Science
Contributor: It's no metaphor — undersea cables hold together our precarious modern life
In the early days of the pandemic, I began pondering the idea of healing. I stumbled upon a story about a cable repair vessel, the Leon Thevenin, which had attended to a cable break off the west coast of Africa. The cable, which had broken deep at sea, had caused an alarming and potentially fatal slowdown in internet connections in western and southern Africa.
The break seemed like a reasonable metaphor for our fractured times: The cable had snapped during an oceanic landslide precipitated by huge floods in the Congo River. It took the ship more than a month to find the rupture and complete the repair. The idea of a cable carrying all our data under the sea appeared to me, at the time, to be a touch anachronistic in this, our digital age. After all, everything on my computer seemed to live in the cloud.
Advertisements suggested that my phone shot its information upward, celestially, then bounced it back down to earth. My night sky was peppered with moving satellites. Even my printer was wireless. However, I was soon to learn that most of our information actually does move along the cold wet floors of our silent seas, and that the cables were far more vulnerable than I could have imagined. In fact, I — a virtual Luddite — was able, over the course of three years of research, to imagine a reasonable plan that could take down a good chunk of the world’s internet.
It is estimated that more than 95% of the world’s intercontinental information travels through underwater cables that are no bigger than the pipes at the back of your toilet. Within those cables there are tiny strands of fiber optic material, the width of an eyelash. The 500-plus working data cables in the world carry not only our emails and phone calls but also the majority of the world’s financial transactions, estimated to be worth $10 trillion a day. Of course, they also carry all our petty desires and inanities, the emojis, the porn, the TikToks, the data smog. They are, essentially, our technological umbilical cords.
The Elon Musks of the world might want us to believe that Starlink is the true wave of the future, but satellites are slower and considerably more expensive, and most experts say that we will be using underwater cable systems for at least the next three decades. Yet, the cables, like all of us, must break sometimes. Fishing trawlers can snag a wire. Dropped anchors from cruise ships can exact damage. An underwater earthquake or a landslide can snap the cable deep in the abyssal zone. Or, as has happened increasingly in the last year, they can be sabotaged by state actors and terrorists bent on disrupting the political, social and financial rhythms of an already turbulent world.
Historically, cables in Taiwan, Vietnam and Egypt have all been vulnerable to breakage and sabotage. Last year, the Houthi rebels in Yemen were accused of cutting three cables underneath the Red Sea. This January, the British defense secretary, John Healey, accused Russian ships of spying on the location of undersea communication and utility cables that connect Britain to the rest of the world. Chinese and Russian carriers have been accused of dragging anchor over fiber optic cables in the Baltic Sea, causing damage in Finland, Estonia, Germany and other NATO territories. All of this has, in essence, precipitated a Coldwater War. In 2023 the former Russian president and close Putin ally Dmitry Medvedev said that there were no longer any constraints “to prevent us from destroying the ocean floor cable communications of our enemies.”
Cables — often several of them bunched together — come into our shores via landing stations. These are essentially coastline buildings, in suburban areas. They appear like low-slung windowless bungalows. The landing stations generally have minimal security. Even in the New York area, the landing stations are protected by little more than a camera and sometimes a chain-link fence. During the pandemic, I was able to access a Long Island landing station and stand directly above the manhole cover where the cables came from across the Atlantic. With a crowbar I could have reached down and touched them, felt the pulse of the world’s information traveling through my fingertips.
But sabotage on a small level is never going to disrupt our vast information flow. One of the beauties of the internet is that it is self-healing, meaning that information, when blocked, just travels in a new direction. But a coordinated series of attacks on the landing stations, combined with some low-level sabotage at sea (an ingenious diver can fairly easily manage to cut a cable), augmented by some deep-sea sabotage (the severing of cables using ropes and cutting grapnels lowered from boats), could, in fact, bring the world economies to a screeching halt.
The idea of a global takedown may seem a little far-fetched to some, and the world is more at risk from fishing trawlers dropping anchor, but then again we didn’t anticipate airliners flying into skyscrapers back in the early part of the century. The next major 9/11 could possibly happen underwater, with a series of attacks that are simultaneously local and global. A few strategically placed boats, a handful of divers and a couple of on-land sabotage teams could send the world into a vicious tailspin.
The deep-sea sabotage is most worrying because it can take a repair boat several weeks to find a break and initiate a fix. The continent of Africa, for instance, relies on a small number of major cable systems running along its east and west coasts. If the cables are simultaneously severed, the whole continent could go down. And a breakdown can affect just about everywhere: If Africa or the Baltic Sea or the Philippines were to become isolated, the repercussions would be felt all over the globe.
