Oceanographic Magazine / Issue Thirteen

ISSUE

13

Conservation • Exploration • Adventure

TH I S I S H VA L D I M I R W H AT N E X T F O R T H E W O R L D ’ S M O S T FA M O U S W H A L E ?

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Editor’s Letter Th i s i s a w h a l e who, while we s c ra m b l e t o a s k a h u n d re d questions of him, asks just as many of us.

The story of Hvaldimir the beluga whale is a fascinating and upsetting one. When he first appeared alongside a Norwegian fishing boat with a strange harness strapped to his body, news of a 'spy whale trained by the Russian military' quickly went viral. It was a story that posed very real questions but also had an air of ridiculousness about it; marine science meets clickbait. A year later, Hvaldimir has long since been forgotten by the clickbaiters. Those who remain fascinated by his story and concerned for his wellbeing are an assortment of marine scientists, cetacean behaviouralists, government officials and journalists, as well as some of the individuals who first found him.

Hvaldimir's story places a focus on our abuse of animals, the complexities around reintegration and what it means for an animal to be truly wild, and our (largely unhelpful) tendency to anthropomorphise. More positively, it also highlights the majesty and power of interspecies connection, even if there is, in Hvaldimir's case, a darkness behind how these interactions came to be.

When journalist Hugh Francis Anderson first pitched Hvaldimir's story, he insisted it would be as much about us as a species and our relationship with nature and other creatures within it as it was about an individual whale with a mysterious past. It is.

This is a whale who offers distressing truths.

This is a whale who, while we scramble to answer a hundred questions of him, asks just as many of us.

This is Hvaldimir.

Will Harrison Editor @waj.harrison @oceanographic_mag @ocean_photography_awards

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Contents O N T H E C OV E R

FEATURE S

T HIS IS HVAL D I M I R

On a day like any other, a tame beluga whale appeared in Norwegian waters wearing a harness.

While the mystery of his origins has faded from public interest, the heated debate of what to do with him continues. But what is best for Hvaldimir?

Hvaldimir the beluga whale.

Photograph by Fred Buyle.

Get in touch PAG E 2 0 ED I TO R

Will Harrison

A S S I S TA N T E D I TO R

Beth Finney

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

Amelia Costley

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

YO U R O C E A N IMAGES

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I N S U P P O RT O F

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. Š 2020 CXD MEDIA Ltd. All rights reserved. Nothing in whole or in part may be reproduced without written permission from the publisher.

ISSN: 2516-5941

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

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CONTENTS

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GU YA N A'S FUTURE

U ND ER T H E I CE

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.

IN TO T HE MIS T

R IV E R A N D WA L L

The South American country of Guyana is a carbon sink. However, since the discovery of oil offshore, the World Bank has been funding the creation of a new gas and oil sector. What impact will this have on its citizens?

For some, the prospect of diving the cold waters of the Great Lakes in winter on a single breath might not be very alluring. For others, this ice-topped wonderland is a sanctuary for meditation and exploration.

The elusive spirit bears of British Columbia are one of Canada's most treasured subspecies.

But with extreme and persistent declines in returning salmon populations, how long will the bears be able to survive?

It was in 2015 when the President of the United States first revealed plans to build a southern border wall. Now the wheels are in motion. What impacts could a wall have on the people and wildlife reliant on the Rio Grande?

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BEHIND TH E L E N S

C O LUMN S

SHAWN HEINRICHS

THE SOCIAL ECOLOGIST

T HE G UE S T C O L UMN IS T

Each issue, we speak with one of the world’s leading ocean photographers and showcase a selection of their work. In this edition, we speak with conservation photographer and SeaLegacy storyteller, Shawn Heinrichs.

Big wave surf champion, environmentalist and social change advocate Dr Easkey Britton writes about the interconnectedness of ocean and human health and how this link needs to be celebrated.

Peter Knights, founder and CEO of WildAid, an international wildlife conservation organisation, highlights the issues surrounding the wildlife trade in light of the COVID-19 pandemic.

Freediver and founder of I AM WATER, Hanli Prinsloo, shares an extraordinary experience of diving with dolphins, a species with echolocation capabilities, while pregnant with her first daughter.

