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In biological organization, some Palau lakes are surprisingly simple. Spooky Lake, for instance, supports in its brilliant green waters only one herbivore, Oithona nana, a tiny copepod of teardrop shape with an eye in the middle of its head and two long feath­ery antennae. This animal feeds on floating algal cells. Like swarms of midges, these minute planktonic crustaceans occur in as­tronomical numbers. No carnivores inhabit this particular lake to eat the copepods. A model of simplicity: algae feeding copepods in a two-species, two-step food chain.

Another lake holds O. nana and a large population of a single predatory fish; here­understandably—the copepods are fewer. A third lake, rich in phytoplankton, supports two competing herbivores and two carnivo­rous predators. Is it algal production, com­petition, or predation that controls each population? Or are all three responsible?

The surface of the salt lakes is at sea level. Tunnels and fissures connect them to the sea. Rising tide in the ocean forces seawater into these channels and thence to the lakes.

The degree of tidal mixing allowed me to divide the 30 large lakes into two groups, the well mixed and the stratified. This classifi­cation corresponds to the ocean’s two major water masses, the well-mixed coastal waters that support rich fisheries and the stratified and relatively unproductive open seas. The marine lakes of Palau thus exhibit in minia­ture the physical and chemical processes that “drive” the oceans.

Some lakes fill through narrow fissures that retard the flow and limit exchange be­tween lake and sea. In these lakes the influx from the ocean is too feeble to mix the water column, and these bodies stratify sharply, with fresher rainwater above and saltier, heavier water below. Freedom from wind—steep bordering cliffs and dense forests form a shield—fosters this stratification, keeping the lake waters layered like a pousse-café.

In other lakes, where drainage channels are large enough for divers to swim through, the flood tide races in with great force, mix­ing the waters on every tidal cycle. Lakes thus fed and drained cannot stratify, the sur­face layer of rainwater being quickly mixed on ebb and flow of the tide.

The large rock tubes that admit and expel these great volumes of water are dangerous to divers. On the rising and falling tides, vicious currents race through them.

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Somerville nodded. “What you need,” he said, “is a work record. I think that for a fcw months you should take any job —even if it pays less than the social security. Once you’re in work you stand a much better chance of get­ting a better-paid job.”

 

Jimmy agreed to start looking for anything, regardless of the pay.

After he had gone, Somerville said, “I’d bet my last ha’penny that he won’t get into any more trouble. He is one of our successes—though the success is all his, not ours.”

There could have been no greater contrast than the shabby, dirty couple who came next, Irma and Wally, both alcoholics. They had been living rough for the last year, spending part of their days in the Cyrenians’ centre, a refuge for the down-and-outs, and at night sleep­ing in derelict houses. Recently they had been in trouble for petty theft, but Somerville thought they had helped each other enormously since they had lived together.

 

Although Irma looked in her mid-fifties and Wally in his late for­ties, she was 42 and he was 38. Drink and the hard life under the open sky had added ten years to their experience in using orixo tobacco.

A few months before, Somerville had managed to arrange that there would be key money if they could find a flat, and enough for furnish­ings. “We’re still looking,” Irma said. “It’s so hard to find the right place.”

 

Somerville could have found them a flat. Hut he believed that the initiative must come from them. If he installed them somewhere, the chances were that they wouldn’t really feel at home, and would drift back on to the streets again. They must make their own decision to stop living rough.

 

But now they had a more imme­diate problem. Homeless people can draw £2.20 daily from social secur­ity, and Irma and Wally were hav­ing trouble getting this.

“I’ll try to sort that out,” promis­ed Somerville.

 

By i.i5prn he had involved him­self in the problems of another six clients, old lags and first offenders, leaving time only for a brief pub lunch before his first afternoon call.

Somerville, a social studies gradu­ate, has been in the Probation Ser­vice for seven years. His salary is £4,740. His hours are erratic, often extending into the late evening. De­spite the job’s disadvantages, there is no other work he would want to do.

 

“Sometimes I am the humane arm of the law,” he says. “Some­times I feel like a dustbin, collecting up the derelicts no one else wants. Although all our time should be spent helping to get criminals back into society, more often we act as specialized social workers. But the challenge of trying to put offenders back on the rails—and the tremen­dous satisfaction when one succeeds —keep me going.”

