By Lauren Selig
For the record, I told them to set the alarm to ring earlier.
It was a chilly Thursday in mid November. I was staying at the Lehman College dorms for the night, sharing a small room with my close friends Maddy and Nadia. Maddy (the official tenant in whose delightful abode we were spending our evening) had extended this offer of temporary lodging to save Nadia and me obscenely early morning treks to campus. Nadia lived in Brooklyn, and I in Harlem; neither one of us particularly relished the prospect of traipsing through the streets and subways of New York City at dawn. As such, we seized the opportunity that would permit us some much-needed shut-eye. So, after finishing our business on campus, we Three Musketeers (our nickname for our merry trio) tucked ourselves into the Bohemian warmth that was Maddy’s room.
I suggested we set the alarm for 6:00 AM. We had to reach campus on time to board the bus before its 7:30 AM departure; an hour and a half would allow us approximately seventy minutes to wash and nosh before setting out. But my two companions – both of whom had earlier argued that waking up at 6:30 AM would leave us with plenty of time – raised their eyebrows and snorted in protest at my suggestion as Maddy reached over to tinker with the alarm. “Here’s a compromise,” she offered, as she clicked through glowing digits until the screen registered 6:15 AM. After tossing a dubious “if you say so” shrug in her direction, I clambered onto my cushions for the evening as my classmates followed suit. We exchanged our goodnights Walton-style and were fast asleep within minutes – two of us (yours truly not included) convinced that we would have a relatively leisurely morning upon awakening. But alas, the best laid plans of mice and men – or Musketeers, as it were…
The dreaded digital chimes – wholly indifferent to our exhaustion – jarred us from our rest at 6:15 AM on Friday morning. We blearily went about our morning, taking turns in the bathroom as Maddy fixed us eggs, toast, and coffee. All the while I kept an eye on our time, which was rapidly falling away from us. We double-checked our outfits (synthetic fabrics, sneakers, open-toed shoes, and sizable heels were all prohibited where we were going). Come 7:05 AM, I said something to the effect of, “Guys, we gotta go.” My protests were hurriedly waved away as Maddy and Nadia scrambled to finish their morning routines and grab their respective government IDs (which we were required to take along). We ended up walking out the door at around 7:18 AM. However, this initial walking changed quickly from amble to jog to gallop as we raced to arrive at the bus on time. At 7:28 AM we hopped into the van, breathless but triumphant. “I told you so!” I panted in exasperation, only to be found facing the angry glares of Maddy and Nadia – made all the more ferocious by the cold morning wind, which had turned their eyes into pink, teary slits.
Here we were, three young women sprinting down the streets of the Bronx, our coats partially agape and scarves haphazardly arranged about our necks. Even my beloved cow hat – usually donned with the greatest of care – was perched precariously atop my hastily fastened hair. Tardiness was not an option, for no taxi cab or car service could take us close enough to our actual destination to rendezvous with our classmates.
So where was this nondescript van taking us to? What was this mysterious, guarded location that, it should be remembered, was the site of our class field trip? What was this enigmatic destination that required of its visitors an official government ID and carefully considered wardrobe?
* * *
The Indian Point nuclear facility is a formidable fortress located in Buchanan, New York. (Randall’s Island was originally considered as the plant’s site before its current location was settled upon.) It was issued its construction permit in May of 1956, and Unit 1 became the world’s first fully operational commercial operating plant in August of 1962. Construction began for Units 2 and 3 in the late 1960s; by the end of 1976, both were up and running. Consolidated Edison (Con Ed) built and ran the plant – furnished by Westhinghouse Company reactors – until it was sold to its current operator (Entergy Corporation) in 1976.
Indian Point is one of six nuclear plants in the state. (Four more are currently closed, but another four are being built.) They join 104 operating nuclear reactors all over the United States, which together supply 19% of the country’s energy. Most are located in the Northeast and the westernmost regions of Midwest and South United States. Only ten are found in the West; five of those lie on or near California’s coast.
Of the energy consumed by New York State, 11% is supplied by Indian Point (which makes up 29% of Con Edison’s load). And Indian Point is not the state’s only nuclear plant; in 2010, 30.6% of New York State’s total power generation was from a nuclear source. All electricity generated by Indian Point in used within a 30-40 mile radius, as more electricity is lost in long-distance transmissions. New York City uses more than half of all electricity consumed in the state. Naturally, as part of the city lies within the usage radius of the plant, some of this energy is provided by Indian Point (according to Entergy’s website, around 25%).
