Oceanographic Magazine / Issue 26 by Oceanographic Magazine

W H A L E S A N D C L I M AT E C H A N G E

ZAMIE

ISSUE

Conservation • Exploration • Adventure

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Editor’s Letter " Th e s e a n i m a l s a re a m b a s s a d o r s for our oceans. Th e y ’ re h e re t o re m i n d u s t h a t despite all the violence that has b e e n p e r p e t ra t e d on them in the past, we can change that n a r ra t i ve . "

This is a quote from conservation photographer Shawn Heinrichs, taken from this issue’s cover story ‘Zamie’. It encapsulates what Issue 26 is all about: Human connection, human impact, and nature’s resilience. Our lead story takes us to Dominica, where Shawn Heinrichs meets a female sperm whale who shows him the importance of empathy, compassion, and action to conserve her species, despite centuries of humans hunting whales to the brink of extinction. While the story is about the link between whales and the fight against climate change, it is also one of hope – something well needed in today’s conservation landscape. Suitably, one of our columnists, ocean advocate Cal Major, talks about ocean optimism. She argues that, despite horror stories about the effects of climate and biodiversity crises flooding our social media feeds, “without hope, we can’t expect to effectively work towards a healthier planet.” Around Indonesia’s Hatamin Island, years and years of destructive dynamite fishing have changed the once-abundant coral reef landscape. But by focusing on community-led coral restoration, marine life around the island is beginning to bounce back. Photographer Martin Colognoli has documented the close relationship between coral reef and humans around Hatamin Island for many years.

Nane Steinhoff Editor @nane_steinhoff @oceano_mag Oceanographicmag

Another prime example of human connection can be found in South Korea, on Jeju Island. Here, the Haenyeo, or women of the sea, make a living by harvesting seafood while freediving. Deeply connected with the ocean, their unique lifestyle is at risk due to a lack of women wanting to follow in their footsteps. In the Mediterranean, a group of volunteers seeking to find out more about the local mobula ray populations shows how human involvement can help conservation issues, and, last but not least, we’re learn about a Victorian rubbish dump site on England’s Dorset coast. By searching for treasures here, the impact of past generations on our coastlines is revealed.

Oceanographic Issue 26

Contents O N T H E C OV E R

FEATURE S

ZAMIE

Off Dominica, a female sperm whale highlights the importance of empathy, compassion and action to conserve her species and ours as researchers try to understand the link between whales and the fight against climate change.

Female sperm whale Zamie. Photograph by Shawn Heinrichs.

Get in touch ED I TO R I A L D I R E C TO R

Will Harrison

ED I TO R

Nane Steinhoff

CR EAT I V E D I R E C TO R

Amelia Costley

CO N T R I B U T I N G E D I TO R

Hugh Francis Anderson

D ES I G N A S S I S TA N T

Joanna Kilgour

PA RT N E R S H I P S D I R E C TO R

Chris Anson

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YO U R O C E A N IMAGES

@oceanographic_mag @oceano_mag Oceanographicmag

A S S TO C K E D I N

For all enquiries regarding stockists, submissions, or just to say hello, please email info@oceanographicmagazine.com or call (+44) 20 3637 8680. Published in the UK by CXD MEDIA Ltd. © 2022 CXD MEDIA Ltd. All rights reserved. Nothing in whole or in part may be reproduced without written permission from the publisher.

ISSN: 2516-5941

A collection of some of the most captivating ocean photography shared on social media, both beautiful and arresting. Tag #MYOCEAN for the opportunity to be featured within these pages.

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H ATA M I N ISL A N D

SEA WO M EN

PR O FIT-S HA R ING CO M MITM ENT TO O CEA N CO N SERVAT IO N . A PR O M IS E WE'R E PR O UD O F.

D E V IL R AY S

R E L IC S O F T HE S E A

Photographer Martin Colognoli has documented the link between coral and humans on Indonesia’s Hatamin Island for years. His photographic story is one of destruction and rehabilitation, of interconnectedness and survival.

Jeju Island’s Haenyeo are a South Korean icon. The women of the sea make a living by harvesting seafood during strenuous freediving missions. But their lifestyle might soon be lost due to a lack of women wanting to follow in their footsteps.

Off the coast of Corsica, a group of volunteers seeks to find out more about the elusive giant devil ray population living in the Mediterranean Sea, hoping to help foster its protection.

On England’s Dorset coast, the natural erosion of a Victorian rubbish dump reveals fragmented records of past generations.

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THE A DVENT U R ER

T HE M A R IN E B IO L O G IS T

In a special edition of Behind the Lens, we take a look at a selection of winning images from this year's awards, including the competition's overall winner: The Ocean Photographer of the Year.

Cal Major, ocean advocate and founder of the charity Seaful, highlights the importance of ocean optimism during the climate and biodiversity crises.

Marine biologist, photographer and writer, Dr Lou Luddington, writes about island life on the Petite-Terre islands, two uninhabited islands that have been protected as national nature reserves since 1998.

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Brooke Pyke Western Australia “I have photographed whale sharks countless times but this day was quite unique. Floating above this whale shark with a sea of jellyfish between us was a special moment. It felt like drifting through space.” S U P P O RT E D B Y

#MYOCEAN

Cameron McFarlane Solomon Islands "I found my first bobtail squid on a blackwater dive. I followed and photographed it until it disappeared into the dark abyss." S U P P O RT E D B Y

#MYOCEAN

James Warbey Cornwall, UK "I love swimming at dawn. You see incredible nature at its best. These low flyers can be tough to capture but on this clear day with no swell it all came together."

S U P P O RT E D B Y

#MYOCEAN

Kristian Laine Australia “When I was out snorkelling one day, I noticed the sky had started to turn red. It looked like it was on fire. I was hoping to get the turtle posing for me for a quick split photo before the sky's display was over. To my excitement, everything lined up perfectly that morning.” S U P P O RT E D B Y

Zamie

BEHIND THE LENS

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BEHIND THE LENS

Wo rd s b y N a n e S t e i n h o ff P h o t o g ra p h s b y S h a w n H e i n r i c h s , taken under government permit

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PREVIOUS: Zamie the sperm whale floats patiently at the surface, inviting the team to interact. LEFT: Zamie sleeps motionless just 10 metres beneath the surface.

“W

e dropped into the water and this magnificent female sperm whale came right up to us. She slowed down her movements so we could casually swim alongside her. I remember looking straight into her eye and observing this intricate network of vessels and structures. It looked like a beautifully profound, abstract painting, like nothing I had ever seen before. In that moment, I felt that she was witnessing and welcoming us, rather than simply tolerating us. Her name was Zamie.” Some years after his first encounter with sperm whales off the coast of Sri Lanka, founder of Only One and underwater filmmaker and photographer Shawn Heinrichs travels to the eastern Caribbean island of Dominica to document the island's resident sperm whale population under permit as part of a larger story on the importance of whales in regards to ocean ecology and climate regulation. Dominica lies along a series of deep oceanic trenches that drive nutrient-rich waters between the island chain, attracting large squid to these waters all year around. As sperm whales feed on squid, Dominica is home to several hundred female and young sperm whales that reside here all year, including Zamie, a mature female, believed to be between eight and ten years old. "This was my first time spending significant time in the presence of these animals. It was unlike any other interaction I’ve had in the ocean; it was next level,” Heinrichs says. On their first day in Dominica, the team around Heinrichs dropped in with what they believed to be several pods. “There were probably 17 or 18 sperm whales, including two calves. We swam with them for well over an hour,” Heinrich says. “But it was one particular whale that really touched our hearts: Zamie. We came across her several times when she was in a group, but the magic really happened when we met her on her own. In one such instance, she brought us a message of compassion and connection.” According to local guides, when Zamie was young, she got entangled in fishing gear. The guides helped to remove the gear from her, and ever since she has sought out contact and extended interaction with humans when they approach her with care and respect. Heinrichs remembers: “At some point during one of our special interactions, Zamie slowed down and dropped to about 10m to fall asleep with her tail sticking up. Her body slowly rose and turned upwards so her nose was pointing up. We swam right down and marvelled at the beautiful blue abyss that surrounded this single sentient creature holding space. At some point, she

