Friday, April 2, 2010
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
June 13, 2006
Bonita man might be first coral snake victim in 40 years
Stanford University snake venom expert says no deaths from coral snakes have been reported since the 1960s
By Kate Spinner
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
When the coral snake slithered among them a couple hours before dusk Saturday, the men had been sitting around drinking long-neck bottles of Budweiser in a wide and littered clearing they had made for themselves in the saw palmettos.
Within a couple hours, one man would be dead and another in the hospital, clutching a gallon bottle stuffed with the battered snake.
According to the Lee County Sheriff's Office, Fernando Hernandez, 29, collapsed at the edge of the Seminole Collier Railroad a few yards west of Buffalo Chips restaurant on Old 41 Road and died from a snake bite. Medic Paul Fergueson pronounced Hernandez dead at 10:15 p.m. The medical examiner's office is awaiting toxicology reports to confirm the cause of death.
Robert Norris, a snake venom expert and chief of emergency medicine at Stanford University, said he suspects Hernandez is the first coral snake fatality on record in the United States since the discovery of anti-venom 40 years ago. Since the 1960s, he said, no deaths from coral snake bites have been reported to the American Association of Poison Control Centers.
"It's possible that one could slip through the cracks, but this is very unusual," Norris said. "If there are others, they've not been put in the medical literature."
Another expert isn't so sure medical history was made Saturday.
Joseph Gennaro, a retired professor from the University of Florida Medical Center, said several people in Florida receive coral snake bites each month and he surmised that although death from a coral snake bite is rare it does occur.
Gennaro said that unlike the fiery sting of a rattlesnake bite, the bite of a coral snake feels as faint as a pin prick. Sometimes people don't even know when they've been bitten, Gennaro said.
The venom is also insidious, working its way slowly through the bloodstream, gradually numbing nerves. A victim's inability to keep his or her eyes open is the first sign of poison, but it can take an hour or two for that poison to set in. When it does set in, the victim suffocates from lung paralysis.
He said treatment of a bite is arduous and requires pressure immobilization bandages as well as anti-venom. Two years ago a man was bit in Gainesville and it took 20 days for him to recover, Gennaro said.
Sheriff's spokeswoman Ilena LiMarzi said Jesus Moreida, also bitten by the coral snake, rode his bicycle from woods to the Bonita Springs Fire and Rescue Station. She said an ambulance took him to North Collier Hospital, but the hospital had no record of a man by that name. Neither did Lee County Memorial.
Barely visible past the row of tattered mobile homes that sit behind Buffalo Chips, a splash of blue tarp peeks out from the overgrown saw palmettos and towering slash pines that stand between the railroad tracks and Rosemary Creek, which borders the restaurant's property.
Under the cover of the forest, men live in tents and stroll a network of trails to grill fish by the creek, eat a snack of sardines by the railroad or drink alcohol in a burnt clearing littered with beer cans, beer bottles, food containers, plastic wrappers and the general refuse of daily life without curbside pickup.
The trails branch like mazes through the sharp brambles and bushes and they lead over the creek to a sidewalk just south of the restaurant.
Jose Luis Morales has been living in the woods for 10 years and has seen plenty of venomous snakes in Rosemary Creek and by the railroad.
He proved it Monday afternoon by holding up a half-dead water moccasin with a long stick. He charged past the creek bed and into a clearing where he dropped the snake to the dirt and hammered it to death.
No doubt there are venomous snakes in the woods, but Morales never saw a man die the way Hernandez did.
"He was a good guy with all respect," Morales said. "That's why we all cried."
Morales said Hernandez, whom he referred to as Cresencio Hernandez, originally of Ocotlan de Morelos near Oaxaca, Mexico, rented an apartment in Old Bonita Springs. The Sheriff's Office reported he worked part time for Able Body, a company that hires workers for odd jobs on a day-to-day, first-come basis.
Five men milled around by the creek with Morales on Monday, wearing sorrowful faces and stained clothes while they sipped from cans of Natural Light.
Standing by the creek, one man scaled sunfish beside a black charcoal grill and placed the prepared fish in a small bucket. In the milky water of the creek two long-nose gar investigated the bank for a moment before swimming away.