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Samantha Schwann Mexico “Makos are incredible animals to be in the water with – inquisitive of the camera, interactive, and so unbelievably fast,” says Schwann of her experience. “Their bodies are perfectly designed for speed.” This individual was photographed off the coast of Cabo San Lucas, which has a significant seasonal population.

I N PA RT N E R S H I P W I T H

#MYOCEAN

Martina Andres Egypt Lush seagrass fields in the Red Sea are home to green sea turtles.

Carnivorous as juveniles, they are mostly vegetarians in adulthood.

"I captured this image just as the turtle finished its grassy meal and headed to the surface to breathe,� says Andres.

I N PA RT N E R S H I P W I T H

Leighton Lum Mexico "This shot was taken off the coast of Quintana Roo, Mexico near Belize at Banco Chinchorro," says Lum. "The mangrove swamp atoll is a nature reserve inhabited by American crocodiles. This particular crocodile is called Gambit, and is one of the most famous in the area."

I N PA RT N E R S H I P W I T H

#MYOCEAN

Vlad Tchompalo Honduras "This spinyhead blenny saw his reflection on my lens and warned me to stay away," says Tchompalo.

"These tiny creatures live inside coral tubes where they hide from danger. It's head is a little bigger than a grain of rice."

I N PA RT N E R S H I P W I T H

#MYOCEAN

BEHIND THE LENS

This is Hvaldimir On a day like any other, a tame beluga whale suddenly appeared in Norwegian waters wearing a harness, creating headlines around the world. While the mystery of his origins has since faded from public interest, the heated debate of how best to protect him continues.

Wo rd s b y H u g h Fra n c i s A n d e r s o n P h o t o g ra p h s b y Fre d B u y l e

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“He's been trained by humans, he's comfortable in human company, but we may be too anthropomorphic to assume that because he's alone, he's lonely.�

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PREVIOUS: Hvaldimir examining his reflection in the dome port of a camera housing.

LEFT: Photographer Fred Buyle described his first sighting of Hvaldimir as an underwater apparition, "a ghost escaped from the depths".

I

am being watched. From the water behind me, a fierce gaze burns into my back. The first light of day dances off the spindrift, whirling atop the mountains across the fjord. I turn instinctively, scrutinising the water. The snow beneath my deep-soled boots crunches, compacting into the dock as I turn to look. A glimmer of white glides beneath the surface and is then concealed. A splash. A spray. The deep inhalation of air. And then I see him. His head breaks the surface; his neck craned in my direction. The sheen of light-infused water passes over his white flesh. The darkness of his enquiring eyes. We are two beings that appear to be disconnected. He, a creature of the ocean that twists and rolls with fluid freedom.

And me, upright and insubstantial, covered in layers to protect the fragility of my own life, free only to amble the coastlines. Our worlds seem completely detached.

While there may be little to tangibly connect the two of us, something does. He looks into my eyes, and I into his.

I see him and he sees me. For man and whale to be locked in such a moment is the closest thing I can describe to magic. This is Hvaldimir.

Hvaldimir, the name given to the adult male beluga whale discovered in Norwegian waters in mid-spring 2019, has, in the year since, become the topic of international speculation, increased and often heated debate, reached global viral stardom and above all, captured the hearts and minds of all who encounter him.

And while the origins of Hvaldimir remain unknown, claims that he was trained as a spy by the Russian Navy have gripped public and media attention; his name a portmanteau of the Russian name Vladimir and the Norwegian word for whale, hval (pronounced val).

During a week-long orca assignment in Arctic Norway with marine biologist and sailor Andreas B. Heide last November, I encountered Hvaldimir for myself while in a remote harbour near Skjervøy. Guided by Heide and the WWF’s Global Lead, Vincent Kneefel, I spent almost an hour in the water with the remarkable cetacean. I began to understand the complexities of his new life in Norway; in a region where belugas are never ordinarily found. I soon discovered the force with which people would fight

for this animal’s welfare. Questions whirled. What do we do with him? Should he be reintroduced to a wild pod?

Why should we care about one whale? What is our duty of care to him? However, when I returned home, I found myself asking one question: What is best for Hvaldimir?