started to release bubbles from her nostrils and made her way up to the surface. We expected for her to swim away but not this time. She just stuck her nose right out of the water and started to bob there so that her eye was at our level. We swam around her head, and she tracked us with her eyes, while slowly rotating. For about 15 minutes, she just hung in the water column like that. While some might describe this behaviour as resting or sleeping, I believe it was none of that. She had chosen to create a very special interaction with us where we didn’t have to swim or dive down to connect with her. In that moment, I believed that she had brought a message to us, our species. One small act of kindness has led to a lifetime of acceptance and interaction that isn’t a given if you look back at history.” Between 1750 and 1986, two commercial whaling periods wiped out around 90% of sperm whales. While up to 3 million individuals were believed to exist before the whaling periods, only around 300,000 sperm whales are alive today. The knowledge and wisdom that these animals transferred from generation to generation, much like elephants, was suddenly disrupted. “It’s not only the number you kill, but it’s also what you do to their social structure,” adds Heinrichs. Sperm whales are highly sentient, social animals. They work in groups of around eight to 12 individuals, while multi-generational families stay together throughout their entire lifetimes. While males leave the group once they have matured and wander the ocean alone, the females stay together throughout their lineage and often choose residency. Heinrichs explains: “When you take out a matriarch, you break away the structure which means you take away critical wisdom for the surviving pack and so they’re more vulnerable to other threats and predators.” While other whale species like humpback whales have made a relatively good recovery since the 1986 Moratorium on Commercial Whaling stopped whaling in most parts of the world, there has been very little evidence of any increase in sperm whale populations. “That means that what we’re doing to them right now is continuing to hurt their populations,” explains Heinrichs. As sperm whales are at the top of the food chain, they’re known to ingest chemicals. Researchers have found high amounts of mercury and lead, both known neurodisruptors, in their tissue in the past. Beyond that, beached sperm whales have been seen to ingest large amounts of clear plastics that might look like squid to them. Another potent threat to the species is noise pollution. While sperm whales have the most powerful natural sonar system on earth with the capability to create a 3D map of their environment and stun and kill their prey, their sonar is no match for industrial noise pollution, particularly the high sonic booms you get from seismic work and naval activity. These man-made sounds can deafen sperm whales, making them unable to navigate or feed themselves. Additionally, as we see increased fishing operations for squid around the globe, a sperm whale’s main food source, Heinrichs asks himself

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what will happen to sperm whales: “As we saw in the Sea of Cortez, sperm whales will disappear if their food source disappears. We literally saw the species withdraw from an entire sea basin as a result of the depletion of their food source, so they’re clearly vulnerable. As we see increased squid fisheries in the eastern Caribbean, it could be one of the greatest threats to these animals. They require a lot to survive and if we start taking anything near the amount we do in the other fisheries, we could devastate their numbers.” All of these factors, combined with one of the lowest reproductive capacities of any mammal on earth (sperm whales only have one calf every five to six years), doesn’t paint a rosy picture for the future of the species. “Because of that, every single calf, every single pregnant female, and every single mating interaction matters,” says Heinrichs. “We have to treat these animals with incredibly tender gloves. We need to make sure that we’re maintaining a home for them. And I think Zamie was there to remind us of how special they are, how much we can really connect with them if we open our hearts, and how we can share the ocean with them so they can continue to thrive.” The importance of healthy whale populations for our species has been widely explained in research that describes the critical roles baleen whales play in the fight against climate change. By consuming plankton and krill and expelling their iron-rich faeces, they fertilise the ocean and stimulate the growth of plankton, thereby creating more carbon absorption and reducing CO2 in the atmosphere. “Once upon a time, before commercial whaling, whales took more carbon out of the atmosphere than the entire Amazon, but through the reduction of their numbers, that role has declined,” says Heinrichs. “However, the role of toothed whales in that cycle hasn’t yet been studied, to my knowledge.” This is why he is especially curious to find out more about the nutrientrecycling cycle of the deep in which sperm whales might play a crucial role: “Baleen whales mostly feed at the surface and in the shallows but sperm whales feed in the deep. As the deepest mammalian divers, they can go below 2,000m when hunting. By consuming squid in the deep, bringing it back up to the surface and re-fertilising it, is there a deeper pump at play? We are talking about 100 million metric tonnes of squid a year – a significant number that is coming from the deep. That’s close to the weight of seafood that humans take out of the ocean annually. That really puts in perspective how critical a role these animals play in regulating the deep ocean systems. It’s a question that has not been answered yet but what we have learned is that the species plays a greater role than we ever thought. I expect we'll continue to find out amazing things in the future.”

“

future for sperm whales looks uncertain at best, Zamie glides along slowly as the team gazes into her complex eye.

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As the deepest mammalian divers, they can go below 2,000m when hunting.

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Once upon a time, before commercial whaling, whales took more carbon out of the atmosphere than the entire Amazon.

”

Zamie rolls upside down as she playfully interacts with the team.

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A family of sperm whales including a precious calf, drifts slowly by.

LEFT: Steve Woods surrenders completely in the presence of Zamie. RIGHT: Zamie floats vertically at the surface..

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“

While up to 3 million individuals were believed to exist before the whaling periods, only around 300,000 sperm whales are alive today.

Zamie pauses to interact and inspect the team.

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One of the most incredible things that I've found in sperm whales, is their social interactions, not only amongst themselves but with us. It's unlike anything I've ever experienced with any whale anywhere in the world.

To behold a sperm whale while she sleeps motionless, is truly a sacred moment.

”

But the future for sperm whales looks uncertain at best, comments Heinrichs. To give them better protection, naval testing should be forbidden in areas that are home to known sperm whale populations, while large shipping lanes for loud cargo ships and disruptive cruise ships should be rethought. “Additionally, as long as we’re dumping plastics in the ocean, these whales will continue to ingest them. We really need to reduce plastics, remove the amount of chemicals that we release in the ocean, and really look at how sonar-based vessels and other loud vessels are affecting the species. We need to do a much better job at creating space for these animals,” explains Heinrichs, before adding: “We have to commit to much more significant, real change because its scary these populations have not demonstrated significant recovery despite the fact our species has not actively hunted them for decades. Clearly, what we’re doing isn’t enough. And that means significant change is needed in a time where people continue to barrel ahead unconsciously.” Zamie is the face that can build that bridge between complex conservation jargon and active change. People need an emotional connection with a species to really care for their protection, believes Heinrichs. Sperm whales are sentient, curious beings that, when you connect with them, create an important shift in people. As the largest toothed whale in the ocean, they have the largest brain of any animal on Earth which speaks volumes about their capacity for communication and intelligence. “To me, one of the most incredible things I’ve found in sperm whales, is their social interactions, not only amongst themselves but with us. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced with any whale anywhere in the world. They offer such a unique and extended insight into an entire species and family of species that we don’t normally get. That opens up portals for empathy, compassion and action,” says Heinrichs. “We, as a species, waged war on Zamie's species. Yet she chose to forgive and trust us in this moment, to allow us to interact with her in her most vulnerable state. These animals are ambassadors for our ocean. They’re here to remind us, that despite all the violence that has been perpetrated on them in the past, we can change that narrative. We can create an entirely different relationship. But what that requires today is not only that we stop driving harpoons into them, which is still happening on a small scale in some places, but that we think about the other threats these animals face.” While the threats are real, the opportunities are real too, believes Heinrichs: “For me, it’s about opening our hearts to realise that there are other highly sentient, intelligent beings on this planet. Rather than assume that we are the elite species, we need to have the humility to recognise there are other levels of intelligence beyond what we can understand. And that, if we were to open our ears and our hearts, we might learn how to protect another species - as well as understand what it might take to save our own.”