Though these may seem like large percentages, our nuclear energy production and consumption are meager compared with some countries. France is an oft-cited example when speaking of energy generation by way of nuclear plants: 75% of their total energy consumed is nuclear generated. Reactors and fuel products are some of the country’s major exports, and France is largely energy independent.
* * *
If you had told me even two years ago that, come fall of my sophomore year of college I would be visiting a nuclear power plant, I would have scoffed at the absurdity. And yet here I was, sitting with a handful of my classmates in a van that was rapidly taking me closer and closer towards the infamous Indian Point.
In our classes from weeks before, we had laughed with one another as we described our parents’ reactions to the news of our impending visit. They ranged from a mildly intrigued, “Oh, cool!” (as spoken by my mother in Houston, Texas – far from the hotbed of nuclear debate that is New York State) to interrogations regarding safety precautions we would be taking along with a few horrified gasps for good measure (which, of course, came from the parents whose families had lived somewhere in New York State – and thus within the sphere of the nuclear controversy – for most of their lives). We were surprised to hear such varied reactions. Presumably, we all have access to the same information, so why would the concept of nuclear power be so much more threatening to some parents than to others?
The answer, of course, is far from simple. One must take into account the inception of nuclear power, its catastrophic early implementations, the fears it engendered in the children who grew up the Cold War years, its fantastical interpretations in the popular media, the more contemporary disasters it was involved in, the current politics surrounding its potential as a large-scale energy supplier, etc. We are young adults who only have knowledge of many of these experiences through or because of parents, teachers, leaders, and even filmmakers. And, as much as I know we would like to be able to tout our impartiality and emotionally impervious, Spock-like, independent logical capacities, we are likely much more affected by the look in our parents’ eyes as they recount their stories, the impassioned voices emanating from protest loudspeakers, and even the special effects in the latest science fiction film than we would care to admit. I know I am.
One of my largest areas of interest is that of global justice and human rights. So, naturally, if someone were to mention anything nuclear, visions of abject horror would flood my mind. To be sure, nuclear power has a long and sordid history – one that most people have not forgotten. Despite the fact that the majority of those currently living had not yet been born by the mid 1940s, much of the younger generations have adopted the revulsion to all things nuclear that those who had born witness to the first global tragedy of its kind had so acutely felt in that August of 1945.
Hiroshima.
Nagasaki.
These words need no elaboration. Besides their immediate denotation, each carries a vivid and heart-rending story of chaos, agony, destruction, and death.
As of this writing, I am currently living in the place where it all began: Manhattan, New York City. It was within the walls of Manhattan’s famed Columbia University in 1939 that the first deliberate experiments with nuclear fission – the atomic mechanism needed to produce energy – were performed. (The first known event of nuclear fission is now known to have occurred during a 1934 experiment by Italian physicist Enrico Fermi – the fact of which Fermi himself was not immediately aware, as it was an unintended product of his experimental process.)
The 1930s saw several disparate nuclear physics experiments conducted across the United States and Europe. As understanding of these investigatory endeavors spread – and the threat of global war loomed ever nearer – these scientists knew this awesome power they had discovered would likely play a role in the war effort. In March of 1940, Randolf Peierls and Otto Robert Frisch (German and Austrian physicists, respectively, both refugees having fled to England) penned a memo to the British government explaining how to make a nuclear bomb, explicating their calculations regarding its magnitude and destructive capacity, and arguing that the only way to respond to Germany should it develop a nuclear weapon would be to counter by creating a bomb of Britain’s own. The memo startled and impressed the government, which then commissioned an investigative council, code-named the MAUD Committee, to confirm the physicists’ claims. Upon review and verification in 1941, the British government shared its findings with the United States. Later that year, President Roosevelt authorized experiments to create the first atom bomb.
In June of 1942, The Manhattan District of the US Army Corps of Engineers was tasked with the construction of the facilities necessary to build the atomic weapons. It was christened the “Manhattan Project,” with Brigadier General Leslie Groves and UC Berkeley professor J. Robert Oppenheimer at the helm. Following years of extensive research and testing, with the United States now fully entrenched in World War II, the bombs were completed and prepared for deployment.