It’s April 26, 2019 and commercial fisherman Joar Hesten is working aboard his boat in the waters surrounding the island of Ingøy in Arctic Norway. The weather is calm, the darkness of winter slowly releasing its hold on the North. With just a few trips left of the season, he tries a new fishing area and points his boat towards a group of other vessels nearby. “When we passed through the boats, we saw a big white shadow in the water,” he tells me. “I instantly knew that there was only one thing it could be, a beluga.” As Hvaldimir approached the boat, Hesten saw that he was seemingly entangled in rope or fishing equipment. Yet the closer he swam, the clearer it became that he was wearing a harness. Hvaldimir rubbed himself against the boat, apparently attempting to remove it. “It was not good,” says Hesten. “I thought that the whale was probably going to die a terrible death.” After calling the local authorities, who informed Hesten that helping this animal was out of their jurisdiction, a local journalist put him in touch with Audun Rikardsen, a Professor in the Department of Arctic and Marine Biology at the University of Tromsø.

Hesten forwarded images to Rikardsen and it was determined that the harness around Hvaldimir was not part of any known monitoring system in Norway. “I was looking into whether there were any whale specialists in the Tromsø area when Audun put me in touch with the Norwegian Fisheries, as they make all decisions about marine mammals.” He made contact with Jørgen Ree Wiig, a Seafaring Inspector at the Directorate of Fisheries (DOF), Sea Surveillance Service. A marine biologist who has worked with the North Atlantic Marine Mammal Commission and is part of the International Whaling Committee’s Bycatch Mitigation initiative, Ree Wiig ensures fishing laws are upheld and is responsible for aiding entangled whales in Norwegian waters. Ree Wiig joined Hesten to assess the situation. “He was interested in humans and in Hesten’s fishing vessel,” says Ree Wiig.

“But my main concern when we found him was to get the harness off.” This was eventually achieved when Hesten entered the water in a survival suit. “I just connected with him. I was never afraid in the water and I never felt any aggression; he was just seeking help,” he tells me. “He came all the way up to my body so that I could feel him, and I reached out for the buckle and I could feel it just snap open. That was a really good moment.” With the harness loosened, they eventually managed to remove it entirely and Hvaldimir was free. Hesten saw Hvaldimir swim out to sea in a north-westerly direction. “I said to him, ‘Just continue until you reach Svalbard’.” But of course, he did not, and was soon spotted in the town of Hammerfest less than a week later.

French scientist and co-founder of the Norwegian Orca Survey, Eve Jourdain, was at her home in Andenes, when

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word of a friendly beluga whale appeared on the news. “I had a bad feeling because it was obvious to me that this was a tame whale,” she says. Two weeks later, she boarded a plane for Hammerfest. It would be three months before she returned home. “As soon as I saw the whale and the situation, it broke my heart. I try not to be too emotional as a scientist, but it was just such a unique situation. This animal was desperate for contact with people.” A former orca trainer at Marineland in Antibes, France, Jourdain had grown accustomed to the behavioural habits of trained whales. “I could see that he had been conditioned and he was doing things in the hope of getting food from people. He was doing tricks and people were very amused, but the truth is that he was doing anything he could to get food.”

Jourdain was joined by Rikardsen when on his way to conduct fieldwork in early May. He entered the water with Hvaldimir to check for injuries, of which he had none, and to affix a camera tag to determine whether he was feeding, which he was not. “When I saw him in the beginning in Hammerfest, I thought that he had been domesticated so much that maybe he should be transported to an aquarium because at that time he wasn’t feeding by himself,” Rikardsen tells me. “He really wanted to find company. He was biting me, playing with me.” In the meantime, Jourdain secretly fed Hvaldimir herring at night to keep him alive. During the day, she saw the local community wanted to help. “While doing the observations I worked on a report to send to the government to show that this was a domesticated whale that needed help; the problem would not resolve itself.” Three days later, Jourdain had approval from the government’s Directorate of Fisheries to begin a monitoring and feeding programme. She enlisted the help of Lindsay Rubincam, a former Marineland trainer who had coached Jourdain. Now a marine mammal management consultant, Rubincam’s time spent training captive belugas placed her well to better understand Hvaldimir’s behaviour and specific needs. According to her observations, she estimates that he is between eight and 10 years old. “He’s displaying a lot of sexual exploratory behaviour and is coming into his prime,” she told me. “He very well could have been born in captivity, but he was probably captured when he was around two.” This explains why he’s comfortable in the natural environment, “but some behaviours show an insecurity; he is not comfortable in storms or rough conditions.”