Column

By Cal Major

The adventurer OCEAN OPTIMISM

Photograph by John Little, Unsplash.

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@cal_major

here’s a lot of doom and gloom around the state of our seas. The climate and biodiversity crises are regularly in the news and on our social media feeds. But without hope, we can’t expect to effectively work towards a healthier planet. Eco-anxiety is rife amongst activists and campaigners. It can destroy resilience. I see hope, action and community as the antidotes to this. My week aboard Merlin, a 41-foot sailboat owned and run by Oliver Beardon and his organisation Sail Britain, was a powerful tonic. The theme of our sailing week: ‘Ocean Optimism’. Our crew for the week totalled nine, and many of us had never met each other before. Amongst our crew was Dr Jo Henley, senior lecturer at Falmouth University, whose research interest is ‘Ocean Optimism’. She describes the subject as “a shared belief in a more hopeful future for the ocean that we can all inhabit”. Over the course of the week, we explored this theme further. One of the most important aspects of our trip was knowledge and insight sharing. The more we know, and the better we understand the problems, barriers and solutions to ocean conservation, the more effective we can be at working towards a healthy ocean - individually and collaboratively. It can feel enormously overwhelming learning about the scale of the crises facing our seas, but the more we delved into them over the course of our week together, the more we understood what needed to be done. We were cautious not to operate on naive optimism, but to find genuinely empowering places to give hope. We also delved into empathy and understanding towards other stakeholders, particularly the fishing community, with exercises aimed at understanding other lived realities and how that can influence decisions from different angles. A more informed and compassionate approach can help avoid ‘us and them’ thinking, blame, animosity and conflict, and improve chances of collaboration and solutions. During the week we sailed almost 200 miles from Falmouth to Milford Haven. We saw sunfish, encountered rain and sunshine, and sailed through flat seas and high waves. We were immersed in the energy of the ocean, inspired and constantly reminded of its power, its ability to give and maintain life, and in a more personal sense, to provide solace, space, joy and healing. Our individual connections to the ocean were renewed and strengthened, and we connected to each other through a shared love for our seas. One day we sailed overnight and took it in turns to keep watch. When it was my turn, I heard sounds all around the boat in the pitch black. I could just about make out the fins of a pod of common dolphins as they swam around Merlin, and the bioluminescent streaks that followed them as they danced and played lit up the ocean like a Northern

@CalMajor_

www.calmajor.com

“Overwhelm and eco-anxiety are rife amongst activists and campaigners, and are so effective at destroying resilience. I see hope, action and community as the antidotes to this.”

Lights display. It was pure magic. Throughout the week, we also had a few glimpses of a minke whales, watched gannets swoop over the bow of the boat, puffins and guillemots diving under the water as we sailed past, seals playing in the shallows. We trawled a very fine net alongside the boat one afternoon and tipped out the contents to watch zooplankton and alien-looking worms dart around under the microscope. We snorkelled to search for seagrass and hermit crabs and found underwater forests. Our seas are struggling, but where they’re protected they’re still full of life. Seeing it for myself is the most important boost for my own 'Ocean Optimism'. It reminds me of what I’m working to protect, it fills me with passion to help others see what I have the great privilege of seeing. Within our group, everyone had a different area they were particularly passionate about, and a different skillset available to them. I think it’s important to zoom out and see the big picture, and the interconnectedness of environmental and social justice, of human health and planetary health. But I think it’s equally important to then zoom back in and focus on the bit we can change, the bit where our skills and passions lie. We can’t all do everything, but we can all do something. I’d like to leave you with a quote from Jane Goodall: “I like to envision the whole world as a jigsaw puzzle… If you look at the whole picture, it is overwhelming and terrifying, but if you work on your little part of the jigsaw and know that people all over the world are working on their little bits, that's what will give you hope.” CM

About Cal Cal is a vet, ocean advocate and world-record stand up paddleboard adventurer who founded the UK charity Seaful to reconnect people to the ocean. For more information or to get involved visit: www.seaful.org.uk

Oceanographic Issue 26

CORAL

connection Photographer and marine biologist Martin Colognoli has documented the link between coral and humans on Indonesia’s Hatamin Island for years. His photographic story is one of destruction and rehabilitation, of interconnectedness and survival. Wo rd s a n d p h o t o g ra p h s b y M a r t i n C o l o g n o l i

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want to tell you about Hatamin Island. Located in Indonesia, in the heart of the coral triangle which is the world’s richest centre of marine biodiversity, Hatamin Island is close to Komodo National Park in the Flores Sea between the Indian and Pacific Ocean. The island is an ancient volcano that rose from the sea and has been enveloped by a vast coral reef for hundreds of thousands of years. Today, all that remains of the old volcano is a visible mountainous rock peak. The rest belongs to coral, a fascinating animal construction whose longevity puts our time on earth into perspective, and makes it quite ephemeral. The most primitive of corals have existed for 500 million years. In a biological sense, coral is immortal. It is a true miracle of the marine sphere which has adapted to the poorly nourished environment of tropical waters by teaming up with a micro-algae that lives inside its tissues and provides it with oxygen and food. I have always been fascinated by coral, an animal with a similarity to minerals and vegetables. Coral is a fragile organism, representing only 0.2% of the ocean's surface, yet providing habitat for at least 25% of the planet's marine biodiversity. It has become the emblem of the protection of marine environments since its disappearance would be a real interplanetary catastrophe. It is the only animal construction visible from space and it still has a lot to teach us. Because of their fragility and great biodiversity, coral reefs around the world are sentinels of the stability of life on the planet. When I first arrived on Hatamin Island, I was immediately struck by its beauty. The island is 80m long and is surrounded by a 52-hectares-large coral reef flat. My first visit immediately turned into a moment of magic. The colour of the water, the many shades of turquoise and blue were magnificent. A seven-metredeep blue hole in the reef contains special fauna and flora, while the rock island’s terrestrial vegetation is flourishing. The island is commonly called Bird Island because it has been a breeding ground for several species of seabirds. Thousands of terns that fed on small fish hiding in the coral reef made their nests here in the past, according to a village elder. Today, only a few dozens come back annually to nest. The reason for the decline of these birds, as can be observed in so many places around the world, can be traced back to human activity. As Hatamin Island is uninhabited, it was not protected for a long time. Over 30 years ago, the inhabitants of the village of Seraya Besar, an island located around 2km away from Hatamin Island, carried out dynamite fishing here by deploying makeshift bombs out of soda bottles to catch greater numbers of fish than with traditional fishing methods. The activity is now banned throughout Indonesia but back then, it destroyed coral reef environments all over the country, leading to

PREVIOUS: A fisherman hooks a miniata grouper. RIGHT: In Seraya Besar, stilts are used in construction to provide fresh air and protection from animals.

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“They are fighting for their right to food sovereignty and their right to continue to make a living from fishing.”

