engineers at the Royal Aircraft Establishment, a Ministry of Defense college and research base in Farnborough, Hampshire, right in the heart of southern England. And they were planning to pull off an extraordinary prank—the greatest UFO hoax the world had ever seen. The hoax’s mastermind was Chris Southall, a 22-year-old with a chinstrap beard and half-frame glasses who was just coming to the end of his five-year apprenticeship. “We had to do quite a lot of work in advance to find good sites,” Southall recalls nearly 60 years later. “We looked on maps and went out looking for sites where we wouldn’t be spotted at night, but where people would find them in the morning.” A glance at the chosen locations on a map reveals they were selected with remarkable precision. The idea was that the saucers would be planted at equidistant sites approximately 30 miles apart across southern England, in a straight line just above the 51st parallel, at a latitude of 51.3 degrees north of the equator. This specific formula represented a ley line, a mystical pathway that supposedly connects ancient sites across the earth with an invisible energy trail. Some UFO researchers have posited that ley lines could be navigational markers created by prehistoric civilizations to guide visiting alien spacecraft. Southall was the only member of the group who believed in UFOs, and he reckoned that if aliens did invade, they would carve up the earth with landing spots based on these lines. He saw this as a fun way to test the authorities’ response to an actual invasion. The fact that several of the locations happened to be near secretive Air Force bases, a NASA tracking station and recent UFO “hot spots” only enhanced the caper. “On the night of ‘laying the eggs,’ as we called it, we drove across the country and put them in the spots we’d figured out,” Southall says. The plan worked (almost) perfectly. The saucers were all quickly found and reported to the authorities—except for the sixth saucer, the one Southall had planted himself at Rushenden. Because no one found that disk organically, Southall decided to take matters into his own hands. He phoned the police, telling them he was a schoolboy who’d been out walking his dog when he came across something he thought might be a bomb. Pretty soon, the scene was crawling with police and encircled by a helicopter, and an RAF crew was sprayed with the putrid goopy liquid. Illustration by Julie Benbassat Southall and the others returned to their dorm at the Royal Aircraft Establishment. “And then we just had to wait with bated breath to see what kind of publicity it got,” he recalls. The aim was to promote the students’ Rag Week, an annual British tradition in which university students carry out stunts and pranks to “raise and give” (hence “Rag”) money for charity. At the time, costumed parades, sponsored challenges and eye-catching antics (such as attempting to build the world’s biggest sandcastle) were common, with participants shaking collection tins and buckets for donations around their towns. However, Southall and his friends had previous experience with creating much more ambitious and far-reaching stunts. Two years earlier, in 1965, the young men had dropped a replica of NASA’s Gemini space capsule, complete with parachute, into the River Thames in central London, generating national headlines and official consternation. (“Mystery Capsule Found on Thames Bank,” read one headline. “It could be a hoax,” a police spokesperson told the Daily Mirror, “but we can’t take any chances.”) And in 1966, Southall had designed and built a 7.5-foot-tall mechanical robot named Rodnee, which had embarked on a 30-mile charity walk from Farnborough to the capital. (“Rodnee the Robot Marches on London,” splashed the Daily Mirror, although a later headline revealed a setback: “Rodnee’s Engine Fails at Crucial Moment.”) The UFO stunt was even more audacious. Work began eight months before its execution, in January 1967, in a workshop at the back of the students’ dorm. Southall made a plaster model of a flying saucer and used that to create a mold. Then he used the mold to make 12 fiberglass halves and stuck those together to make six saucers. These were coated with a specially formulated aluminum gel to give them an unearthly polished shine. The saucers cost around £30 to make (equivalent to around £465 or $600 in 2024), paid for out of the college’s Rag Week budget. The disks’ innards were filled with almost 60 pounds of goopy gunk—actually a simple flour and water paste. “When you let it go off, it turns into this rancid jelly,” Southall says. (This is also where the putrid smell arises, either from the mixture being left out for too long or because the flour itself has gone bad.) “The idea was that if they cracked it open, they might think it was a dead