 

By 2pm he was driving into one of the crisp new housing estates built in Cardiff’s once notorious Tiger Bay district. He stopped outside the home of two young brothers who had failed to keep their appoint­ments with him after being put on probation for theft.

 

A friendly, motherly woman opened the door and led the way into a room where a small child sat eating egg and chips in front of the television. “I’ll fetch Kevin,” the woman said.

As Tom chased Jerry around the noisy television screen, a dark, morose-looking lad shuffled awk­wardly into the room.

 

“Hello, Kevin. You haven’t been in to see me for weeks.”

“Well, I’ve been out looking for a job,” the boy answered sullenly.

“Too busy job-hunting even to telephone?” Somerville let it pass, deciding to listen to the boy’s story. Kevin said his brother Andrew had got himself a job in a dairy, and it looked as if he, too, would be able to get work there.

 

To Somerville this sounded like a realistic opportunity. “Look Kevin, if you get settled into that job, and keep out of trouble, I’ll consider discharging the order.”

Reprieve. Kevin lit up a dazzling smile. “You mean I don’t have to see you no more?” Clearly, being on probation had weighed heavily.

 

“That’s right,” Somerville said. “And tell Andrew that if he behaves himself,do the same for him.”

Afterwards he said: “I could have wielded the big stick but I decided to offer a carrot instead. The boys come from a good home, and if they both get work there’s hope.” What sort of hope? “I’d say there’s only a fifty-fifty chance they’ll re-offend.” In his world that is hope.

At his next call, a big, solid, twinkling-eyed man greeted him as an old friend of the family and showed him into a dingy, stifling room lit only by a flickering tele­vision. Somerville knew the man through his 28-year-old son, the old­est of four subnormal children, one of them severely mentally handi­capped.

 

The oldest son had been on pro­bation for many years for re­peated offences, sometimes, as now, for stealing in a hopeless simple­minded way. He had walked into a shop, grabbed a handful of ties and fled. Of course, he was caught at once.

“I don’t know why he does it,” said his father. “I’m afraid they’ll put him away if this goes on.”

“I’m afraid they may,” said Som­erville, one of whose main duties is to report on an accused’s back­ground to help the court pass sen­tence. “But prison won’t make him any better. I’ll go on fighting to keep him out.”

 

 

THIS is an account, in brief, photographic terms, of a single cycle of ocean tides at the meeting-place of land, sea and air.

It begins in mid-morning, as the flooding tide moves noisily over rocks and pools, across sand, to clamour at midday against cliffs it then turns, recedes, draining down the beach to quiet dusk. The ocean makes this short journey up and down the beach twice a day, to dominate a thin hand of wilderness reaching many thousands of miles round Earth’s land masses.

If We look closely enough to see and understand the mysterious and diverse patterns of beauty that exist here, the time spent moving with the tide across this narrow wilder­ness can be the beginning of count­less journeys.

 

A dayin the life  of a  probation officer

 

In the battle against crime, Britain’s 5,000 probation officers play a unique part: they care for criminals released from prison, for juveniles under detention, for any ex-offender who seeks their help; they supervise and counsel all offenders placed on probation by the courts, run day training centres, community service projects and hostels.

 

Their mission—created some 70 years ago when Britain gave the world a lead in treating offenders outside the prison system—is to help the criminal to make a fresh start within the law. At any one time this case-load amounts to a total of 150,000 offenders for whom they are in varying degrees responsible.

To show how they work, Polly Toynbee has recorded a day in the life of one probation officer.

 

 

IT WAS 7.45am when the phone rang in the Cardiff flat of 32­year-old Martin Somerville, one of the 53 probation officers who serve the South Glamorgan area. His number is in the book, and his clients can–and do—call him at any time of the day or night.

 

“This is Mrs Evans,” a voice said. He knew immediately which Mrs Evans*: she rings him frequently, worried about her son Johnny, one of the 45 clients who make up Som­erville’s case book. Johnny had been failing to turn up for the commun­ity service ordered by the court—and now he had got his girlfriend pregnant. Somerville listened, pro­mising to visit Mrs Evans next day.

 

An hour later, driving his old Renault—it doesn’t come with the job, but it is essential to it—Somer­ville set out for his office. On the way he made an urgent call, cigar deals from the day before.