the creation of underwater deserts unsuitable for life. In turn, many seabirds lost their main food source. I learned from an elder from Seraya Besar that the fishermen used to catch a lot of fish around the island but the catches have become smaller. People now have to go out further to fish, making the activity more dangerous, and more costly in terms of fuel and fatigue. Overfishing and dynamite fishing around Flores have seriously affected the balance of coral ecosystems, causing the food chain to break down. The impact is therefore ecological, economic and social. We wanted to change that. I co-founded Coral Guardian, a non-profit organisation seeking to protect and restore coral reef ecosystems through the involvement of local communities, in 2012. We approached the fishing community in the village of Seraya Besar to discuss a marine conservation programme that we had set up in Bali. The village chief ended up explicitly asking us to help them take action to protect the reef on Hatamin Island, counting on their support and involvement, in order to regenerate it. We first swam around the island to see the damage of dynamite fishing and the biodiversity present for ourselves which gave us the data needed to train the community to protect their coral reef. I observed the dependence of the fishermen on the reef for food, and their intense joy of catching fish. As a photographer, I made it my goal to capture the unique interaction between humans and coral. Over time, the fishermen started to trust me and gradually accepted that I take pictures of them. I soon was invited to participate in fishing parties. Komang, one of the fishermen, picked me up at 4:30am in the morning, and we boarded his small boat, which is called a ‘ketinting’. locally These boats are small, around 4m long and 40cm wide, and have a floating arm to balance it out on the water. We first headed out to the coral reef to catch smaller fish that would later be used to catch larger fish offshore. The sun had just started to rise, the sea was calm and the water dark. I got in the ocean, watching the fishermen concentrate all their efforts on fishing. As soon as a fisherman caught something at the end of his line, he called me over to immortalise the moment through my camera. Their joy was infectious. It contained all the strength of the village's survival. I become aware of the importance of the coral reef which brings food to the 42

tables of dozens of families. On some days, the fishermen returned home without fish and therefore without protein for their families. These are difficult moments to witness. The importance of protecting coral reefs is undeniable, especially when we are in the presence of communities that depend directly on these natural resources. A preserved reef attracts wealth for local communities and tourism, but it is only by involving the local population that we can claim the sustainability of these settlements. Coral reefs, the epicentres of marine biodiversity, are currently threatened by global warming, ocean acidification, years of dynamite and potassium cyanide fishing, chemical use, agricultural run-off, plastic debris and mass tourism. The first to be affected are undoubtedly the traditional fishermen. Today, they are fighting for their right to food sovereignty and their right to continue to make a living from fishing. Through our work with Coral Guardian, we have restored corals around Hatamin Island since 2015. Initially, the local team collected coral fragments from the seabed around the island, before they were transplanted onto artificial metallic structures to grow. Today, the oldest structures are composed of very healthy corals that have reached sizes of up to 40cm. As a result, the team is now using these structures as ‘nurseries’ for new coral transplants. We believe that this allows the development of corals that are more resilient to climate change. According to certain scientific studies, when a coral undergoes first stress period, it is more inclined to resist a second stress period. At the base of all that we do, however, stand the local people. We have focused heavily on human involvement as an educational tool because we don’t solely see the solution in reef restoration, but in people and their ability to involve others in protecting an ecosystem. A team of eight people, most of them former fishermen, currently work on our project full time to restore and protect coral reefs in this area. They are involved in coral restoration, awareness programmes, scientific monitoring, as well as the general protection of the area. As part of the protection programme, Coral Guardian set up a fisheries monitoring system that will run a few years to provide valuable information and a better understanding of the relationship between fishermen and their environment. Given the difficulty of collecting

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Komang, a fisherman and former sea nomad, catches a small trevally.

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“The importance of protecting coral reefs is undeniable, especially when we are in the presence of communities that depend directly on these natural resources.”

Komang begins his day fishing near the coral reef on his traditional 'ketinting'.

“The inhabitants of the village of Seraya Besar carried out dynamite fishing here by deploying makeshift bombs out of soda bottles to catch greater numbers of fish than with traditional fishing methods.”

MAIN IMAGE: Sahril transplants a broken coral onto a nearby structure. TOP: The reef in year 1 dynamite fishing has destroyed parts of the reef. MIDDLE & BOTTOM: The reef in year 2 and 3 - coral fragments were transplanted onto structures to restore the reef.

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A healthy coral reef attracts a variety of fish and feeds the local communities.

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“Compared to 2015, the area is seeing 30 times more fish and four times more fish species.”

reliable data on traditional fisheries in Indonesia, this monitoring approach has been a success because of the full involvement of the village community. When fishermen understand how a healthy reef can significantly improve their livelihoods, they will do everything in their power to make it work. Over seven years, Coral Guardian has transplanted over 48,000 corals around Hatamin Island, in a locallymanaged marine protected area of 1.2 hectares that was introduced by the Indonesian government in 2019. Compared to 2015, the area is seeing 30 times more fish and four times more fish species. I am convinced that marine protected areas, and in particular locally managed marine areas, are the best way to protect our reefs. It is sometimes difficult to understand that coral reefs on the other side of the planet can have an impact on western societies. It's a chain reaction. Biodiversity is a global good. Efforts to preserve wildlife require global, regional and national responses. Today's issues are intertwined with those of the past. Although they are different, they are no less worrying. In concrete terms, if marine resources were to disappear, what would happen to traditional fishermen? What would they eat? What would they do? Where would they go? When considered in this way, the link between humans and their environment takes on its full meaning. Without corals, the loss of biodiversity would be considerable and would lead to less food resources for the communities. If we go further, we could even imagine problems of famine and population displacement. Moreover, if coral reefs were to be completely destroyed because of global warming, they would no longer protect the coast from storms. In order to avoid these catastrophic scenarios, Coral Guardian's mission is to preserve coral ecosystems through the involvement of local and international communities. Reef rehabilitation is not an end but a means. It allows the involvement of local fishermen to understand the functioning of their natural environment in order to better protect it. We cannot naively recreate the world we had ‘before’. It would be a waste of time. We have to deal with reality and try to use it in a positive way. And to do this, you have to be able to enter into the life of the village, to learn about their culture and their knowledge of the coral reef before putting anything in place. Oceanographic Issue 26

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Behind the lens I N A S S O C I AT I O N W I T H

20 22 THE WINNERS Behind the Lens places a spotlight on the world’s foremost ocean conservation photographers. Each edition focusses on the work of an individual who continues to shape global public opinion through powerful imagery and compelling storytelling.

BEHIND THE LENS

Ocean Photographer of the Year , winner B EN TH O UA R D TAHITI, FRENCH POLYNESIA The unseen part of surfing: A surfer falls off the board and gets pushed around by one of the world's heaviest waves.

Ocean Photographer of the Year, second place K ATHE RINE L U PHIL IPPINE S A blanket octopus reveals its colourful webbing.

Ocean Photographer of the Year, third place B R O O K PETER S O N LO S A NG ELES A cormorant hunts in the middle of a large bait ball under the Ellen oil rig platform.

Female Fifty Fathoms Award B R O O KE PYKE WES TER N AUS TR A LIA A whale shark swims under the surface, creating a beautiful reflection.

Adventure Photographer of the Year TOM ST GEORGE M EXI CO These gigantic formations in an underwater cave took millenia to form.

Conservation (Hope) Photographer of the Year NIC OL AS RE MY AUSTRALIA An aggregation of critically endangered grey nurse sharks around Fish Rock Island.

Fine Art Photographer of the Year M IKE S PENCER UK "When three breaking peaks formed, with the mist rolling over the cliff edges in the background, my image was taken."

The Human Connection Award S TEVE WO O DS S R I LA NKA A sperm whale resting in a patch of sargassum seaweed.

Conservation (Impact) Photographer of the Year SIMON LORENZ S R I LA N K A A large ghost net entraps a struggling olive ridley sea turtle. It took a machete and 30 minutes of hard work to cut it free unharmed.

Wildlife Photographer of the Year RAFAEL FERNANDEZ C ABAL L E RO SPAIN A family of pilot whales curiously inspects the photographer.

Young Photographer of the Year RY U TA O G AWA JA PA N A green sea turtle hatchling in the shallows of Minamijima Island.

Ocean Portfolio Award (series of images, following) MATTY S M ITH AUSTRALIA An abstract portrait of a small bay squid. Matty notes: "Squid at night are beautiful. Their skin flickers and changes with colour constantly."

Ocean Portfolio Award (part of series) M AT T Y S M I T H AUSTRALIA During the annual giant cuttlefish aggregation, a fight broke out between two males and they inked the water.

Ocean Portfolio Award (part of series) MATTY SMITH SOL OMON ISL AND S Two anemonefish explore the vibrant tentacles of an anemone.

Female Fifty Fathoms Award B R O O KE PYKE WES TER N AUS TR A LIA Two sea snakes entwined while mating at the surface.

Female Fifty Fathoms Award B R O O KE PYKE WES TER N AUS TR A LIA A male leafy sea dragon carries its eggs on the tail.

