On delivery day, the San Francisco Beekeepers Association has 2 million bees in 200 boxes to sort out. For 20 years, Paul Koski, “the bee whisperer of San Francisco,” has been making sure people and insects are not harmed.
When the Bee Whisperer was “in,” as indicated by a Charlie Brown-style sign on his desk, Koski was there with a soft voice and calm demeanor that inspired confidence in the hives he could reach his hand in, without the need for a glove without being stung.
“Everyone in the San Francisco beekeeping community recognized Paul as the highest authority in the club,” said Marc Johnson, chief trainer and manager of the hive. “Even the bees liked Paul.”
But this year the bee whisperer is “out”. Koski died on Good Friday, April 7, a month before confinement day. According to his son Peter Koski, he had a congenital heart defect that progressed to heart failure. His condition deteriorated to the point where he was living in assisted living in Montara when he died. He was 78.
He leaves behind the Beekeepers Association and generations of science students at Mission High and Washington High School, where he taught biology and chemistry for 40 years. He also coached cross-country and track and field at both city schools.
He often trained with his team, running 3 to 5 miles three times a week, mostly at Golden Gate Park across from his house. Beekeeping took place on the weekends, although he was on call every hour of every day to retrieve an unruly swarm that had broken loose from a backyard or rooftop beehive.
“Paul was very gentle with the bees. He really cared about her well-being,” said Meredith May, author of The Honey Bus, who mentored Koski during her four-year tenure and wrote a “Beekeeper” column for The Chronicle.
During the annual Graze the Roof honey harvest and workshop at San Francisco’s Glide Memorial Church, Paul Koski shows students watching how a beehive is inspected.
Mike Kepka
At the time, two beehives were kept on the roof of The Chronicle food building on Natoma Street. Then came the day when one of the hives swarmed and the bees escaped to congregate on the fence outside the adjacent Bar Tempest. The bartender on duty called the beekeeping association, who dispatched Koski to quietly collect the swarm, mostly without gloves, which was a vote of confidence in the bees.
“All the bar patrons came out and watched him do it,” May said. “He was the bee Batman.”
Paul Arthur Koski was born on March 14, 1945 in Elizabeth, New Jersey, where his father, Carl, was a superintendent at a chemical plant. He soon got a job at the Reichhold Chemical Plant in South San Francisco and the family moved to Donner Avenue in San Bruno.
The house backed onto an open area and there were seven children who benefited from it. After two older sisters, Paul was the eldest of five boys and the leader of the pack, overseeing back gate and wilderness adventures. Bare arrowheads were of great value, as were red-tailed hawks.
“He was very scientific, always interested in nature,” said his older sister, Ruth Dow.
At Capuchino High School, Koski found another outlet for his energy on the cross-country and track teams. He worked nights as a janitor at the See’s Candy factory in South San Francisco.
After graduating in 1963, he enrolled at San Francisco State College, where he ran the half-mile in track and field and earned his letter. To save money, he lived at home and commuted to school on a Honda 250 Scrambler motorcycle.
He graduated from San Francisco State University in 1967 and also earned his teaching license. As early as 1968 he was teaching and training at Mission High. A year later, he married Lille Foster, a long-distance runner he met in State. They lived in San Bruno and Koski was still riding the Scrambler when he was involved in a motorcycle accident, resulting in a severe fractured right ankle that required a needle to be inserted. But he kept running, pin and all, an activity that got easier after they bought a house on Lincoln Way across from Golden Gate Park.
On clear nights, he placed his homemade telescope on the sidewalk in front of his house and invited passers-by to take a look at the stars and planets.
“He was fascinated by nature and wanted everyone else to experience his awe,” said Peter Koski, a data analyst at a law firm. His father developed an interest in mycology. “We went mushroom hunting in the park, but it was mostly scientific observation,” said Peter. “He told me he once ate magic mushrooms for scientific reasons. He gave a very dry description of its effects. Not like Timothy Leary.”
As a long-distance coach, Koski was similarly dry and quiet and a reserved motivator.
“He was fun,” said Denise Leo, who had Koski as Washington’s head varsity cross-country and track coach in the early 1990s. “He had a reserved way of presenting things. When it was raining, he would say, ‘Go outside and run between the raindrops.’” When the words didn’t work, he would go outside and run through the rain with his team. That inspiration brought five Washington cross-country runners, three boys and two girls, to the 1992 state convention in Fresno.
Paul Koski teaches new beekeepers.
Contributed by Kevin McKean
Leo went so far as to follow her coach to the San Francisco State cross-country and track teams, taking over the Washington cross-country team when Koski retired from coaching in 2000. give the go-ahead. He rarely spoke about his sideline beekeeping, but eventually word got around and a new hive at the school will be dedicated in his honor, with a plaque in his honor.
“Mr. Koski was the career change of my life,” said Leo, a librarian who still trains part-time in Washington. “He had confidence that I could take on the team, which I never thought possible.”
After the divorce in 2003, Koski had more time for the bees, who moved with him from Sunset to his new home in Ingleside. He wrote the Code of Conduct for San Francisco Beekeeping as distributed by the San Francisco Department of the Environment. He also helped beekeepers everywhere, including on the roof of Glide, where he kept a beehive and gave classes to community members.
“Keeping bees in an urban area can be a bit problematic,” he said, with typical understatement, to a Chronicle photographer who visited him.
When Koski joined the San Francisco Beekeepers Association in 1993, there were 65 members. He has since held the titles of club president and chief instructor, and at the time of his death was still an apiary manager and a member of the board. Membership has grown to 450 and they will gather at St. John Armenian Apostolic Church on delivery day, Saturday May 6th.
“There will be no one to replace the Bee Whisperer,” Johnson said, “but there will be a small team trying to replace him.”
Reach Sam Whiting: swhiting@sfchronicle.com