alien or something.” Southall and his friends also built the electronics that made the beeping sound designed to help people find the saucers. “It was powered by just a tiny little battery,” he says. “That’s all you needed.” Farmer Dick Jennings looks at the object he found in a field near Chippenham on September 4, 1967. Photo by Tibbles / Daily Mirror / Mirrorpix via Getty Images It didn’t take long for the saucers to land in the media. Evening newspapers and local television bulletins reported the emerging story. Speaking about the saucer that Batey had found in Clevedon, police sergeant John Durston told the Bristol Evening Post, “The object does look just as one imagines a spaceship should look. I have contacted my headquarters, and they are getting in touch with all sorts of people.” He added, “It looks just like a flying saucer,” but cautioned, “There’s always the possibility that someone silly might have put something on Dial Hill to cause a panic.” On Monday evening, around 12 hours after the first saucer was found, a reporter linked the flying saucers to previous Rag Week stunts and called the Royal Aircraft Establishment to ask if those same students were behind the UFO hoax. “We owned up,” Southall says. They had hoped the mystery would last a little longer. But the hoax became the story. “So we got a second day of publicity. And lots of international publicity.” The headline in the local Western Daily Press was “The Big Flying Saucer Hoax.” The Daily Mirror ran a front-page story and center spread featuring photos of Batey and Southall under the headline “How the Saucers Hoax Got off The Ground.” “The Great Invasion From Outer Space was unmasked last night for what it was,” the national newspaper reported, “an amazing hoax by a group of bright young men … a leg pull that started a search for little green men.” Across the Atlantic, the New York Times’ headline was “Aviation Students Hoax Britain With Flotilla of ‘Flying Saucers.’” Half the world away from southern England, Australia’s Canberra Times simply said, “Student Hoax Fools Britain.” Southall and his colleagues were jubilant. They fielded phone calls from reporters, met with photographers and traveled to television stations. “We did it to publicize our Rag Week,” Southall told reporters at the time. “We aim to raise £2,000 for local charities, and this was the best way of drawing attention to it. We also thought we would give the police an exercise in dealing with alien spacecraft, because it could happen one day. We didn’t mean to cause chaos—in fact, we were rather surprised that it caused all this fuss.” The fuss had involved—and embarrassed—the police, the military, the Ministry of Defense and the Royal Aircraft Establishment, as well as numerous officials, engineers and experts. While the students’ previous stunts had generated a lot of local interest, this one had spread around the globe and entwined the highest levels of authority. As Southall’s colleague David Harrison told the Reading Evening Post, “We haven’t received a reprimand from any officialdom yet, but we are half expecting that we will get a bit of a telling off.” There was one response the group hadn’t anticipated. During the press calls, several reporters asked the same surprising question: What did the hoaxers know about a seventh flying saucer that had been found on the same day on a major thoroughfare in central London, less than a mile from both the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace? This mysterious “seventh saucer” looked a little bit like the other six, and police were investigating where it had come from. Southall did not know anything about it and answered honestly: “It was nothing to do with us.” “It was every bit as intriguing as the old TV science fiction thriller ‘The Quatermass Experiment,’ which told of weird, egg-shaped objects full of gas whining down to earth as the spearhead of an invasion from outer space,” wrote the Newcastle Journal following the UFO hoax. “Judging by the coverage in national newspapers,” the Runcorn Weekly News reported, “it was the most successful space stunt of recent times.” UFO researchers were impressed, too. Richard Beet, secretary of the Surrey Investigation Group on Aerial Phenomena, told the Farnborough Chronicle that it was “a very clever hoax,” adding that he wanted to acquire one of the saucers for an exhibition. The newspaper reported that “an American television company has rung up the Rag committee asking to buy one of the ‘spaceships’ to build a show around it.” Still, as Harrison had feared, the Chronicle also said that “officialdom” had taken a “dim view” of the stunt, and police were considering pressing criminal charges. A Somerset Police spokesperson handling the Clevedon case refused to comment to the press about suggestions that the