Behind the lens This issue's Behind the lens showcases 16 images from this year's Ocean Photographer of the Year Awards. If you would like to see all finalist images, head over to www.oceanographicmagazine.com/opy

Oceanographic Issue 26

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BEHIND THE LENS

Oceanographic Issue 26

BEHIND THE LENS

Last

OF THEIR

kind Jeju Island’s Haenyeo are a South Korean icon. The women of the sea make a living by harvesting seafood during strenuous freediving missions. But their lifestyle might soon be lost due to a lack of women wanting to follow in their footsteps. Wo rd s a n d p h o t o g ra p h s b y J o s é J e u l a n d

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“Most of the Haenyeo still diving for a living are aged between 50 to 80 years of age. Many of them regard themselves as the last of their kind.”

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ABOVE: A submerged Haenyeo shows a freshly-caught sea snail. OPPOSITE: One of the Haenyeo proudly shows off her catch. PREVIOUS PAGE: A fully-suited Haenyeo woman in the midst of her dive.

t's about 6am on a March morning, and I am waiting to board a boat that will take myself and a group of 15 veteran female divers out to the East China Sea off the coast of Jeju Island. As we wait for the boat, the elderly ladies laugh and chatter amongst themselves in Korean and prepare their equipment for the upcoming dive. I follow suit and do the same with my camera gear. I catch the eye of a particular diver and she scowls and mutters under her breath. She is displeased that the group and the boat captain have allowed me to join them. When we board the vessel, she pointedly takes the seat next to me, as if to watch over me in case I was up to no good. Soon enough, we arrive at the dive site, and the women drop into the cold waters one by one. Before the disgruntled diver exits the vessel, I manage to capture a portrait of her. I return to shore with the captain, ride my scooter back to my accommodation, and print out a copy of the image. When the captain and I make the return trip to pick the divers up, I present the picture to her. Her face lights up and she smiles at me for the first time. I’ve managed to charm a Haenyeo. The Haenyeo, or ‘women of the sea’, are an icon of South Korea. A unique culture found on the island of Jeju, the women have been in charge of diving for seafood to provide for their families since the 17th century when many of the men were either conscripted to the army or had lost their lives at sea while fishing. Additionally, the Korean ruler at that time had imposed heavy taxes on the earnings of men, but exempted the labour of women. The womenfolk of the island had no choice but to become

the main breadwinners of their families. This evolved into a system where only girls were trained to perform the dangerous freediving work of the Haenyeo to harvest items such as abalone, conch, seaweed, sea urchin, and octopus from the ocean floor. To become a Haenyeo is indeed a dangerous and tiring path. These women train from the age of ten or younger to dive to depths of up to 20m and hold their breath for up to 2 minutes underwater. They dive with no protective equipment other than their wetsuits, flippers, goggles, and weighted vests or belts to help them dive deeper. Lives can, and have been lost during these dives, including Haenyeo that I have met and photographed. The risky and demanding nature of the job has caused a sharp drop in the numbers of the Haenyeo in the past two decades, as less and less of women in Jeju are inclined to continue the traditions. With more opportunities to make a living in a less dangerous fashion, the younger generations of women living on Jeju Island are forgoing the way of the Haenyeo, preferring to work in other industries or head to the mainland. After all, the path of the Haenyeo was born out of necessity and a desperation to survive in a difficult situation. As a result, most of the Haenyeo still diving for a living are aged between 50 to 80 years of age. Many of them regard themselves as the last of their kind. Prior to becoming a professional photographer, I was a competitive triathlete who participated in races around the globe. I have always had an interest in photography and utilised the time when I was not racing or competing

Oceanographic Issue 26

to hone my photography skills. Whenever I was abroad for a race, I was sure to bring my camera to capture the sights and people to document my time in a different country. When I signed up for a 50km race on Jeju Island, I decided to find out more about the island and its attractions. What caught my eye amongst the images of orange trees, lush greenery, waterfalls and pristine beaches, was a photo of an elderly woman. Her face, partially obscured behind diving goggles, was wrinkled and weather-beaten, her body spoke of exhaustion as she emerged from the ocean. Yet, there was obvious strength and endurance in her despite her advanced age, and I was fascinated. It was then and there that I made up my mind to find out more about the Haenyeo. I ended up travelling to Jeju Island two more times after my race to spend time with the individuals. I slowly got to know divers from various villages and earned their trust. Getting the Haenyeo to open up to me was not a simple task. When I was first doing my research on the Haenyeo, I had contacted a few Korean photographers who had photographed the Haenyeo to ask for advice. They actively discouraged me from pursuing this project, citing many challenges they faced when photographing

the Haenyeo, and told me that with the language barrier, things would be even more difficult for me. When I went on to pursue this project, many of these women, like the diver who had voiced her displeasure at my presence on the boat, either viewed me with distrust or thought of me as a hindrance in their workday. And they cannot be blamed. Many tourists come to Jeju Island, and some view the Haenyeo as a form of entertainment, instead of real, working divers who risk their lives on a daily basis. After landing on the island, I rode my scooter along the coast looking for bright orange splotches in the water. These orange buoys hold their nets afloat and are telltale signs of the presence of Haenyeo. I visited between 20 and 30 dive sites during my time on Jeju, but did not photograph the Haenyeo at all of them. Some groups were more focused on their work and did not wish to be disturbed, others were more welcoming and entertained my attempts at communicating with them through body language.

“The Haenyeo respect the life cycles of the ocean and have strict regulations on what can be harvested in specific seasons.”

A weary Haenyeo woman tracking across Jeju’s black volcanic rocks.

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OPPOSITE: The Haenyeo, an icon of South Korea, in action.

The first time I saw a group of Haenyeo, they were coming home from a dive. They emerged from the water like a small troop of astronauts coming back from a mission, all of them confident and pleased about the harvest they had collected. I was exhilarated. I stood back and took a few simple snaps, not wanting to intrude. And then I came back the next day, and the day after that. Initially, I sat on some rocks and took photos of them diving from afar. When it was time for them to return to shore, I would pack away my camera, and help them carry their catch out of the water. Slowly, I managed to gain their trust. As I spent more time with them, they began to open up to me, allowing me to mingle amongst them before and after their dives, observe their rituals and photograph them while they worked. Almost every village on Jeju has their own diving outpost for their very own Haenyeo to meet up, to get ready for a day’s dive, to store belongings, or simply to rest. They gather there early in the mornings, around 6am. Some ride their scooters, some are dropped off by their husbands, and others who live nearby, simply walk while pushing a pram or cart holding their equipment. In some groups, the women come together before a dive to say a quick prayer to Jamsugut, the Goddess of the Sea, to ask for safety and a good harvest. After changing into their wetsuits and donning their gear, more experienced Haenyeo are dropped off by boat at the dive site where they spend up to seven hours diving for their catch. The junior members of the group dive closer to shore, making their way to the dive site by swimming. The Haenyeo respect the life cycles of the ocean and have strict regulations on what can be harvested in specific seasons. During spawning season for species like abalone or sea urchins, Haenyeo divers avoid harvesting these to allow them to reproduce. Likewise, if a specimen is undersized, the Haenyeo will not harvest it, allowing it to grow to full maturity. After diving, the Haenyeo carry their heavy nets, filled with seafood and seaweed, back to shore where their work is not yet complete. Their harvests still need to be processed, the freshly caught catch sorted according to species, and bundles of briny seaweed washed and spread out to dry, all while the women chatter and laugh. While observing groups of Haenyeo sorting through their catch at the end of the work day, I would often be offered a taste of the fresh seafood. Golden lobes of creamy sea urchin, chewy slices of abalone, or crunchy strips of seaweed bursting with salt and flavour were presented to me. The freshness of the seafood was unlike anything I had tried before, and was made all the more sweeter by the generosity and hard work of the Haenyeo. My time spent with the Haenyeo changed my life in more ways than one. It was my photographic work documenting these fiercely independent women that organised my first solo photography exhibition, and the support I received for this series on the Haenyeo pushed me towards the path of becoming a full-time photographer. But more importantly, I was inspired by the Haenyeo themselves. These women, like their mothers before them, ply a dangerous and difficult trade at an age that is considered long past retirement in other societies. I will always be in awe of their tenacity and strength, but also their camaraderie and purpose. What they do is hard work, but the Haenyeo live full lives. They are active and financially independent, something of a rarity in South Korean society where the poverty rate amongst senior citizens tends to be high, some sources say it was 40% in 2020. Additionally, social isolation, an issue faced by the elderly all over the world, is not something the Haenyeo suffer from. They meet regularly during the diving season, and spend time with their fellow divers in and out of the water. Their friendship extends beyond simple companionship, into a sisterhood that looks out for each other in the dangers of the ocean. As stewards of the ocean, the Haenyeo help preserve the maritime health of the waters around Jeju Island, and help preserve the traditions of a culture that harkens back centuries. So important are the Haenyeo that they were inscribed on the UNESCO List of Intangible Cultural Heritage in 2016, and they have become one of the most beloved icons of South Korea. Having met the Haenyeo, I now have a different outlook on ageing. I no longer see growing old as a looming inevitability to be dreaded, but as a part of life that can be lived actively. The Haenyeo may have only started diving in an act of desperation to feed their families, but they have now become a symbol of strength and rebellion, fighting against society’s preconceived notions on women and ageing.