Except for the cell phones the men carry and the beer, life is at its most basic living out there in tents by the railroad. There a no bathrooms, no vehicles, no easy ride to the hospital.
Sometimes, out there, fear or drunkenness or a combination of both obfuscates good judgment, as it did the night Hernandez passed away.
Tiny as it was, the serpentine visitor, with gold and crimson bands ringing its body, was unwelcome in the home the men had made for themselves.
Daniel Gonzalez beat the snake with a branch, but it didn't retreat. Hernandez took a few whacks at the creature, chasing it toward Jesus Moreida, who remained seated on the ground. Moreida grabbed the reptile to move it out of the way, but it bit him in the hand. In a rage, Hernandez stomped on it. Then he broke a beer bottle and with the jagged glass began to slash the snake. Meanwhile the snake also bit him several times on the forearm, according to a Lee County Sheriff's report.
With the dead snake in the gallon container, Moreida hopped on a bicycle and rode through the saw palmetto maze. He emerged on the Old 41 sidewalk and pedaled to the Fire Station less than a mile away. From there he got a ride to the hospital, said Joseph Lawhon, Bonita Springs Fire and Rescue District captain.
Back at the camp, Gonzalez and Hernandez continued to drink. They grabbed a can of sardines and went to eat the food by the railroad tracks, according to Morales who was sleeping at the time and heard the story secondhand.
As daylight waned, Alfredo Lucas disturbed Morales' slumber to tell him that Fernandez had died. Several men said they called 911, but the sheriff's report credits Gonzalez for the call at 7:44 p.m.
Morales pointed out the spot where his friend had died, a bare patch of earth that sloped to the train track. From the pine trees, yellow strands of police tape still swayed in the slight breeze.
Staff writer Brad Kane contributed to this story.
© 2007 Naples Daily News and NDN Productions. Published in Naples, Florida, USA by the E.W. Scripps Co.
Stanford University snake venom expert says no deaths from coral snakes have been reported since the 1960s
By Kate Spinner
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
When the coral snake slithered among them a couple hours before dusk Saturday, the men had been sitting around drinking long-neck bottles of Budweiser in a wide and littered clearing they had made for themselves in the saw palmettos.
Within a couple hours, one man would be dead and another in the hospital, clutching a gallon bottle stuffed with the battered snake.
According to the Lee County Sheriff's Office, Fernando Hernandez, 29, collapsed at the edge of the Seminole Collier Railroad a few yards west of Buffalo Chips restaurant on Old 41 Road and died from a snake bite. Medic Paul Fergueson pronounced Hernandez dead at 10:15 p.m. The medical examiner's office is awaiting toxicology reports to confirm the cause of death.
Robert Norris, a snake venom expert and chief of emergency medicine at Stanford University, said he suspects Hernandez is the first coral snake fatality on record in the United States since the discovery of anti-venom 40 years ago. Since the 1960s, he said, no deaths from coral snake bites have been reported to the American Association of Poison Control Centers.
"It's possible that one could slip through the cracks, but this is very unusual," Norris said. "If there are others, they've not been put in the medical literature."
Another expert isn't so sure medical history was made Saturday.
Joseph Gennaro, a retired professor from the University of Florida Medical Center, said several people in Florida receive coral snake bites each month and he surmised that although death from a coral snake bite is rare it does occur.
Gennaro said that unlike the fiery sting of a rattlesnake bite, the bite of a coral snake feels as faint as a pin prick. Sometimes people don't even know when they've been bitten, Gennaro said.
The venom is also insidious, working its way slowly through the bloodstream, gradually numbing nerves. A victim's inability to keep his or her eyes open is the first sign of poison, but it can take an hour or two for that poison to set in. When it does set in, the victim suffocates from lung paralysis.
He said treatment of a bite is arduous and requires pressure immobilization bandages as well as anti-venom. Two years ago a man was bit in Gainesville and it took 20 days for him to recover, Gennaro said.
Sheriff's spokeswoman Ilena LiMarzi said Jesus Moreida, also bitten by the coral snake, rode his bicycle from woods to the Bonita Springs Fire and Rescue Station. She said an ambulance took him to North Collier Hospital, but the hospital had no record of a man by that name. Neither did Lee County Memorial.