students could be prosecuted but said “those responsible” would likely be interviewed. Wasting police time was a criminal offense, and newspapers reported that the students might also be charged with littering in the countryside and “causing a public mischief.” The investigation of the six saucers had entangled five separate police forces across southern England, including London’s Metropolitan Police, based at Scotland Yard. Perhaps more importantly, the hoax had caused consternation and red faces in the government offices of the Ministry of Defense. “If we’d done it now, we’d have been in jail,” Southall says. He held an emergency meeting with his colleagues at their dorm to discuss the possibility of prosecution. “We were nervous about it,” he recalls, “but it was all so exciting. And, of course, we’d been up all night, and then we were trekking off to television studios and things like that. We were so zonked out that it was hard to get too worried about it, and we were just going with the flow.” In Clevedon, Batey’s saucer was held by police as evidence. “We’re not giving them back their saucer,” said Durston, “not for the moment, anyway.” But Durston said he would be very surprised if the Somerset Police pressed charges. Chief Inspector Frank Dummett of the Wiltshire Police, responsible for investigating the Chippenham saucer, seemed to take the prank with good grace. “It was obviously a very elaborate hoax,” he said, “exceedingly well organized and must have cost a good deal of money to carry out.” In Bromley, a Kent Police spokesman said, “We are taking it like gentlemen,” and there was “no question of prosecution.” But in Welford and Winkfield, the Berkshire Police force was less forgiving, saying it was still considering action against the hoaxers. As for the Royal Aircraft Establishment, the prestigious institution at the center of the caper decided that the students would not face punishment. The institution’s chief engineer, F.H. Beer, said, “I want to say publicly that I thought it was a very fine effort. In spite of the fact that there have been some people who don’t approve, I personally do.” It was the seemingly incompetent response to the hoax that caused the most embarrassment. Another UFO research group, the National Investigation Committee for Aerial Phenomena, wrote to the Ministry of Defense, criticizing a “complete lack of cooperation” among the departments involved in the official response and offering its own services in the future. “One hesitates to think of what might have happened had one or more flying objects actually landed,” the letter said. Declassified files show that the Ministry of Defense regarded the incident as an “(obviously very successful) practical joke.” But the documents also suggest that officials feared the response to the high-profile hoax might reveal secret details about investigations into actual UFOs and potential plans for dealing with a real alien invasion. A letter held at the U.K.’s National Archives shows that the Ministry of Defense wrote to an RAF intelligence officer involved in the Bromley saucer investigation, advising him not to comment to the media about any of the equipment he had used in examining the objects, nor about any of his previous or subsequent “‘UFO’ work.” According to another letter, the officer from Bromley (whose name is redacted) was “responsible for investigating all UFO sightings in U.K. airspace,” suggesting he was a 1960s British version of FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder from “The X-Files.” A restricted staff memo indicates how seriously the U.K. took the incident by stating that the officer should be reminded of his obligations under the Official Secrets Act, U.K. legislation that protects sensitive information, including information related to national security. To the U.K. authorities, this was more than just a joke. In the end, despite—or perhaps because of—the Ministry of Defense’s involvement (and the potential embarrassment of national security secrets being revealed if the case were prolonged), Southall and the other students were not prosecuted and faced no further action. They had, after all, pulled off the stunt for a good cause. Several of the hoaxers also participated in a more traditional Rag Week event—a sponsored walk in “flower power” costumes. Southall, “minus his flying saucers,” according to the Farnborough Chronicle, walked 41 miles. The UFO hoax’s publicity generated extra donations and helped the Rag committee reach its charity fundraising target of £2,000 (equivalent to around £31,000, or nearly $40,000, in 2024). A newspaper article about the hoax Farnborough Chronicle / Courtesy of Paul Brown But that wasn’t the end of the story. Although the flying saucer invasion had been exposed as a hoax, some refused to believe