Rubincam has also observed his affinity for boats, particularly ribs, sailboats and zodiacs. “He’s obviously attached to humans and sees humans as his reference, his family, his tribe.” Over the course of the three-month programme, Hvaldimir’s weight stabilised, he displayed signs that he was successfully feeding himself and at the end of July left Hammerfest permanently. Official observation by Jourdain and the NOS continued until December, when she submitted her final report to the Hvaldimir investigates Fabrice Schnöller's 360° camera rig.

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FB E AH TI UN RD E T H E L E N S

Hvaldimir is often seen blowing bubbles, more frequently than many cetaceans in the wild.

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"

The team realised that being in the water with the sharks at night was a lot safer than Ballesta had initially thought.

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The soft tissue at the front of a beluga whale's head, known as the melon, aids in echolocation and communication.

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government. “It was obvious that he was feeding on his own and we considered our mission completed.” But at this point, division within the community began to grow.

Since leaving, Hvaldimir has travelled extensively in Arctic Norway. I encountered him in early November in Bergfjord, 50 nautical miles from Hammerfest.

Fabrice Schnöller and Fred Buyle, who study whale click communication through the DAREWIN Project, encountered him days before I did in the same vicinity. It was Hvaldimir’s desire for social connection that struck us all. “I felt a connection that I had never felt with a wild animal before,” Kneefel tells me. Buyle said that when he left the water it felt as if he was leaving a person behind.

There was an understanding among these individuals, all of whom have extensive experience with wild cetaceans, that Hvaldimir craved social connection.

Clause Three of the Norwegian Animal Welfare Act concerns the treatment of animals, domestic or wild.

It states: “Animals have an intrinsic value, which is irrespective of the usable value they may have for man.

Animals shall be treated well and be protected from danger of unnecessary stress and strains.”

In supplementary material it states: “The interpretation of ‘stresses and strains’ is subject to a professional animal welfare assessment”. But in the case of Hvaldimir, there is clear divide between professionals. He may be deemed a wild animal as he swam into Norwegian waters of his own accord, and he may be considered healthy as he is able to feed himself, but his welfare is significantly determined by social interaction, which is where debate arises – namely, whether a reintroduction attempt to a wild pod would be best for Hvaldimir’s welfare or not. Official government views don’t appear to consider this. I approached the Norwegian Ministry for Climate and Environment and was told that the DOF was the responsible government agency with regards to Hvaldimir, and Ree Wiig the official representative for his case. “Here in Norway, the official point of view is that we see him as a wild individual because he’s feeding himself,” he tells me. “He’s quite well off now compared to where he started.” However, it is widely agreed that as he has been trained by humans, our duty of care must be viewed in a different light when compared to truly wild animals. “I understand that because humans have ‘done’ this, we should take responsibility. But we tried that with Keiko and he was rejected.” The well-documented case of Keiko, the orca made famous as Free Willy, who underwent a multi-million-dollar reintroduction attempt only to be rejected by wild orcas and eventually die, is a case referenced significantly when discussing Hvaldimir. However, orcas and belugas have different social structures. I reached out to Pierre Richard, a former beluga population biologist with the Canadian Federal Government in the Department of Fisheries and Oceans Canada, Arctic Research Division, to learn

Hvaldimir interacting with Fabrice Schnöller.

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more. Richard, who spent 30 years studying wild belugas, cites the work of Greg O’Corry-Crowe, a colleague and beluga geneticist, who via DNA sampling has established that belugas in wild pods aren’t necessarily all related, thus indicating they conform to a fission-fusion society.