Oceanographic Issue 26

Column

By Lou Luddington

The marine biologist ISLAND LIFE

“Recent studies have revealed that 50% of the world's coral reefs have been lost in the last 40 years.”

A stingray seems unperturbed by Lou's presence.

Oceanographic Issue 26

@lou_luddington

float above a shoal of small scad a thousandstrong. They flow under me like a river, morphing into silver funnels and braids. In an instant, they implode to a writhing ball, shining, bristling, flashing as I drift beside them. I dive down to pass through the crowd, then twist around to gaze skyward as a shroud of glinting shards draws over me, thick with eyes, fins and scales. In the midst of this coordinated fervour, I feel part of the flowing rhythm of life. Jolting me from my revelry, a stingray cruises into view with an entourage of fish, actively foraging across the seabed. It stops right next to me and starts to rummage for invertebrates hidden in the sand by flapping its wings, sending up clouds of sediment that engulf it completely. The accompanying fish loiter, waiting for the right moment to pick off any spoils. I loiter too, observing the commotion; the ray seems unperturbed by my presence and heads right for me, then steamrolls up and over my camera on its hunting mission. I follow along enjoying the quest, when a green turtle munching on sea grass edges into my peripheral vision. Ambling across the sand it plucks at small seaweeds growing on coral rubble. Having gripped a juicy stem with its jaws it shakes the coral and swipes at it with a fore flipper to tear the frond off at the base. I don’t know where to look or aim my camera - fish shoal, stingray or grazing turtle? I realised I had come to a special place. We arrived at Petite-Terre islands by sailboat after a lumpy slog from Guadeloupe against the norteast trade winds. Lying 10km to the south-east of Guadeloupe, these two uninhabited islands and surrounding waters have been protected as a national nature reserve since 1998. Their importance as a stronghold for lesser Antilles iguanas, nesting area for three species of sea turtles and home to a stand of guaiac trees that have otherwise disappeared from the lesser Antilles were recognised back then. Since that time, hunting, fishing with line, net, trap and spear, and collecting or harvesting of animals from both land and sea have been forbidden, whilst mooring buoys for visiting boats prevent anchor damage to the seabed. With a land area of less than 2km2 and protected surrounding waters of 8km2, it is a reserve of modest size, yet it is teeming with life. We stayed for three days. Positioned in the shallow lagoon between the two islands, we could easily hop over the boat’s side into calm, clear water. On our first afternoon we explored the lagoon. Though bustling with life, much of the reef is a coral graveyard; the foundations are a derelict jumble of toppled elkhorn corals, once towering branched structures of limestone that now look like felled trees and are overgrown with seaweed. The lagoon’s bottom is cobbled with fragments of staghorn coral that would have formed complex branching stands. Both species once dominated the shallows of Caribbean reef systems but are now rare and

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critically endangered. The victims of past bleaching events, disease and ferocious hurricanes have torn through reef systems worldwide. These effects know no bounds and reach far beyond local protection measures. Recent studies have revealed that 50% of the world's coral reefs have been lost in the last 40 years. I can't help wondering how this reef would have looked in its heyday when the corals were vibrant and strong. There is much life to marvel at though; sponges, fan worms, an octopus, fishes and sea cucumbers lying on the sand. We lose ourselves in the details swimming to the far reaches of the lagoon where the waves wash in from the open sea, then back to the calm, bright shallows of the inner lagoon where goatfish forage and chunky Palometa rest. When a chill creeps into our muscles, we head for the island to warm up. Our timing coincides with the departure of the tour boats bringing day trippers from Guadeloupe. The whole island empties but for a few fellow yachties so we walk to the lighthouse, barefoot in our swimsuits. Iguanas litter the paths and bush tops. Rounding a bend in the path we find two fighting; they tussle in the dirt, pausing to flick their tails and toss their heads back in a sort of backwards nod to thrust out the throat flap. Endemic to the lesser Antilles and in severe decline due to habitat loss and hunting they are listed as ‘Critically Endangered’ by the IUCN. On these tiny uninhabited islands at least, they live openly and in good numbers. Back on the beach, ruddy turnstones rummage in the strandline of seaweed and seagrass, tossing sand and dried sargassum as they burrow holes in the loose piles to get at tiny invertebrates. In the shallows, young lemon sharks patrol back and forth, their fins breaking the surface. Hunting in water barely deep enough to float them seems like a risky strategy but I’m delighted as these are the first sharks I’ve seen in the Caribbean. Swimming back with the sun low in the sky, the scene underwater is luminous. Green turtles rowing for deeper water out-pace us, a solitary barracuda hangs above the reef looking comically menacing with its toothy grimace. Shoals of surgeonfish pour back and forth across the reef glowing blue-violet. Beneath our boat, a sand tilefish tends to its mound of coral fragments then slides into its hole when I dive down for a look. Climbing back aboard with a full heart I give thanks to those who had the foresight to protect this place, a sparkly gem of the eastern Caribbean. LL About Lou Dr Lou Luddington is a marine biologist, nature photographer and writer living aboard a sailboat, the Noctiluca, on the move and travelling the ocean in search of stories and adventure.

Oceanographic Issue 26

Devils OF THE Mediterranean

Off the coast of Corsica, a group of volunteers seeks to find out more about the elusive giant devil ray population living in the Mediterranean Sea.

Wo rd s a n d p h o t o g ra p h s b y S é b a s t i e n B a r r i o

F E AT U R E

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I “Only endless blue below me. In this moment, I think about the several dozen kilometres that separate me from the Corsican coastline.”