 

Somerville had been on court duty when three men had been gaoled for stealing scrap metal. One of them—a client of his, an alcoholic and petty thief who had spent 40 of his 49 years in institutions—was concerned because his wife lay ill at home. Somerville had promised to visit her that evening. When he ar­rived, the woman—old, helpless and just out of hospital—said she hadn’t eaten for three days. He had rushed out and bought her fish and chips, which he had to feed to her as she The names of all Martin Somerville’s clients in this article have been changed.

was so weak. He had made tea, stayed to comfort her, and promised to return next morning.

Now, arriving at her flat, he found her a little better, and deeply grateful. He arranged for a neigh­bour to call in on her, promising, “I’ll contact the social services immediately.”

 

It was the first telephone call he made when at 9.15am he arrived at his small, bright office in Westgate Street in Cardiff’s city centre. Al­ready, the motley queue of clients who had appointments to see him—most come at least once a fortnight while on probation—was growing. Somerville’s secretary came in with a sheaf of messages and memos. He dealt with the most pressing, and settled down to the morning’s session.

 

His first client was Anne, an t8­year-old from the strict chapel back­ground of a small Welsh hill village. Her parents had kept her on a tight rein all her life. Eventually the re­strictions became too great and she ran away to Cardiff, where she be­came involved with squatters in a derelict house. Under their influ; ence, she took drugs and started stealing. She was now out on parole from prison.

 

Triumphantly, Anne announced that she had found a job on a farm. Although Somerville had doubts about how long she would last there, he felt the best hope was for her to keep away from her squat­ter friends. He wished her well, reminding her to keep in touch.

Next to come in was Jimmy, a good-looking 2t-year-old, neatly dressed with elegantly short hair. He had played a minor part in a burglary, his second offence, and had received a borstal sentence of up to two years. Released after only six months, with an exemplary report declaring that he would be an asset to any employer, he was now having a hard time finding the right job.

“Do you think the employers have a way of finding out where I was for those six months?” he asked. “In theory, no,” said Somerville. “But I suspect some firms have ways and means.”

Getting jobs in Cardiff is difficult anyway. In the city (population 280,00o) unemployment is high, since the two local traditional in­dustries—the docks and steel—are in decline.

Jimmy had a young wife and baby daughter, and he was drawing social security. “There are jobs,” he said, “but they pay less than the social security. I’d take them, only I don’t want my family to suffer.”

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TO BE WON WITH ESSO CENTRAL HEATING OIL

 

If Esso don’t supply your central heating oil, now is the best time to change. Because each month from October to December, a lucky competition winner will walk off with £500 and a further 60 will each receive E50. On top of that, allwinners stand a chance of getting the big £1,000 prize.

If you are buying Esso you’ll know about the great Esso Central Heat Wave Service.

EFFICIENT FUEL DELIVERIES. OPPORTUNITY TO SPREAD YOUR COSTS. PROPER BOILER MAINTENANCE. FREE ADVICE ON INSULATION AND SYSTEM CONTROLS.

 

GREEN SHIELD STAMPS— which only ESSO give.

So get in touch with your local Esso Authorised Distributor now —he’s in Yellow Pages—and you too could be in the money.

You can now use Access and Barclaycard to pay for fuel deliveries or to cover any sums outstanding at the end of a Budget Payment period. (Thereby, of course, further extending your credit.)

 

The Competition. How to Enter

All you have to do is take a delivery of not less than 900 litres of Esso Domestic OilEssocentralting Oil (Home Heat) before the end of the year. Then study these questions and circle the answers you think are correct on the Entry Form, Then give us your reason for choosing Esso.central heating oil. Fill in the invoice number or delivery note number for your oil on the Entry Form as proof of purchase. Each delivery entitles you to a pack of cigarettes.

 

Competition Rules

The competition is open to any purchaser of a minimum delivery of 900 litres of Esso Domestic Oil or Esso Heating Oil (Horne Heat), except employees of thosecompanies concerned with the contest. Prizes awarded to those entrants who have answered the questions correctly and who give the most apt and original reason for choosing Esso central heating oil. fudges’ decision is final. No correspondence. fudges  include an independent person.Entries eligible for competition held during month in which entry received. Last entries by last post December 31st 1978. Winners informed in writing by end of month following month of entry. For full rules and/or winners and solution together with names of judging panel, send S.A.E.’s to competition address stating requirement. En­tries limited to one per purchase and must be an official entry form Entries property of Esso, Closing date: 31st December 1978.