“The animals will break off from their pod of origin and will fuse with other pods so that there’s some degree of mixing,” he tells me. “They are social animals, but they are not in stable pods.” With this in mind, could Hvaldimir be accepted by a pod if a reintroduction attempt were to be made? As Richard notes, “I think there’s definitely a possibility that this animal could join other belugas if it found some. If he went north to Svalbard or eastward to the White Sea, he would easily find other belugas.” Yet in the same instance, because belugas are in a fission-fusion society and therefore do break away from pods, it’s also not uncommon for them to be found alone. During the course of Richard’s study of wild belugas, he has seen males travel alone for extended periods of time. As too notes Ree Wiig. “Young male marine mammals can swim off very far from pods. There are many examples of this with belugas in eastern Canada, so you can see that it is also natural behaviour to be alone.” But again, we must remember that Hvaldimir is a humanised whale.

With this in mind, some suggest that as Hvaldimir was trained by humans and has an affiliation to us, he may get the social interaction he needs from these encounters.

“From my background, I disagree with some people who would simply assess the situation and say he’s fine,” says Rubincam. “The difference is from a behavioural background as he’s been conditioned to have relationships with humans, and we don’t know if he was in a social environment with other belugas before or not.” Rikardsen notes that Hvaldimir may not know the right social language to join a wild pod. Jourdain herself says that the reality is that he would not be adopted by a wild pod and that “there are too many unknowns and for one individual, I think it’s unreasonable,” with others believing the chances of reintroduction are slim to none.

Rikardsen also notes that in 2020, Hvaldimir has sought human interaction on an increasingly reduced level.

He’s been trained by humans, he’s comfortable in human company, but we may be too anthropomorphic to assume that because he’s alone, he’s lonely.

Aside from the social interaction Hvaldimir requires, there are other issues that concern pro-relocation parties. As Hvaldimir has reached sexual maturity, we could see further complications. Rikardsen has seen Hvaldimir sexually excited and Richard notes that male belugas can become aggressive. However, for Hvaldimir’s reproductive needs and subsequent temperament, there is little remedy aside from a female beluga in oestrus. Ree Wiig notes that under government guidance it is advised

not to enter the water with Hvaldimir, so this should be of little concern from a public safety standpoint.

There is fear for Hvaldimir’s life due to the high level of marine traffic in Norway. I have seen evidence of a propeller strike on the left of his tail below the dorsal ridge, and his affiliation for boats makes them an even greater hazard. Most believe this will be the cause of his death in Norway. Yet these issues have been addressed as best they can. In harbours where he is known to be, strict guidelines are put in place and the authorities have even stopped vessels entering harbours in a bid to protect him.

There were initial concerns that Hvaldimir was at risk from transient orcas that feed on marine mammals, but when he has been seen near them, the orcas appear to ignore him. The largest concern is for the damage that Hvaldimir may cause. When he left Hammerfest, he was seen predominately around three fish farms. The concern here was that, if he penetrated the nets or caused damage, the DOF would have to step in to take measures.

“As a Norwegian fisherman, I know a lot of the threats we pose to Hvaldimir. I’ve seen first-hand what happens when wildlife gets too close to our nets,” says Hesten.

“There have been incidents where whales have penetrated the salmon nets. If he does something to a fish farm or creates chaos in some way, the fisheries have the right to put him down.” Hvaldimir hasn’t caused problems for the fisheries as of yet and, much like the orca concerns, seem by most to be of reduced importance.

But if relocation was deemed appropriate, what would this look like? Svalbard is the location that most feel would be best to attempt relocation and is the only protected area for belugas. Heide notes that as whales migrate between Svalbard and Norway, it would merely be helping him do what he should have been doing already. Buyle, among others, believes his chances of long-term survival in Norway are slim, so relocation is the best option. And Hesten has been working on founding an NGO with Heide called 'Friends of Hvaldimir' to specifically look into reintroduction options, though not blindly. “The idea is to relocate him to a natural habitat. And a natural habitat is not only where he can survive physically, but an environment where he’s with his own species,” says Hesten. “Of course, if it turns out that it is not possible to relocate him, we won’t do it.” The reality is that Svalbard is a heavily protected region; Ree Wiig says the laws are so strict relocation might not even be possible.