t’s 6am and my alarm is ringing in my ears. I wipe my tired eyes, get dressed quickly and am ready for another day aboard one of two research vessels floating off the French island of Corsica. On deck, the team prepares for a long day of monitoring the ocean. I’m on the first shift, getting in position to spot any movements in the water around us. After hours of looking out at the deep blue, one of us sees a disturbance in the water. Our boat slowly and carefully approaches the estimated point under sail so as not to scare away the animals we are looking for. We count on the curiosity of this intelligent species to not disappear while we inch closer. I get my underwater camera ready to document the events, while others set up the scientific protocols before hopping into the water. I slip calmly into the ocean at the back of the boat with the help of a lifeline and gaze down into the depths of the Mediterranean Sea. Only endless blue below me. In this moment, I think about the several dozen kilometres that separate me from the Corsican coastline, while I wonder how many thousands of metres of water lie under me. Suddenly, all other thoughts disperse as I spot what we are looking for on our mission: the giant mobula rays (Mobula mobular) of the Mediterranean. I see their graceful dance in the distance, their flat, diamond-shaped bodies and long fins moving in the sunlight, and wait for them to come closer. With luck, the rays will show interest in the divers and the boat so that the scientific procedures can be easily carried out. If the team is careful enough, the interaction might last several minutes and give the team vital information on the giant devil rays that inhabit the Mediterranean Sea. The giant devil ray feeds on krill and small pelagic fish and has a dark back, a darker black scarf on its head and a white belly. The mouth is positioned on its ventral side and is framed by cephalic lobes, a criterion that for a long time served to distinguish mobula rays from manta rays, in addition to size and distribution. The filter feeder’s pectoral fins are long and triangular, with a wingspan able to reach 3,2m. On average, however, an individual’s wingspan measures between 1,8m and 2,80m. As the only species of the genus observed in the Mediterranean Sea, it was long believed that the species was endemic. However, researchers established that its range extends over all temperate and tropical waters. As a pelagic species, it can be found at the surface off the coast, as well in depths of up to 1,200m. Individuals of this species sometimes form impressive shoals; the largest aggregation to be observed in the French Mediterranean happened on July 3 in 2018 when 39 individuals were counted. By observing the group of rays before us closely, the research team tries to find out more about the structuring of the school, and the number of individuals. For each

PREVIOUS: A laser plate is used to measure the size of the rays while freediving. THIS PAGE: A pod of striped dolphins.

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“By taking mucus samples and processing DNA sequencing, the research team will be able to study the genetic structuring of the species and eventually carry out eDNA analysis.”

Three giant devil rays swimming in the open ocean.

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TOP: After a long day's work, the group goes for a relaxing swim. MIDDLE: A diver gets ready on the surface. BOTTOM:s A diver tries to place a satellite tag on the back of a mobula ray.

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“This information could be vital for setting up protection programmes in areas particularly frequented by giant devil rays.” encounter, the researchers try to collect as much data as possible, besides determining the precise location which might tell them more about the species’ distribution patterns. If the rays allow the team to come closer, it can also place a tag on an individual – a crucial and difficult step of the expedition. After carefully approaching the individual, Matthieu Lapinski, president of Association Ailerons, the association in charge of this expedition, tries to place a tag on it with a modified harpoon. The tag, which will record data for at least three month and up to one year, is placed in the animal’s thick back muscles so as not to injure it during the operation. The data collected will record the individual’s swimming behaviour during that time frame. The researchers believe that by multiplying the number of tags, possible migration and presence patterns of individuals can be identified. This information could be vital for setting up protection programmes in areas particularly frequented by giant devil rays. Besides adding the tag, another crucial task of the expedition is the gathering of mucus samples from the ray’s skin with a pole that is equipped with a scraper; a method that is known to have little impact on the animal. By taking mucus samples and processing DNA sequencing, the research team will be able to study the genetic structuring of the species and eventually carry out eDNA analysis. Last but not least, the researchers estimate the wingspans of the individuals. Throughout this year’s expedition, for example, a specifically designed laser plate equipped with a GoPro camera and two lasers that were spaced 30cm apart made it possible to measure giant devil rays underwater. By video-processing this data, the wingspans can be estimated through simple cross-multiplication processes. All of these scientific protocols are part of the Association Ailerons annual ‘Diable de Mer’ expedition. Based in Montpellier, Ailerons has been working on studying and protecting the Mediterranean’s many shark and ray species since 2006. One of their flagship projects is the ‘Diable de Mer’ project, which seeks to observe and study giant devil rays further. Every year, a group of volunteers from all walks of life departs Corsica to find giant devil rays and learn more about their behaviour with the hope of contributing to their protection. Despite the species’ vulnerability (they are considered endangered

in the Mediterranean, according to the IUCN Red List of Threatened Species), there are only a few scientific studies on the species which translates into a lack of knowledge and measures to ensure its protection. The Diable de Mer project is a participatory science project that aims to animate a network of observers around the Mediterranean to collect information on the species. This information could be centralised on an online database to be shared with research organisations for scientific projects, management or impact studies. “The idea of a scientific expedition germinated in our minds to get as close as possible to the species in order to study and understand it because information currently available on devil rays are sorely lacking,” commented William Travers, head of the Diable de Mer project. But the mission of the association does not stop there; they also work on raising public awareness about the fate of the giant devil ray that is threatened worldwide. Their main threats stem from pollution and accidental fishing, but the species is also threatened by microplastic ingestion, oil spills, maritime traffic, and bycatch in several fisheries, including pelagic drift nets, purse seines, and trammel nets. While Mobula mobular fishing is prohibited in France and listed in many international conventions which limits its exploitation, significant illegal activities still occur, especially in regard to the demand of their gill plates on Asian markets. Around the Gaza Strip in the Levantine Sea, the species is also targeted for direct consumption. Since its first expedition launched in 2019, a multidisciplinary team has joined the week-long devil ray expedition every year off Corsica. I was invited in 2021 and 2022 to document this adventure through my camera lens. While two catamaran-type sailing boats set off, each crew is made up of two experienced sailors from the Skravik association, as well as six to eight volunteers from Association Ailerons that all bring different skills to the table, from scientific expertise to camera knowledge, social media whizzes, and many more. The promising results obtained confirm the interest of the global scientific approach undertaken by Ailerons. On nearly 4,000km surveyed since the first expedition, the association was able to observe more than 200 giant devil rays in total. The team further managed to retrieve the first two tags placed on individuals, while the other ones placed on rays in 2022 are still collecting vital data on the whereabouts of the largest ray species in the Mediterranean. In the evening, when the work is done, we enjoy a quick swim while the sun is setting. It is not uncommon to hear dolphins vocalizing in the distance. While I take in the serenity of my surroundings, I can’t help but think of the endangered status of this majestic species. I hope that, with the data obtained on this mission, we can help provide reliable information to further secure the future of this charismatic species in the Mediterranean.

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trash TO treasure

FROM

On England’s Dorset coast, the natural erosion of a Victorian rubbish dump reveals fragmented records of past generations.

Wo rd s a n d p h o t o g ra p h s b y Ja d e H o k s b e r g e n a n d H e n l e y S p i e r s

F E AT U R E

yme Regis, 1811, a precocious 12-year-old searches the windswept beach for natural artefacts. It is a life of hardship, and her finds must supplement the family’s meagre income. Mary’s sensational childhood discovery of a five-metre-long ‘sea monster’ marks the beginning of an astonishing career. Her extraordinary gift for palaeontology would only be fully appreciated posthumously and Mary Anning’s legacy lives on. Two centuries later, hammers ring in unison as eager eyes scour the very same beach, young and old united by the quest for remains of the dinosaur era. Today, a new type of search is underway, one which veers away from fossils, and treads a curious line between treasure and trash. On the same Dorset seashore, a new breed of treasure seeker hunts for fragments of human waste, vintage rubbish beautified by the ebb and flow of the sea. The low tide is marked in our diary and a falling sea evokes the same sentiment as unwrapping presents. We monitor the forecast, excitement rising as strong winds batter the coast. Hammers, boots, receptacles the industrial beach look is complete. Our destination: Spittles, part of the Jurassic Coast, declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2001. From the Victorian era to the 1970s, the Lyme Regis rubbish dump was situated at the top of this ridge, about a kilometre away from the cliff edge. In Spring 2008, a massive landslide transformed the landscape and shifted the abandoned rubbish tip within touching distance of the ocean. Ever since, the natural erosion of the cliff by wind and wave has been unearthing items from the old dumping ground. As human waste spills out onto the beach, the public reaction confounds expectations. Passionate beachcombers can now pick from a menu of curiosities which extends beyond fossils. The rubbish is not bemoaned, its meeting with the natural elements is to be celebrated as the waste is turned to treasure. Bottles perfectly frozen in time can be found embedded in the thick grey clay that makes up the cliff, as well as others artistically distorted by fire. Down the foreshore, broken glass sparkles in the sunlight, shards smoothed by tumbling in the ocean’s tides, now soothing to the touch and frosted in appearance. Colourful fragments of pottery catch the eye, an enduring clue as to fashions and trends and items once used. Large metal skeletons rise up from the sand, the remnants of old machinery, often surrounded by a river of small nails and other metalwork. These abandoned and broken items offer a fragmented record of past generations. Amongst the glassware we find, the most common are clear jars that once contained meat and seafood paste such as that made by Shippam’s. Once upon a time, Shippam’s paste was a highly popular epicurean staple, and their range of products even included turtle soup. Other bottles offer a window to a Victorian medicine cabinet, such as milk of magnesia, a laxative that came PREVIOUS: Some of the items found at the dump site. RIGHT: Jade searching for treasure during low tide.

