When I was in the sixth grade in Orlando, Fla., my science teacher gave a class on the Florida aquifer. The aquifer, from which the entire state of Florida draws its drinking water, is a groundwater reservoir in the underground limestone foundation upon which the entire state rests.
The more depleted the aquifer, she said, the more fragile the limestone that makes up the state. And the more fragile the limestone?
"The more sinkholes!" we shouted.
Sinkholes, for those from nonporous states, are sudden collapses in limestone understructure that often swallow houses and whole sections of road. That night, I went home and dreamed about my house tipping into a giant maw of desiccated earth; the protracted bowl of Orlando filling with seawater from either side until thirsty residents raced alligators for safety atop the 30-story Suntrust building.
I have never left the water running while brushing my teeth since.
In Durham, we obtain our drinking water from lakes; two of them, actually, both of which are currently 14 to 15 feet below their normal levels. In the case of a drought, like the one we are in now, no one's house would be more likely to fall into a hole. We would be saddled with little more than a few dead trees and an ugly gash in the landscape where a lake used to be.
So instead of gaping sinkholes, all of our dire prognostications about water consumption rest upon a number. Last week, Durham announced that, given a worst case scenario, the city has only 76 days left of water. Then the criticism began. If this is a catastrophe, then why didn't the city announce it sooner? Why isn't Duke doing anything!? We are all going to go thirsty and all of our houses are going to fall in the earth!
Except a number is not a sinkhole. This isn't the first time this has happened in Durham, nor is it the worst, nor is it likely to be the last. Fall is the dry season in North Carolina, and the Durham Department of Water Management anticipates this. They provide a number based upon existing water levels, no new rainfall and no change in consumption to decide what level of restrictions to enact. Assuming we achieve a reduction in our usage levels in accordance with their recommendations, the chance we will actually run out of water is next to nothing.
According to Vicki Westbrook, deputy director of the Department of Water Management, Duke University is doing an exemplary job of implementing their recommendations. "[Assistant Director of Grounds Services] Joe Jackson has a really great plan for what [Duke] is going to do to cut back... he has already made a number of changes," she said.
As of Wednesday, Durham had experienced a 14-percent reduction in water usage since mandatory restrictions were put into effect. This even accounts for Saturday, an allowed watering day. Now, we have 79 days of water left, even though we've been drawing from our allowed amount for five days.
But a 14-percent reduction is not quite enough, as the city predicts we'll need 30 percent to last on our current water supply. If we don't manage it, the world won't end, restrictions will just get tighter and more uncomfortable until we do manage it-but we'll look like a bunch of jerks.
Inasmuch as catastrophizing our water situation leads people to curb their usage, like freaking out about sinkholes did for me, then it's a great thing. However, it shouldn't drive people away from making changes because they believe only the actions of large corporations and universities can make a difference. Duke students can add to the 30 percent mark by making their personal habits more water-friendly. Reuse towels and add a little; find and report a leak on campus and add a lot. People who live off-campus, like graduate students and staff, are already more affected by the mandatory restrictions against washing cars and daytime watering. We can make an even bigger impact by doing less laundry, only running the dishwasher on full loads or installing water-efficient showerheads.
Don't worry, I'm doing my part. I've got a sink full of dishes and the last time I washed my POS Ford was sometime in 2002. (I'm telling my roommates it's to prevent sinkholes).
Jacqui Detwiler is a graduate student in psychology and neuroscience. Her column runs every Friday.
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