While there's enough coral in the ocean for Melissas, he says that other people shouldn't import or export it because "it's a fragile ecosystem that needs to not be messed with." Although his website sells lamps made from coral for $375 each and eight-piece assorted coral collections for $368, he points the finger at a curio wholesaler in Texas that he says supplies to Walmart and Michaels, the retail craft chain. They're doing the real damage, he implies, going on to state that there "must be some ethical limits to the dollar bill."
Asked about the seized coral from the Solomon Islands, Melissas looks uneasy at first. His wife wanders into the kitchen and, seemingly sensing the subject has been broached, comments that it's good that New Times is recording the interview. Melissas says he never imports coral directly but admits that he buys "from people who import from there," though he won't identify those people. "If the price was right, I bought it. I wasn't the only one buying it."
Tim Grollimund
Ken Nedimyer of the Coral Restoration Foundation grows coral in an underwater nursery in Key Largo.
Tim Grollimund
Divers check on corals transplanted from a nursery to the Florida Reef Tract.
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Melissas spews disgust for Fish and Wildlife's investigation. It took about eight people to pull that batch of coral from the water, he says, and it was perfectly fine because shipping channels were being cut through the area and the coral was being reseeded (sources familiar with the investigation say this is doubtful given the volume of coral and species targeted for collection).
Most important, he says, there was no intentional mislabeling of the coral. Rather, overzealous inspectors "hyped it to the max" to appear as though they had made a big bust.
"A piece of lace coral looks a little bit like a piece of bird's-nest coral," he says. "And these are uneducated island people, almost Aborigines, packaging it up. And you're expecting them to know [how to label it?]"
Melissas claims that other containers, packed with the same species and labeled the same exact way as the July 2010 shipment, have passed through different ports without any hindrance.
His face contorts in an exaggerated expression of alarm when he's told that the coral seized in July 2010 at the Port of Tampa has an estimated worth of $500,000 to $1 million. Lowering his head so that his mouth is positioned an inch from a tape recorder, he booms, "They lied. They lied!" His voice blasts through the kitchen. "Fish and Wildlife definitely threw up on the American public when they said it was worth that much... A 40-foot semi, completely full, average price is 18 grand. My Greek cross to God."
Melissas raises his caterpillar eyebrows, pats his back pocket, and likens the $1 million appraisal to cops who exaggerate a weed bust by appraising it at street value, not its wholesale price. (Sources familiar with the ongoing investigation readily admit that some of the shipments were accompanied by invoices that were about $30,000 for a full container; the $500,000 to $1 million estimate is the retail value, they say.)
"Coral is not expensive, because it is plentiful — especially corals that are dying to begin with," he says. "There's a company in California that doesn't lose one piece of coral, and they bring in a 40-footer every 30 days... I could never buy all the coral offered to me."
Whether a container of coral is worth $18,000 or $1 million seems like petty quibbling when one considers that it could soon be extinct. Although Melissas may be accustomed to bulk purchases of dead coral, scientists are not, and most are dismayed when told about the shipments in Tampa.
Lunz is still heartbroken about the quantity of coral she has inspected over the past two years. After the federal investigation wraps up, she intends to publish a scientific paper detailing the extent of ecological destruction represented by these shipments.
"The curio trade is alive and well, and I don't think people, scientists included, realize the magnitude of it," Lunz says. "From my scientific, expert opinion, I'm seeing a trade... that may no longer be sustainable."
As for that first giant batch of coral that she inspected, it took two tractor-trailers to move the seized portion to Nova Southeastern University's Oceanographic Center in Dania Beach, where it remains today. There are still moldy boxes bearing the logo of SolBrew, a lager from the Solomon Islands, wrapped around a few of the skeletons. A dead lizard and dust have replaced the dead starfish and crabs. Some of the colonies are neatly packaged in large Tupperware-like bins, some are strewn across a table, and a few are being cleaned so they can be used for coral-education efforts. So much coral was sent to the university that a small team of graduate students had to be assembled to sort through and organize it.
And still, that's only one-half of one shipment to one port.