Information can lead to liberation. But the control of it can also become a new form of colonization. Once upon a time, we had ships. Now we have fragile tubes. This is especially frightening in a world where no one nation seems to want to be the police anymore. The International Cable Protection Committee is an effective lobby, but it’s more a forum than a legislative organization. The task of repair nearly always falls to private businesses. The cables are owned by network operators (SubCom, Alcatel, Nippon Electric Co.), but increasingly content providers (Google, Amazon, Microsoft, Meta) are putting their money in cables to ensure the interconnection of their data centers.
We are connected, and wired to one another, but sometimes those connections can hang on a not-so-protected string. If a tech-challenged novelist can figure out a system of damage — and nothing I reveal here is beyond the fingertips of anyone — then perhaps it is time for us to reevaluate our systems, or at least be aware of what could unfold, or untangle.
Colum McCann is the author, most recently, of the novel “Twist.”
Science
Video: NASA Announces Artemis III Crew
new video loaded: NASA Announces Artemis III Crew
transcript
transcript
NASA Announces Artemis III Crew
NASA announced the crew of Artemis III mission, which will fly to low-Earth orbit to test rendezvous and docking maneuvers with one or two lunar landers.
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“I am excited to welcome you as the next crew in the Artemis journey to successfully return to the moon — this time to stay.” “I’m honored by the role that I’ve been given. I’m also very humbled by the task in front of us. But first and foremost, I’m grateful.” “So with that, the Artemis II crew, comrade, hands you the baton. You got the controls.” “As you know, we had a significant anomaly at our Launch Complex 36A on May 28. We’ve redoubled our efforts and are moving forward.”
By Alisa Shodiyev Kaff
June 9, 2026
Science
Santa Monica Mountains’ last steelhead trout survived the Palisades fire — and even had babies
Scientists feared the Santa Monica Mountains’ last remaining steelhead trout were dead, smothered by debris flows unleashed by the Palisades fire.
But the endangered fish surprised them: A team of biologists recently spotted 30 of the rare trout — and 21 babies — in Topanga Creek.
“There was a lot of happy dancing in the creek,” said Rosi Dagit, principal conservation biologist for the Resource Conservation District of the Santa Monica Mountains, which works with public and private landowners to conserve natural resources.
That’s because the steelhead here are endangered, at both the state and federal levels. Once, they swam in most streams of the Santa Monicas, but their numbers plummeted amid overfishing and coastal development. Increasingly frequent wildfire has further stressed their habitat. Topanga Creek, a biodiversity hot spot, is home to their last known population in the mountains that stretch from the Hollywood Hills to Point Mugu in Ventura County.
The trout that were spotted, including this one, are part of a distinct Southern California population that’s listed as endangered at the state and federal levels.
(RCDSMM Stream Team)
The California Department of Fish and Wildlife spearheaded a complex mission to rescue trout threatened by the Palisades fire that sparked in January 2025.
Time was of the essence. The fire hadn’t yet been fully contained. But rain was on the way, which would sweep massive amounts of sediment from the denuded hillsides into the water. Fish are often killed this way.
Crews stunned the fish with electricity, scooped them up in buckets, trucked them to a hatchery and ultimately moved them to Arroyo Hondo Creek in Santa Barbara County.
Within days, Topanga Creek was choked with mud. Some assumed the fish left behind were goners.
But in March, the conservation district’s team found four. The following month, when water conditions were clearer, they saw more.
“These fish continue to amaze me,” said Kyle Evans, environmental program manager for the state Department of Fish and Wildlife, who had seen the damage to the creek. “I had seen populations get wiped out in similar situations. So when I heard, I was thrilled.”
Evans surmises the fish that survived were in an area of the creek where less charred material and sediment were swept in.
“These fish likely hunkered down, were hiding under some rocks or places to try to get away from the main concentration of flow,” he said. “And luckily they weren’t buried.”
The ones that were spotted were fairly small, around 6 to 14 inches. Rainbow trout and steelhead trout are the same species, but with different lifestyles. If the fish remain in freshwater, they’ll be considered rainbows. However, they can migrate to the ocean and become steelhead, where they typically grow larger before returning to their natal waters to spawn.
Topanga Creek hasn’t fully recovered from the damage it sustained, but scientists say it’s looking better. Surveys last year were “so depressing,” Dagit said, with very few animals, and stretches that were essentially transformed into flat roads from all the sediment buildup. Some of the riparian canopy burned right down to the creek.