On August 6, 1945, the first atomic bomb was released over Hiroshima, Japan. Three days later, a second bomb was released over Nagasaki, Japan. By 1950, they had together amassed deaths in the hundreds of thousands. Six days after the second bombing, Japan surrendered; World War II was officially ended on September 2, 1945, to much rejoicing. The damage was done, but the war had been won.
And eleven years later, what would become the world’s first fully operational nuclear power plant was issued a construction permit…
* * *
We arrived at Indian Point stiff but excited. We climbed out of the car, IDs in hand, and were shepherded into a small reception room and introduced to our genial tour guide, Patrick. We were instructed to sign in on multiple documents. When our names were called, we were beckoned one by one into a connected office, where the friendly man behind the desk scrutinized our IDs, copied them, and (I have to imagine) checked our names and other identifying particulars against our dossiers for the umpteenth time. Indeed, dossiers – for Patrick revealed to us how, after we had supplied our social security numbers weeks ago, the Indian Point staff had performed extensive background checks on each of us. My classmates exchanged uneasy glances and half-smiles, unsure whether we should be unnerved by the exhaustive vetting or flattered by our implied importance. Both, I decided as, per instructions, we pinned our official visitor badges to our outermost item of clothing.
We were then taken back to our van, which drove us to the facility’s actual entrance. As we waited for the proper personnel to escort us inside, Patrick fielded miscellaneous questions.
“Isn’t it dangerous to have a nuclear plant so close to such a metropolis?”
“Have any of your employees died from cancer as a result of working near the reactor?”
“Isn’t this harmful to the Hudson’s marine life?”
To each question, Patrick exhaled a near-imperceptible sigh and gave some variation of the same answer: “This doesn’t actually pose the kind of threat that most people believe. There is so much misinformation out there… I’ll explain more when we’re inside.” However, there was one question he seemed more than happy to answer:
“I don’t see a ton of security. Shouldn’t this place be more protected?”
Patrick grinned. “Ah. Okay. Our security, now that’s somethin’…”
He explained that, even though it was the day off for most of the plants 200-300 permanent employees, there were eyes constantly trained on us from every conceivable direction. “Pull out a camera now,” he went on, “and ten guys would materialize here – with their guns pointed right at your face.” Well, then. Pictures prohibited. I thought to myself. Duly noted. Patrick then described one of their countless means of checking security – what he called the “force on force” exercise. Every three years, the federal government forms a team of military trained “mercenaries” to go in and inspect the building. For days, these soldiers traverse the grounds, taking note of every nook and cranny. They will reconvene, pool their notes, and hatch a dastardly plan. Some time later, completely unannounced to the facility, they will attack the grounds and attempt a “hijacking” of sorts. Armed with blanks, they storm the plant and do everything they possibly can to commandeer power. If a guard is “hit,” he is “dead.” This lasts for as long as it takes the Indian Point staff to subdue their would-be attackers. Patrick swelled with pride, bragging, “Never – not once – have we ever not stopped them. We’ve won every time.”
Giddy with delight over the visions of Mission Impossible: Indian Point now playing through our heads – each of us temporarily consumed by a child-like wonder for spies and espionage obviously shared by Patrick, who was clearly enjoying our animated reactions – we were then ushered through yet another room, briefly frisked, and led into the main building. Looking around, I was dumbstruck by the normalcy. It almost looked like the inside of a high-end high school – crisp and inviting, with nostalgic posters and a large glass case of company memorabilia against the wall. Patrick guided us into a conference room, where we each took our seats and, like children at their birthday parties, eagerly flung open the gift boxes of sleek Indian Point embossed pens and pencils that had been placed at each desk. O, the pens! We were so excited about those pens…
The proud owners of these shiny new pens and pencils, we brandished our writing instruments and sat down to what would become a lengthy, but fascinating lecture, punctuated only by the incessant questions from us in the peanut gallery and a break for a hearty lunch.
