Animal-rights activists come together in San Diego to stand up for tortured animals and hope others will follow.

SAN DIEGO — I heard the protests about two blocks before I saw them.

It was a Wednesday night in mid-February and I was in California on a rare vacation, hoping to take a brief recharge before covering the latest environmental abuses of the second Trump administration. But I hadn’t fully disconnected: My news alerts carried continuous updates about mass program cuts and federal workforce firings initiated by Elon Musk’s DOGE team, not to mention the resulting protests that had started to pop up around the country.

So when I heard the chants and shouts on Pacific Beach that night, I wondered if people were out in force protesting Trump’s budget cuts.

Imagine my surprise when I realized I’d stumbled across a good old-fashioned animal-rights protest.

A small group of activists had gathered outside PB Shore Club, a second-floor sports-themed bar and restaurant just off the boardwalk. With their bullhorns blaring, the activists carried signs bearing slogans like “Every animal is someone,” “End Speciesism,” and “Fish feel fear.”

They were there, one of the organizers told me, to protest PB Shore Club’s weekly “goldfish races.” In these casually cruel events, two goldfish are placed in long, side-by-side tanks and patrons push them to the finish line by blowing through straws into the water behind the fish. Winners get part of their bar tab paid.

“We’re telling people that fish are just like us,” co-organizer Brooklyn Fontana told me on Feb. 19, the night of their third weekly protest. “They feel pain, they have families, and they don’t want to be exploited for cruel bar games.”

Videos of events posted by PB Shore Club show obviously distressed fish panicked from the air bubbling out of the straws behind them and bouncing off the sides of the tanks as they’re driven forward. And in a recent TV news report, two regular supporters of the goldfish races acknowledged that the fish live “for weeks” — goldfish can live a decade or longer if properly cared for — and that “some people try to eat the fish.”

 

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Despite that support the protest was obviously working: The club’s outdoor patio, normally full of rowdy patrons, sat empty while crowds of people walked by on their way to other bars or restaurants.

While I spoke with Fontana, I saw several other people stop by to ask what the protest was about. A few shook their heads in disbelief.

“When people take the time to stop and ask us, they’re typically disgusted that the Shore Club is holding goldfish races,” Fontana said. “We have had at least five groups of people tell us that they’re no longer going in, and several people tell us that they have been upset about the goldfish races for a long time and are thankful someone is finally speaking up.” They’ve also received hundreds of signatures on their online petition and received positive coverage from local media.

But those opinions weren’t universal: Ten minutes before I arrived, someone had driven by the protest on a motorcycle and pepper-sprayed the activists and nearby crowds. The sting of the irritant still hung in the air.

 

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The activists have also experienced verbal abuse. “Some of the younger crowd — especially those going to the bar — think it’s funny to harass us, mock us, or try to argue with us while usually not even understanding the cause or being passionate about goldfish racing,” Fontana says.

The fate of two goldfish may seem like a relatively minor thing to protest while crises like climate change, mass extinction, and environmental injustice are overwhelming us. But the cruelty and indifference at the root of all these problems remain the same.

And the tools to fight these societal ills all share common, effective elements: building community and vocal protest.

“If you see something you’re against, then go speak out on it,” said 19-year-old co-organizer Justice Owens. “Use the anxiety as fuel to help those who are being tormented. Their torture will always outmatch our anxiety and sometimes we just need to tell ourselves that. Because there is someone suffering that needs a voice, and we can be that voice.”

The activists, who affiliate under the name Bold Activists for Animal Liberation, a group founded by Owens, mostly found each other through social media. They suggest that might help people organize protests against abuses in their own communities — while building up their own networks and support systems.

Protestors in front of PB Shore Club. Photo: John R. Platt/The Revelator

“There are likeminded individuals wherever you are, even if you feel alone,” says Fontana. She recommends creating events on Facebook “and sharing it to as many local and animal-rights groups as possible.” For example, they received support from the action team at PETA, who added them to their database and provided some signs and leaflets.

Owens also suggested going to “go to vegan events, marches and protests. Make sure to network all you can to get your foot in the door.”

Starting a protest may require getting out of your comfort zone. “My advice is to be brave and get active,” said Fontana, who was arrested last year at the San Diego airport while protesting SeaWorld’s history of orca captivity. “It can be intimidating and uncomfortable to start, but it’s nothing in comparison to what the animals you are fighting for must be going through.”

Owens echoed that: “A lot of people aren’t willing to take on the task, but once you start, some will be inspired.”

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Previously in The Revelator:

In France, One Group Seeks to Do the Unthinkable: Unite the Climate Movement

John R. Platt

is the editor of The Revelator. An award-winning environmental journalist, his work has appeared in Scientific American, Audubon, Motherboard, and numerous other magazines and publications. His “Extinction Countdown” column has run continuously since 2004 and has covered news and science related to more than 1,000 endangered species. He is a member of the Society of Environmental Journalists and the National Association of Science Writers. John lives on the outskirts of Portland, Ore., where he finds himself surrounded by animals and cartoonists.