Barely visible past the row of tattered mobile homes that sit behind Buffalo Chips, a splash of blue tarp peeks out from the overgrown saw palmettos and towering slash pines that stand between the railroad tracks and Rosemary Creek, which borders the restaurant's property.
Under the cover of the forest, men live in tents and stroll a network of trails to grill fish by the creek, eat a snack of sardines by the railroad or drink alcohol in a burnt clearing littered with beer cans, beer bottles, food containers, plastic wrappers and the general refuse of daily life without curbside pickup.
The trails branch like mazes through the sharp brambles and bushes and they lead over the creek to a sidewalk just south of the restaurant.
Jose Luis Morales has been living in the woods for 10 years and has seen plenty of venomous snakes in Rosemary Creek and by the railroad.
He proved it Monday afternoon by holding up a half-dead water moccasin with a long stick. He charged past the creek bed and into a clearing where he dropped the snake to the dirt and hammered it to death.
No doubt there are venomous snakes in the woods, but Morales never saw a man die the way Hernandez did.
"He was a good guy with all respect," Morales said. "That's why we all cried."
Morales said Hernandez, whom he referred to as Cresencio Hernandez, originally of Ocotlan de Morelos near Oaxaca, Mexico, rented an apartment in Old Bonita Springs. The Sheriff's Office reported he worked part time for Able Body, a company that hires workers for odd jobs on a day-to-day, first-come basis.
Five men milled around by the creek with Morales on Monday, wearing sorrowful faces and stained clothes while they sipped from cans of Natural Light.
Standing by the creek, one man scaled sunfish beside a black charcoal grill and placed the prepared fish in a small bucket. In the milky water of the creek two long-nose gar investigated the bank for a moment before swimming away.
Except for the cell phones the men carry and the beer, life is at its most basic living out there in tents by the railroad. There a no bathrooms, no vehicles, no easy ride to the hospital.
Sometimes, out there, fear or drunkenness or a combination of both obfuscates good judgment, as it did the night Hernandez passed away.
Tiny as it was, the serpentine visitor, with gold and crimson bands ringing its body, was unwelcome in the home the men had made for themselves.
Daniel Gonzalez beat the snake with a branch, but it didn't retreat. Hernandez took a few whacks at the creature, chasing it toward Jesus Moreida, who remained seated on the ground. Moreida grabbed the reptile to move it out of the way, but it bit him in the hand. In a rage, Hernandez stomped on it. Then he broke a beer bottle and with the jagged glass began to slash the snake. Meanwhile the snake also bit him several times on the forearm, according to a Lee County Sheriff's report.
With the dead snake in the gallon container, Moreida hopped on a bicycle and rode through the saw palmetto maze. He emerged on the Old 41 sidewalk and pedaled to the Fire Station less than a mile away. From there he got a ride to the hospital, said Joseph Lawhon, Bonita Springs Fire and Rescue District captain.
Back at the camp, Gonzalez and Hernandez continued to drink. They grabbed a can of sardines and went to eat the food by the railroad tracks, according to Morales who was sleeping at the time and heard the story secondhand.
As daylight waned, Alfredo Lucas disturbed Morales' slumber to tell him that Fernandez had died. Several men said they called 911, but the sheriff's report credits Gonzalez for the call at 7:44 p.m.
Morales pointed out the spot where his friend had died, a bare patch of earth that sloped to the train track. From the pine trees, yellow strands of police tape still swayed in the slight breeze.
Staff writer Brad Kane contributed to this story.
© 2007 Naples Daily News and NDN Productions. Published in Naples, Florida, USA by the E.W. Scripps Co.
March 26, 2007
Woman combs shoreline to find edible seaweed
By KATE SPINNER
kate.spinner@heraldtribune.com
Standing knee-deep in the surf off Lido Beach, Heather Fortner dips her hand into the sea and pulls out a quivering mass of green algae, appropriately nicknamed “dead man’s fingers.”
"Ocean's bounty," she exclaims, then plucks a piece -- properly called Codium -- and pokes it into her mouth.
"It's a very earthy flavor," Fortner says. Like oysters.
