Symbiotic Snubbing at the Otter Exhibit on Coney Island
This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

Back-to-school fever has yet to strike Coney Island, where it’s summer still, summer forever. The clam shacks on Riegelmann Boardwalk are open for business, bathers polka-dot the warm ocean, and the salt in the air clings to everything as if life were one big pretzel.
The New York Aquarium’s indigo lighted chambers teem with people who’ve come to pack in a last-chance summer visit. The place has a frenzied feel, as parents and nannies negotiate the double-file lines of day campers to chase their charges around the coral reef exhibition hall.
The aquarium’s sea mammals are afforded a little more breathing room. They live in Sea Cliffs, an outdoor complex of man-made rock formations and filtered seawater pools. The animals are separated by species, with the walruses, penguins, seals, and sea otters lounging around their individual private habitats.
The most popular mammals are the 2,000-pound walruses, who amuse onlookers by sporting tusks and making rude noises. Another perennial favorite would be the penguins, pitter-pattering across the rocks in their wobbly, bottom-heavy way. The seals don’t vamp it up quite as much, but they’re fast, and they’re easy to spot as they swim around and around and around.
The otters are another story. Often they’re out of sight, and when they do appear they fail even to acknowledge the onlookers. In the intervals between feeding times, they swim around underwater, breaking through the surface only sporadically. Otters are smaller than the other animals at Sea Cliffs, and otter watching requires patience. Long stretches of time can pass before an otter will poke its whiskery head and furry belly through and barrel-roll over – only to disappear again.
Otters belong to the weasel family. The average lifespan is 15 years for a male, 20 for a female. They have back flippers and front paws that can hold food and break apart shellfish, and they’re known for grabbing things from other creatures and stashing them under their paws.
“They’re a little weasely,” their senior keeper at the aquarium, JoAnne Basinger, said. “They’re extremely intelligent and they can be a little mischievous or problematic.”
Ms. Basinger, who helped raise the California sea otters from infancy, said she feels especially close to them, noting their distinct personalities. Willie, 12, is “laid-back and a little spaced-out.” Spanky, 13, is “extremely hyper and very sensitive, a little reactive to things” – and “really cute.” And Danny, 13, is the dignified otter. “He’s the biggest guy,” Ms. Basinger said, “and I think it gives him the most confidence.”
Ms. Basinger started at the aquarium as a volunteer in 1988 when her paid job was in the props departments of films and children’s theater. She is now the senior keeper. While most visitors gravitate toward the walrus pool – in recent weeks, three television weathermen have filmed morning segments in there – Ms. Basinger said the animals she can’t help but love are the poor, misunderstood otters.
“If they’re in the mood, they might go to the glass, but they don’t find us that interesting,” she said. “They have their toys, they have each other. People aren’t that exciting to them. With sea otters, it’s a subtle thing. You have to sit back and watch them, and wait for them to come up and float. That’s kind of boring to a child. Kids want something very big and they want it now. If the otter bangs on the glass, the kids appreciate it. They like to be scared and scream.”
On a recent blue-skied afternoon, a grandmother, a mother, and her four small children were waiting by the sea otter pool for the scheduled 3:45 feeding overseen by Ms. Basinger. The water was still, and no otters were in sight. Both the mother and grandmother looked as though they could do with a nap, while the children were busy buzzing and zipping around, crouching behind rocks and jumping onto benches.
An otter poked his head and furry belly through the water, gave himself a rub-a-dub-dub below his chin, and sunk below the surface.
“They look chubby here to me,” the grandmother said. “They were slimmer in the movie. Remember the movie we saw at the drive-in?”
“In Arizona? That was a long time ago,” the kids’ mother said. “Yeah, I remember they killed the otter. With the club, they clubbed him to death.”
“Who killed the otter?” one of her sons asked.
“Oh, it’s just an old movie,” his mom told him.
The youngest daughter, who was wearing a shirt with the word “love” and hearts printed all over it, pulled an empty water bottle from the grandmother’s bag and charged at the edge of the otter tank. “Arrr! Arr!” She banged at the glass with the bottle. “Arr! Arr!”
“Lily, you’ll scare them!” the grandmother cried, and scooped her up in her arms. The girl bopped her grandmother’s shoulder with the bottle. “Arr! Arr!”
“Where are the feeders?” the mother muttered.
“Can we go get ice cream?” one of the boys asked.
“I want to go to the carnival,” the little girl with the water bottle said.
“Can we go see the penguins?” asked the older girl.
Just when it seemed that the family had misread the feedings schedule, three otter heads poked through and the animals slithered up the rocks. Ms. Basinger and two junior colleagues stepped into view and tossed handfuls of clam, squid, and pollack to the animals. A few more children and parents stopped to watch.
Using a long stick with a white bead attached to the end, Ms. Basinger started to play with one of the otters. The girl in the heart-printed shirt tugged on her mother’s arm and said something about ice cream, and the mother and her family went slinking off.
Ms. Basinger asked if any audience members had questions. The audience was distracted, and nobody jumped to participate.
“Can I feed them?” a girl asked. Ms. Basinger looked around for any other questions. A young boy who sat astride his father’s shoulders called out: “Are they sea lions?”
“No, they’re otters,” his father told him.
“Oh,” he mumbled. “I wish Batman was here.”
Ms. Basinger said she was about to go back in, so this was the last chance to ask questions. The otter at the end of her stick flipped over.
The little boy on his father’s shoulders waved his hand in the air. “You know what?” he said. His voice was louder than before, and he sounded out of breath and excited. “I wish Batman was here.”