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The low tide is marked in our diary and a falling sea evokes the same sentiment as unwrapping presents.

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F E AT U R E

TOP: A collection of pottery sherds. MIDDLE: An antique German marble. BOTTOM: A collection of seaglass finds.

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TOP: The 'pair of doves' found. MIDDLE: A collection of fossil. BOTTOM: A set of Victorian beads in milkglass cold cream jars.

Oceanographic Issue 26

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For every 500 pieces of seaglass picked up, one could contain uranium, a relic of historic glass-making practices.

in either a cobalt or cornflower blue glass bottle. The compact, clear jar embossed with ‘Chesebrough Vaseline’ leads us on an enlightening journey to the oil fields of Pennsylvania in 1859, where Robert Chesebrough came across a residue called 'rod wax’, derived from oil rig pumps and used by the workers to heal cuts and burns. Chesebrough was inspired to take samples of the substance back to Brooklyn, where petroleum jelly was extracted and the manufacture of a new medicinal product began: ‘Vaseline’. Chesebough Vaseline was bought by the multinational Unilever corporation in 1987, and Robert Chesebrough’s creation remains globally relevant in modern society. The colours and embossing on poison bottles make them collectible today, but at the time those same features were designed for a far more practical purpose. To avoid an unfortunate accident, cobalt blue glass ensured the poison bottle stood out on the shelf in the day, and ornate embossing allowed for easy identification in the dark. Usually, time and the elements have broken up glassware. Seaglass is dotted across the beach and has its own charm. Tumbled in the tides, these glass fragments come out smoothed, rounded, and frosted. Seaglass is found in many colours, with some harder to come by than others: white, green, and brown are the most common, whereas orange, yellow and red are harder to find. Different metals and metal oxides are used to change the colour of glass during its creation and some red glass was created by using particles of gold, explaining its rarity. Red glass was only selectively used in objects such as lamps, lenses, and decorative items. For every 500 pieces of seaglass picked up, one could contain uranium, a relic of historic glass-making practices. During the early 19th century, uranium became popular in Europe as a colourant for yellow and green glass, commonly found in tableware and household items. This process was banned in the 1940s due to a combination of fears for the health and safety of glassworkers, and the impact of atomic bombs. As uranium was used in nuclear explosives, both British and American governments wished to restrict its access for military reasons. UV-reactive uranium seaglass is now sought after by modern-day beach pickers, glowing vivid neon green under an ultraviolet light (reassuringly, uranium glassware is not considered harmful to health due to the minuscule amounts found inside).

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The large-scale use of glass bottles and jars was accompanied by advances in sealing techniques. The first seals utilised clay, straw, fabric, leather, or wood, but the mid-19th century saw the widespread use of glass stoppers in all shapes and sizes. The finial is the top part of the stopper that you grasp to pull it out, and more decorative finials were used on luxury items such as perfume, decanters, and decorative glassware. The elusive pursuit of intact bottle stoppers sits high on the bucket list for ‘seaglass’ hunters, and there is now a fashion to recycle these vintage items as ring holders. In 1870, Hiram Codd created his namesake Codd soda bottles which used a marble to both seal the bottle and preserve carbonation. Upon finishing their beverage, children could then break the bottle and retrieve the marble. Marbles are a holy grail item for the beach treasure finder, and Codd marbles are one of the types we have been fortunate to come across. Perhaps most prized in our collection is a handmade, German marble dating from the 19th century, its intricate design still visible beneath the ocean wear. Once upon a time, the beautiful daughter of a wealthy man fell in love with her father’s humble accountant. It was inappropriate for the two to marry due to their difference in social class; so the angry father built a high fence around his house to keep the lovers apart. The father had planned for his daughter to marry a powerful Duke, who arrived by boat to claim his bride, bringing with him a box of jewels. The wedding was to take place on the day the blossom fell from the willow tree. On the eve of the daughter’s wedding to the Duke, the accountant disguised himself as a servant and slipped into the palace unnoticed. The lovers found each other and escaped with the jewels, running over a bridge, the father chasing them with a whip in hand. They managed to escape to a secluded island, but when the Duke learned of their refuge, he sent his soldiers to put the lovers to their death. The gods, moved by their love and plight, transformed the lovers into a pair of doves. This ancient Chinese fable was often found on vintage tableware and is known as the willow pattern, a distinctive and elaborate chinoiserie design that became popular at the end of the 18th century. Broken ceramics are amongst the most eye-catching items on the beach, each fragment offers a clue of the wider design and object it once occupied. Sea pottery collectors dream of finding the pair of doves from

Oceanographic Issue 26

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'One man’s trash is another’s treasure' couldn’t be more true for the many beachcombers who live out their fantasies of being an important archaeologist, with every find feeling more significant than the last.

F E AT U R E

As the sun rises and the tide drops, metal skeletons rise up from the sand, the remnants of old machinery.

the willow pattern. Consider for a moment the slim odds that a plate with the willow pattern would be disposed of, shatter in a manner that precisely preserves the two doves, and that a hundred years later an interested set of eyes would find the very same shard, just at the moment the sea and cliffs were to reveal its existence. For us beach pickers, the day we found a small piece of pottery with the willow doves felt like winning the lottery. 'One man’s trash is another’s treasure' couldn’t be more true for the many beachcombers who live out their fantasies of being an important archaeologist, with every find feeling more significant than the last. Although their value is subjective, it must be said that rubbish of the past, at least what we find here on this tip, is indeed more attractive and more at one-with-nature than the rubbish we know today. The biodegradable component of the Victorian rubbish has long decomposed, leaving behind glass, ceramic, bone, as well as bakelite. Bakelite was invented in 1907 by Leo Baekeland, the first fully synthetic plastic, created using phenol and formaldehyde under heat to produce a polymer resin. The widespread use of Bakelite would change the nature of human waste from then on, plastic would soon reign supreme, and society would be marked by its conspicuous consumption. As a result, unlike much of the Victorian rubbish, our modern waste feels intrusive. It is hard to imagine people one hundred years from now uncovering a 21st century rubbish tip and valuing the beauty of its contents in the same manner. With the majestic cliffs to one side, and the infinite ocean to the other, we lose ourselves in time, transported first to the era of dinosaurs, when all of this would have been a warm, tropical sea. Then to the Victorians, generations of fellow humans who lived so differently, but whose footsteps we follow on this beach. As we marvel at their beautiful rubbish, it’s easy to fall prey to looking at the past with rose-tinted glasses, but the life of Lyme Regis’ most famous former resident, Mary Anning, offers sobering proof of the gross inequalities in Victorian society. Burdened by class and gender, Mary’s stupendous achievements were barely recognised during her lifetime. As the tide moves back onto the beach, threatening to cut off our exit, there is just time for one last, miraculous find: concave on both sides, an ichthyosaur vertebra peers back at us from the shingle, caught briefly in its journey between the cliffs and the ocean. We are a curious type of treasure hunter: opportunists picking up remnants of the past. Not just ammonites, belemnites, and the bones of ichthyosaurs, but man-made remnants too — which the ocean has transformed and revealed, and with them, a story. A story about us, who we were, and who we’ve become. 109

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Photo by Bastien Soleil

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