Gracilaria, red drift algae that resemble matted hair, are "crunchy like celery, with a slightly salty, piquant taste."
Sargassum, brown algae that look like drenched feather boas, are best fried tempura-style. They have a sweet and sour flavor.
"All have the after-taste of the ocean," Fortner says.
While other beachcombers turn up their noses at the clumps of seaweed that have been washing ashore along beaches from Naples to Anna Maria Island for the past few weeks, Fortner gets excited.
After all, markets in Hawaii sell Gracilaria and Codium for about $5 a pound -- wet.
Fortner sloshes along the surf line in wettable shoes called Crocs, rifling through soft piles of algae in search of fresh specimens.
Like any vegetable, seaweed has a shelf life.
It's also chock full of vitamins and minerals that make it healthy for people, as well as other critters. So it needs to be cleaned.
Using her fingers, Fortner scrubs the algae in the Gulf water first. She gives her harvest a quick rinse at home, too, before mixing it with sauces or adding it to soups and salads.
Fortner became accustomed to eating algae as a teenager in Hawaii after reading "Stalking the Wild Asparagus," a book by Euell Gibbons about finding food in nature. She said the concept of "being able to go for a walk and pick dinner" appealed to her.
Fortner has convinced a few friends here to appreciate that concept, including a neighbor who once referred to the algae as smelly.
But converting the American palate isn't easy. Here, algae is so unpopular that some communities spend upwards of $200,000 to dispose of it during years like this when it's abundant.
In Hawaii, however, locals flock to the beaches to gather algae for food when the tide washes it ashore.
Never letting go of her fascination with the wild vegetables of the sea, Fortner studied algology in Manoa, under Isabella Abbott, a University of Hawaii botany professor and world-renowned expert on edible algae.
Abbott said algae are valuable commodities in her homeland.
"There are lots of vitamins in Codium; there are lots of minerals in both of those seaweeds," Abbott said. The nutritional value varies by species. There are hundreds of species of Gracilaria and Codium.
Abbott is partial to Codium.
"It makes a wonderful fresh salad, and it looks so pretty," she said.
Abbott wrote a book about classifying marine algae and their usefulness.
After studying at the University of Hawaii, Fortner also wrote a book: "The Limu Eater, A Cookbook of Hawaiian Seaweed."
Fortner's career eventually carried her to eastern Oregon. She lived there for 10 years, long enough to give up the thought of eating the seaweed she enjoyed in Hawaii.
Imagine her surprise when she moved to Sarasota three years ago to work for the Merchant Marine and saw the beach draped in glorious red drift algae.
"Yowzer!" was her reaction."I didn't realize the seaweeds would be so similar."
Fortner said Gracilaria is her favorite, because it's versatile. It's good fried in tempura batter, added to soup or pickled.
Gracilaria looks like a stringy mess on the beach, but when a piece is separated and cleaned by a quick scrub in the water, it looks more like a red sprig of dill.
Eve Prang Plews, a licensed nutrition counselor at Full Spectrum Health Holistic Clinic in Sarasota, said seaweeds are great sources of nutrition, although she warns against eating some fish as well as seaweed from the Gulf.
She said algae grown where strong currents carry away pollutants are healthier than those grown in the Gulf, which is laced with heavy metals and petroleum products, especially near the shoreline.
Abbott said algae don't generally accumulate pollutants, but she recommends against collecting it from a harbor."
Usually if there's good seawater motion, you're quite safe," Abbott said.
Making sure the algae are washed well is also important.
Several people became ill in Hawaii in 1994 after eating salad that contained Gracilaria. An organism that was living on the Gracilaria caused the illness.
Abbott said any vegetable needs to be washed. After all, people don't eat spinach straight from the garden.
In the spirit of the book that inspired Fortner to look beyond the garden, she doesn't just reap the sea's bounty.
In the alley beside her house, grows a weed called Chenopodium. After washing it, Fortner said she steams it and serves it like spinach.
By KATE SPINNER
kate.spinner@heraldtribune.com
Standing knee-deep in the surf off Lido Beach, Heather Fortner dips her hand into the sea and pulls out a quivering mass of green algae, appropriately nicknamed “dead man’s fingers.”