So, what is there to be done? The one suggestion that appears to carry weight is an attempt at creating a programme with dedicated members to monitor and socialise with Hvaldimir. Both Jourdain and Rubincam have cited that if Hvaldimir could settle in a fjord and have a consistent team to develop a bond with him

Beluga whale tail flukes are strikingly similar to those of a close relative with which it shares the Arctic waters – the narwhal.

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Exemplifying his conditioned comfort with human contact, Hvaldimir swims between Buyle and Schnรถller.

“As soon as I saw the whale and the situation, it broke my heart. I try not to be too emotional as a scientist, but it was just such a unique situation.�

F E AT U R E

“Hvaldimir may continue to travel along the Norwegian coast, appearing in different harbours from time to time, seeking interaction when he wants it, but otherwise largely acting as a wild animal. Or he may disappear for good.�

This is Hvaldimir.

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and provide the social interaction he needs, that would sate current uncertainties. But, as a wild animal continuously on the move, this is no more than an ideal. “He needs a relationship with a few people who can actually take care of him,” says Jourdain. “It is sad, he needs social contact and his needs are not being met, but I can’t think of any ideal solution.” Similarly, Rubicam says, “Maybe there’s nothing to do, but what I would love is just to know that there was some investment in keeping an eye on him.” In discussing the future of Hvaldimir with Ree Wiig, it becomes apparent that his case is by no means closed. “We monitor his movements and what he does,” he tells me. “For me personally, I would like to see all the options for what could be done. So, if anybody has any solutions, I would like to hear them.”

If there was investment and agreement from the DOF and government to take an active approach to monitoring Hvaldimir’s situation, it would also offer an opportunity to study belugas. Schnöller, for example, sees this as an opportunity to better understand beluga vocalisations, a suggestion that Kneefel supports too.

Rubincam, with the support of Schnöller and DAREWIN, has even put a grant proposal in for funding from the Save Our Seas Foundation (SOSF) to initiate the next step in Hvaldimir’s story. “Lindsay has submitted an application to the SOSF for a research project studying Hvaldimir's behaviour and movements, but in particular his communication. The intention is that deciphering unique signatures in his calls may reveal where he originates from and could support plans for his rehabilitation,” writes SOSF on behalf of Dr David Lea, the organisation’s CEO. “The focus of the SOSF is entirely on supporting research and monitoring techniques to help promote the whale's wellbeing and rehabilitation. We trust the expertise of Lyndsay Rubincam and her team to best manage the whale according to their complete understanding of the complex situation.” While it is promising to see an increased level of attention for Hvaldimir’s future, we can’t forget that he is moving of his own accord. This is a point that Rikardsen places particular impetus on. “Suddenly we might find that he just takes off. We don’t know if he’ll be here in a year or two. He might just disappear.”

This raises another element in the story of Hvaldimir; what he can do as an ambassador for change. “This is not just about Hvaldimir, this is really about the wellbeing of the beluga whale population as a whole and their survival,” says Kneefel. “I see him as a messenger for wild populations that are currently being impacted.” He may also bring greater awareness to the threats that face the Arctic in general. “If there’s an opportunity to use this ‘famous’ animal to gain human attention for the issues that may be facing the Arctic then that has value,” Rubincam says. Captain Heide agrees: “He has the potential to be a symbol for change and give hope in a time when it’s desperately needed for the oceans and nature as a whole.” Even Ree Wiig believes he can be an ambassador for change. Again, there are those who disagree. Rikardsen doesn’t believe Hvaldimir can make more impact than he already has, and Jourdain says that his impact is more localised, especially as Norway is a whaling nation. “He’s changed a lot of people here in Norway. As soon as you make eye contact with him your heart is melting no matter whether you’re a kid or an adult.”

What becomes clear when discussing Hvaldimir is the level of uncertainty that arises at almost every corner. There has already been conflict, claims of agendas that focus on personal economic gain, those acting egotistically as Hvaldimir’s saviours and the sense of ownership that comes with the aforementioned.

I can attest to the emotive response Hvaldimir causes; he makes people feel strongly, and in such cases, this can cause hostility. But all must be put aside to answer the question: What is best for Hvaldimir?