We were told about nuclear fission, in which a neutron hits and splits and atom of uranium, releasing heat and radiation; about how the energy is generated via pressurized water reactor, which pulls water from the Hudson through an elaborate tubed system of heating and cooling that ultimately feeds steam into the electric generator; about how the water released back into the Hudson only raises the water temperature about 1.4°F – a negligible change that would have no effect on marine life; about how impure water being used to make steam could lead to corrosion and other unfavorable consequences, and thus why the water is first purified by “every water purification method known to man;” about how the reactor cycles through 1.7 million gallons of water per minute per pump of the circulating mechanism which starts the whole process; about how, despite reaching temperatures of 600°F in the steam-producing process, the water never boils, for the pressure in the coolant loop prevents it from doing so; about how 13 million pounds of 99% pure steam then flows into high pressure turbines every hour, spinning each at 1800 rotations per minute; about how these turbines then spin an electric generator; about how this whole process is precipitated by the heating of thumbnail-sized uranium pellets, which then undergo fission that heats the metal that heats the water, etc.; about how uranium is 12,000 times more efficient than coal, and how one pellet provides the energy equivalent of 2,000 pounds of coal; about how a nuclear plant produces 0% harmful emissions when it is operational, and it is only when the equipment building a plant runs on fossil fuels that any emissions are even released; about how the only kind of explosion that could happen at this kind of nuclear plant is a steam explosion, and how the potential calamitous power of such a steam explosion would be mitigated by the massive containment building which houses Indian Point’s reactor vessel (the steam would be depressurized before it could cause any potentially lethal explosion or leak); about how Indian Point would be a truly pathetic terrorist target, as a plane crashing into the 3.5-4.5 foot wide walls of steel reinforced concrete containing the reactor vessel would be vaporized upon intact and cause negligible damage to the high density concrete dome (and we saw the actual video to prove it); about the completely safe, ultimately unnecessary, but politically demanded storage of nuclear waste – a process that, it should be noted, is rejected by every other nuclear energy-producing country in favor of the equally safe and infinitely more efficient process of reprocessing the waste so that it may be reused; and about, of course, the political battle royale now enveloping Indian Point, New York politicians (notably Governor Andrew Cuomo), and the general public.
Our minds and bellies full, we donned hard hats, grabbed earplugs, and ventured out around the grounds of the plant, pausing every so often for an informative interjection from our intrepid tour guide. Occasionally Patrick would point out traps (both physical and psychological in nature) built in to stymie anyone stupid and/or arrogant enough to believe they could seize control of the plant. Stopping just outside the generator room, Patrick motioned for us to insert our earplugs. Not knowing quite what to expect, I steeled myself for the moment I would come face to face with the generator. As I stepped into the room, a wave of heat and noise rushed up to greet me. We circled the generator, slack-jawed at the enormity of the thing, and dutifully scurried after Patrick into the next rooms.
My favorite part? The control room: a spacious room buzzing with bleeps and blorps and all manners of sci-fi sound effects. Multi colored lights flashed from every square inch, and the adults surveying the walls and periodically pushing buttons would issue authoritative and technical-sounding commands to one another. There were desks with large screens in the middle of the room, where more people sat, looking alert, concerned, but calm as they pointed to their screens and exchanged counsel with their peers. Patrick explained that this was, in fact, a training room – an exact replica of the actual control room where those putting in the intensive training to coordinate the plant would have to confront potential disasters and learn how to respond correctly.
I couldn’t help myself: “It’s the bridge! From ‘Star Trek!’” I yelped, perhaps a little too loudly. (After all, these people were in class learning how to avert nuclear disaster. The last thing they needed was a squealing Trekkie distracting them from their noble task.) But Patrick didn’t seem to mind; he humored my fan-girl outburst, laughing and good-naturedly agreeing with me.
After a quick stop at the fence that just barely separated us from the banks of the Hudson, we found ourselves back at the main building. We began making preparations to leave. As we gathered our things, I shook Patrick’s hand and thanked him sincerely for the tour. “This is all so amazing; I’m very impressed! I had such a different view of nuclear energy before, but I had no idea about… well, any of this,” I admitted rather sheepishly.
As we filed back into the van to make our way home, Patrick’s response to me was on an endless loop through my mind:
“Well, that’s the problem. Nobody does.”