"Ocean's bounty," she exclaims, then plucks a piece -- properly called Codium -- and pokes it into her mouth.
"It's a very earthy flavor," Fortner says. Like oysters.
Gracilaria, red drift algae that resemble matted hair, are "crunchy like celery, with a slightly salty, piquant taste."
Sargassum, brown algae that look like drenched feather boas, are best fried tempura-style. They have a sweet and sour flavor.
"All have the after-taste of the ocean," Fortner says.
While other beachcombers turn up their noses at the clumps of seaweed that have been washing ashore along beaches from Naples to Anna Maria Island for the past few weeks, Fortner gets excited.
After all, markets in Hawaii sell Gracilaria and Codium for about $5 a pound -- wet.
Fortner sloshes along the surf line in wettable shoes called Crocs, rifling through soft piles of algae in search of fresh specimens.
Like any vegetable, seaweed has a shelf life.
It's also chock full of vitamins and minerals that make it healthy for people, as well as other critters. So it needs to be cleaned.
Using her fingers, Fortner scrubs the algae in the Gulf water first. She gives her harvest a quick rinse at home, too, before mixing it with sauces or adding it to soups and salads.
Fortner became accustomed to eating algae as a teenager in Hawaii after reading "Stalking the Wild Asparagus," a book by Euell Gibbons about finding food in nature. She said the concept of "being able to go for a walk and pick dinner" appealed to her.
Fortner has convinced a few friends here to appreciate that concept, including a neighbor who once referred to the algae as smelly.
But converting the American palate isn't easy. Here, algae is so unpopular that some communities spend upwards of $200,000 to dispose of it during years like this when it's abundant.
In Hawaii, however, locals flock to the beaches to gather algae for food when the tide washes it ashore.
Never letting go of her fascination with the wild vegetables of the sea, Fortner studied algology in Manoa, under Isabella Abbott, a University of Hawaii botany professor and world-renowned expert on edible algae.
Abbott said algae are valuable commodities in her homeland.
"There are lots of vitamins in Codium; there are lots of minerals in both of those seaweeds," Abbott said. The nutritional value varies by species. There are hundreds of species of Gracilaria and Codium.
Abbott is partial to Codium.
"It makes a wonderful fresh salad, and it looks so pretty," she said.
Abbott wrote a book about classifying marine algae and their usefulness.
After studying at the University of Hawaii, Fortner also wrote a book: "The Limu Eater, A Cookbook of Hawaiian Seaweed."
Fortner's career eventually carried her to eastern Oregon. She lived there for 10 years, long enough to give up the thought of eating the seaweed she enjoyed in Hawaii.
Imagine her surprise when she moved to Sarasota three years ago to work for the Merchant Marine and saw the beach draped in glorious red drift algae.
"Yowzer!" was her reaction."I didn't realize the seaweeds would be so similar."
Fortner said Gracilaria is her favorite, because it's versatile. It's good fried in tempura batter, added to soup or pickled.
Gracilaria looks like a stringy mess on the beach, but when a piece is separated and cleaned by a quick scrub in the water, it looks more like a red sprig of dill.
Eve Prang Plews, a licensed nutrition counselor at Full Spectrum Health Holistic Clinic in Sarasota, said seaweeds are great sources of nutrition, although she warns against eating some fish as well as seaweed from the Gulf.
She said algae grown where strong currents carry away pollutants are healthier than those grown in the Gulf, which is laced with heavy metals and petroleum products, especially near the shoreline.
Abbott said algae don't generally accumulate pollutants, but she recommends against collecting it from a harbor."
Usually if there's good seawater motion, you're quite safe," Abbott said.
Making sure the algae are washed well is also important.
Several people became ill in Hawaii in 1994 after eating salad that contained Gracilaria. An organism that was living on the Gracilaria caused the illness.
Abbott said any vegetable needs to be washed. After all, people don't eat spinach straight from the garden.
In the spirit of the book that inspired Fortner to look beyond the garden, she doesn't just reap the sea's bounty.
In the alley beside her house, grows a weed called Chenopodium. After washing it, Fortner said she steams it and serves it like spinach.
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