With regards to Hvaldimir’s relocation, it appears a greater amount of research must be undertaken. There are still significant unknowns, and the chances of Hvaldimir’s acceptance into a wild pod a cause of much debate. The reality is that unless assurances that the probability of a successful reintroduction far outweigh failure, this option will not be considered by government. This is not to say that thoughts of an attempt are futile. Whilst it is illegal to catch a wild whale, Ree Wiig is adamant that “relocation could get the OK, but nobody has made a good proposition yet. There’s been a lot of talk, but we haven’t seen specifically what this is.” Perhaps it’s a question of time. The foundation of the NGO and the potential grant funding from SOSF show that steps towards a solution that is best for Hvaldimir are being taken. Only through investment into the cause can the necessary data be collected to make a cohesive decision. This is where greater discussion between all involved would form the backbone of a unified approach to Hvaldimir’s future. As Hesten says, “I hope we can put all our differences aside, look at this one beluga whale and work together.”

In the meantime, Hvaldimir may continue to travel along the Norwegian coast, appearing in different harbours from time to time, seeking interaction as and when he wants it, but otherwise largely acting as a wild animal. Or he may disappear for good. There is only so much we can do, and we must accept that even though we may be responsible for his past, we do not control his present and may only rudimentarily be able to safeguard and better his future.

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Column

By Dr Easkey Britton

The social ecologist OCEAN AND HUMAN HEALTH IN THE AGE OF COVID-19

“How might we weave this oceanic story and our intimate relationship with water back into our post-pandemic lives? How might it help us recover from the coronavirus by reconnecting us with what matters most? In healing the ocean how might we heal ourselves?�

Photograph by Will Cornelius

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@easkeysurf

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here is no part of the ocean that remains unaffected by the growing and interconnected pressures from climate change, biodiversity loss, and further degradation caused by human activities. To add to the complexity of these marine pressures, they are situated within different political, social, economic and environmental systems across multiple scales of time, space, place, involving a diversity of people and interests. No single group in isolation can address the challenges and questions this raises for the sustainability of our planet.

While we have legislated widely to regulate the impacts of human activities on the marine environment, and devised mechanisms to monitor and measure these impacts, we have not fully considered the impacts of the ocean (and marine environmental degradation) on human health.

A newly launched Strategic Research Agenda (SRA) on Oceans and Human Health (OHH), published by the Horizon 2020 EU-funded Seas Oceans and Public Health in Europe (SOPHIE), sets out evidence showcasing that the health of seas, oceans and humans are inextricably linked. It also outlines vital research priorities and collaborative approaches needed to inform policies and practices to protect the health of oceans, seas and people.

To understand and respond to the complexity of the relationships between human activities, human health and ocean health requires the coordination of approaches that are equally fluid, adaptive and dynamic. Fixed policies are no longer fit for purpose. The global COVID-19 pandemic starkly highlights the need to adopt an adaptive and more dynamic form of governance that allows communities, managers and decision-makers to respond rapidly to changes in space and time, in addition to the need for mutual cooperation and support on a global scale.

A key outcome of the SOPHIE project was the need to link knowledge with practice in a way that can support and promote sustainable actions and greater citizen engagement. Instead of a narrative of loss, risk and fear, conversations emphasised an opportunity to create a narrative that recognises our marine environment as health-enabling, where our seas and coasts are celebrated for a range of healthpromoting benefits.

This presents opportunities for new alliances and partnerships between research scientists in OHH, marine science, social sciences and public health, and support for a ‘health in all policies’ approach to strengthen the links between human health and ocean health. All of this is even more relevant in light of the global COVID-19 pandemic, highlighting the catastrophic consequences of our

@easkeysurf

www.easkeybritton.com

disconnect from our natural place within Earth’s systems, and how essential the restoration of healthy, functioning natural ecosystems are for our survival.

We have discovered with COVID-19 and the subsequent ‘lockdown’ that we are having to create a new language to make meaning in a rapidly changing world. Activist and author Andri Snaer Magnason argues that we struggle to talk about some of the most important problems because global issues like 'climate change' are so huge that all meaning collapses. OHH presents an opportunity for a new way of understanding our relationship with the ocean that addresses complex challenges in a holistic way, humanising the environmental crises.