the explanation. In Bromley, a witness named Cynthia Tooth, described in the Newcastle Journal as the wife of an advertising executive, claimed she had seen the saucer found on the golf course fall from the sky in the middle of the night and described “a steady bright light, surmounted by a flashing light.” There were other strange sightings on the day of the hoax, too. In Lower Spanton, near where Puntis and her father found the Chippenham saucer, villagers and schoolchildren reported seeing a silver “flying bubble” in the sky. “It was very large and very high and glinted and shone in the sun,” local Michael Smith told the Western Daily Press. “I never saw anything like it before.” In Bicester, north of where the U.S. Air Force photographed the Welford saucer, a group of motorists stopped their vehicles on a country lane to watch a silver, cigar-shaped object floating in the sky in broad daylight. “I’ve never believed in this sort of thing before,” witness Raymond Richardson told the Reading Evening Post. “But this made me go cold all over.” It’s impossible to know what they saw, but each of these witnesses believed they’d seen something out of the ordinary, most of which could not be traced back to the students’ hoax. And then there was the so-called seventh saucer, found on the same day as the six fake ones, on a traffic island at Kingsway, central London, outside the Rediffusion television studios—in a building that had previously been the administrative headquarters of the RAF. The silver-gray saucer, about three feet across with two protruding antennae, was found by Jack Grant of Wandsworth, who said he didn’t dare touch it. It was taken away in a van by police and seemingly disappeared—with no record of what happened to it. “Probably another hoax,” wrote the Daily Mirror. “But then, you never can tell.” Official records show that 362 “unexplained aerial sightings” were reported to the U.K. Ministry of Defense in 1967, up from 95 in the previous year. Batey and Puntis, now ages 72 and 80 respectively, recall their UFO encounters with—mostly—good humor. Batey’s media appearances led to teasing at school. “I got the piss taken out of me mercilessly by younger kids,” he says. More positively, Batey was contacted by a long-lost cousin in Australia who spotted his photo in a newspaper. He bears no resentment toward the hoaxers. “It was just a bit of fun,” he says. “I was an avid science fiction fan, anyway. It was quite impressive. I would probably have done it if I’d been a bit older. I would have taken part gleefully.” “We thought it was absolutely brilliant,” Puntis says. “Really, really clever. Because they had plotted these six places across the country, and they had gone to an awful lot of trouble to identify sites that were exactly the same distances apart. And one happened to be our field. It was wonderful. It’s been a talking point for, well, 57 years. And people are still talking about it.” Puntis now lives in a house she built in that same field. As for the great UFO hoax’s mastermind, today Southall is an environmental activist who builds eco-friendly geodesic domes rather than flying saucers. “We grow our own food and provide our own heat from wood and solar, and all that kind of stuff,” he says. He got into self-sufficiency right after finishing his engineering apprenticeship. “I lived off-grid on the Isle of Man for 9 years, and after that, I lived in a commune for 20 years, so I’ve had all sorts of adventures through my life.” Southall is still amused when he thinks of the blundering official response to the saucers. “It’s a bit shocking, isn’t it, really?” he reflects. “Because they could have been real, they could have had strange, slimy creatures inside or whatever. They didn’t know when they cracked them open that this slimy stuff was paste. At the time, I was well into science fiction, so I would have liked to have thought they’d take it a little bit more seriously, at least initially.” As for the witness who saw one of the fake saucers fall from the sky and the mysterious seventh saucer that he had no involvement with, Southall can give no explanation other than offering a well-accepted truism: “It’s a funny old world out there, I tell you.” Paul Brown writes about history, true crime and sports. He also pens a newsletter called Singular Discoveries about unusual true stories from forgotten corners of the past. Jesse Sposato is Narratively’s executive editor. She also writes about social issues, feminism, health, friendship and culture for a variety of outlets. She is currently working on a collection of essays about coming of age in the suburbs. Julie Benbassat is an award-winning illustrator, painter and animator. Get the latest History stories in your inbox?

Activism
Cosmos
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