* * *
Most of us have preconceived notions of what nuclear energy is and how it may be used as a constructive or destructive force. I’m sure some people currently possess views similar to what mine had been not too long ago: It is an unparalleled threat to human flourishing; an abomination to all mankind. Or perhaps some regard it with not quite the same rancor as I once did. But I am positive that most consider it very differently than how I do now: the future of energy – and the very thing that will have a hand in saving humanity.
A fixed image in many minds is that of a man trapped in a room as an intense pulse of nuclear radiation ripples through the air. The man, perhaps now glowing, or with splutters of electricity now dancing through his fingers, is no longer a man; he is a superhero. Perhaps some will better recognize the converse of the aforesaid story: A man tumbling into a green, fuming puddle of radioactive waste, arising out of the sludge a few moments later as a powerful super villain. Of course, there are the less fantastical, but much more horrifying images that one associates with nuclear power: those of ash and rubble, blackened corpses, shrieking burn victims, and wailing, physically deformed infants.
And then there’s my vision: that of a cleaner, brighter planet with happier, healthier, and safer people.
Misunderstanding abounds. Campaigns of misinformation threaten to shutter Indian Point and other nuclear power facilities. Politicians and the media capitalize on the public’s innate fear of nuclear energy, loudly protesting the plants to buy goodwill with their constituents. They noisily voice their opposition under the guise of protecting their people; closing a costly, toxic facility provides the politician a rallying point – and a menacing, mysterious nuclear plant makes the perfect boogeyman.
During our lecture, Patrick informed us of one blatant example of the deliberate dissemination of misinformation: One day he found an article that claimed that 1.6 billion of the Hudson’s fish had been killed as a result of getting accidentally sucked up into the pump. Indeed, fish do get sucked into the tubes on occasion. But the article failed to mention that Indian Point had a system of returning fish back into the water with a 96% survival rate, and that the supposed 1.6 billion “fish” were actually almost entirely larvae and eggs. He even went on to add that numerous studies had been conducted that have proven that Indian Point has an incredibly small effect on the Hudson’s marine life.
Recently, I came upon a startling graphic. “At 12:00 AM on 9/28/2013, Indian Point Nuclear Power Plant Unit 2 (IP2) becomes the first and only nuclear reactor in the U.S. to operate with an expired license,” the text shouts in all-caps, its stark white letters superimposed onto a black background behind a cartoon image of Indian Point with an angry lightning cloud bearing down upon it. This is true: the Indian Point licenses are good for forty years, after which they must be renewed. What this base, manipulative graphic fails to communicate is that the forty-year license period is an arbitrary time delineation that was originally made for tax reasons. The plant itself did not “expire” in September, and it is inspected often to make sure all equipment is in safe and working order; any piece of machinery that looks as if it may even be just approaching a potential issue is promptly repaired. A plant may run indefinitely, provided safety standards are maintained.
Do I now consider nuclear power plants to be perfect? Certainly not. As almost any website mentioning Indian Point will tell you, a string of incidents have occurred that make clear the fact that it is not a flawless facility. While some of these supposed “incidents” might be largely fabricated, taken out of context, or the stuff of extreme hyperbole, I am sure some are legitimate issues that have plagued the plant over its 40 year history. While Patrick and the rest of the crew at Indian Point were kind and knowledgeable, it is obviously not in their best interest to inform us about any issues the plant may have experienced, and I certainly do not think myself learned enough in nuclear energy and power plants to comment on any of those incidents with even a modicum of understanding. But the fact remains that nuclear energy – and Indian Point in particular – is profoundly misunderstood and unfairly demonized.
In fantasy movies, we are made to believe that radioactive substances and nuclear energy byproducts create superheroes and super villains. But it is in fact nuclear power itself that has the potential to be both a superhero and a super villain. It can be – and has been – a villain the likes of which the world has never seen if used to bring slaughter and devastation. But it can also be used for good, to make a cleaner planet that is more hospitable to all of its inhabitants.
And I believe it is my responsibility to engender a dialogue. For we desperately need a discussion in which open-minded people sans political agenda sit in amity and share ideas, questions, concerns, and solutions about nuclear power and other energy sources, renewable or otherwise, in order to address our imminent energy problem. For posterity’s sake, we must encourage public education and discourse. As young adults with time, energy, and passion on our side, my classmates and I have a role to play in creating a safe and equitable future for our city, our society, and our world; this is plain to see.
It’s as loud and clear as a ringing alarm.