Then came 32 inches of rain over the last nine months, scouring out and moving sediment, creating deeper pools. Dagit said they recently found newt egg masses for the first time in years, as well as a few adult newts and many frogs. Plants that provide cover are starting to recover.
She provided photos comparing certain pools last year and this year, some dramatically transformed. In September 2025, the Shrine Pool could have been an overgrown hiking trail. This April, it was filled with shallow water.
The Shrine Pool in September 2025, left, and the same location in April 2026, right, with RCDSMM’s Isaac Yelchin donning a wetsuit.
(RCDSMM Stream Team)
Topanga Creek is home to another endangered fish, the small but hardy northern tidewater goby, often described as cute. Not long before the trout operation, Dagit led a rescue of hundreds of these fish too. Many were repatriated to the lagoon at the mouth of the creek in a moving ceremony last June.
There’s still the matter of what to do with the trout that were moved to Santa Barbara County last year. Evans would like to bring them home to the Santa Monicas at some point, but isn’t sure if it will happen. On one hand, they could bolster the small, genetically isolated surviving population. On the other, they might inadvertently bring in a disease or bacteria. There is some time to decide. Evans estimates the creek still needs to recover for two to three more years.
For now, the fish are functioning fine in their adopted creek. Experts worried the trauma wrought by the move would disrupt their spawning process, but they had babies that spring. This year, they spawned again.
Science
Pacifica pier cracks, another coastal casualty as seas continue to rise
The Pacifica Municipal Pier was shut down and taped off Thursday after city workers noticed cracks running through the landmark structure and concrete chunks falling into the ocean.
It’s just one of many coastal California structures that have recently crumbled under pressure from a rising and relentless ocean.
Officials from the small, beach city south of San Francisco said the pier was closed due to “cracking, separation, and displacement of the concrete walkway and structural elements.”
It will stay closed while structural engineers asses its safety.
Photos taken by city employees show a wide crack that runs from top to bottom and across the structure as well. Other photos show a large horizontal crack under the foundation of a small restaurant on the pier, the Chit Chat Cafe.
The cafe was also shut down.
This is not the first time the 53-year-old pier has shown signs of stress. In 2021, part of it was shut down after handrails along the edge collapsed. And in 2023, after a series of storms pummeled the Central California coast, damaging parts of the pier, the structure was partially closed for more than year.
Those same storms caused extensive damage in Aptos and Capitola, 70 miles south, where piers and waterfront infrastructure were swept away or damaged.
In 2024, a 150- to 180- foot section of the Santa Cruz wharf was ripped off by powerful waves.
At least 10 of the state’s dozens of coastal public piers were closed for part or all of 2024 due to structural damage sustained in winter storms since 2022. At least five others have longer-term upgrades planned to address structural issues.
“These things are costly to maintain,” said Zach Plopper, senior environmental director at Surfrider. “They are a part of our California coastal culture in many ways, but we’re going to need to reckon with, one, the state that they’re in, and two, the continuous and worsening threats they’re going to experience,”
He said most of the piers were constructed in the early 1900s, and they weren’t built to withstand decades of rough seas, storms and rising sea level.
“With this incoming El Niño, which is forecasted to be significant, and this marine heat wave we’re in the midst of, we’re kind of in uncharted waters as far as what this winter could bring in terms of storms and swells to the California coast, and we’re likely going to see a lot more damage,” he said. “Not just piers, but roads and other coastal infrastructure up and down the state.”
There was no storm in Pacifica earlier this week, so no single event could be blamed for the destruction.
However, a 2025 report from an outside engineering firm, GHD, found that several sections of the pier were in “poor” or “serious” condition, and they recommended closure before anticipated storms or events that could “subject the piles to high winds, swells and large waves.”
The firm found several areas of the pier where concrete was missing and rebar was exposed and corroding.
“The pier has continued to experience high winds and large waves in a harsh marine environment,” the engineers wrote in the report, noting that continuous exposure to seawater or marine spray was “detrimental” to the structure.
A 2023 city report estimated it would cost $19 million to repair.
That same year, a state law was enacted to require local governments along the California coast to plan for sea level rise in the coming decades.
Sea level has risen some 8 inches, on average, along the coast in the past 150 years, Plopper said, and researchers anticipate another foot in the next 25 years.
“We’re going to see profound shifts on our coastline, none that we have ever experienced before, and building static structures on the coast just doesn’t work all that well,” he said. “We’re going to have to make some really hard decisions.”
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