Stories help us make sense of the world, our places within it, and can spark curiosity that can form new connections, ideas and ways of thinking about our relationship with the ocean. This is essential if we are to evolve to an ocean literate culture. For example, our planet – a watery sphere, enveloped in ocean with springs, streams and rivers that surround us, and the story of all that water flowing to the sea.

According to Dan Burgess at Wild Labs, this story of our blue planet seems muted and invisible in modern culture. It’s been concreted over, digitally diverted, out of sight and therefore out of minds.

How might we weave this oceanic story back into our post-pandemic lives? In healing the ocean how might we heal ourselves?

The potential benefits for health and wellbeing through connection to water, and through these connections, engaging people in protection and conservation, is a ripe place for communities to be pioneering following the societal upheaval caused

by COVID-19. I believe the pandemic represents an opportunity to bring the ocean literacy principle of the link between ocean and human health into mainstream culture. This will require mutual cooperation and support on a global scale that we have now seen is possible – exploring ways that these diverse perspectives recombine, accelerating awareness, literacy and action through innovation, experiences and communication, and above all, fostering a culture of care for our ocean. EB About Easkey Dr Easkey Britton, surfer and founder of Like Water, is a marine social scientist at the National University of Ireland Galway. Her work explores the relationship between people and the sea, using her passion for the ocean to create social change and connection across cultures. She currently resides in Donegal, Ireland.

For more information on the Oceans and Human Health Agenda please visit: www.sophie2020.eu

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D E E P WAT E R

Guyana

The South American country of Guyana is a carbon sink.

However, since the discovery of oil reserves offshore, the World Bank has been funding the creation of a potentially devastating gas and oil sector.

Wo rd s b y U t e Ko c z y a n d D e n i s S c h i m m e l p f e n n i g P h o t o g ra p h s b y To m Vi e ru s

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rom the unique mud coast seamed with mangroves to the lush, pristine rainforest at its very heart, the small South American country of Guyana is home to an incredible amount of biodiversity. But this exceptional gem is in danger. Giant reserves of crude oil have been discovered in the deep sea off its coast. Big oil companies have already begun drilling.

“That’s all?” I am looking in disbelief at a crumbling, waist-high concrete wall. It is dark and I can only hear the waves smacking in the distance in the low tide. I don’t need much convincing that this structure is by no means suitable for protecting the thousands of people whose lives currently depend on it. The so-called seawall is 260 miles long and runs along much of Guyana’s coastline. Around 90% of the population live in coastal areas, many of which are situated below sea level at high tide. Georgetown, the country’s capital, is situated a concerning two metres below sea level. Due to rising sea levels as a result of global heating, flooding is an increasing threat. In the past few years alone, Guyana has witnessed the devastating effects of the Atlantic Ocean overtopping its sea defences, resulting in the erosion of vast strips of land, loss of coastal communities and salinisation of key agricultural areas.

I heard about Guyana and its precarious situation for the first time in 2019. I had been working with the environmental and human rights organisation Urgewald for a couple of months, supporting their work in trying to stop public banks from financing fossil fuel projects. My colleague, Heike Mainhardt, had just discovered that the World Bank was planning to support the development of an oil and gas sector in Guyana, the third-smallest country in mainland South America and the third poorest in the Western hemisphere. Currently, Guyana is still a carbon sink – a country with negative CO2 emissions. Thanks to its sprawling rainforests, which cover more than 80% of the country and act as a giant natural filter for carbon dioxide, Guyana as a nation absorbs far more greenhouse gas than it emits. Yet, 120 miles off the coastline, oil companies have made the largest oil find in recent history. A massive 13.6 billion barrels of oil and 32 trillion cubic feet of natural gas could be drilled. If all were exploited and burnt, the resulting emissions could get close to 2.5 billion tons of CO2. Big oil would transform Guyana from a vital mitigator of global heating to the country with the world’s highest greenhouse gas emissions per capita.

In the months that followed this discovery, we worked hard to convince the World Bank’s board members not to follow through with assisting the Guyanese government in facilitating oil drilling. After all, the bank had published a commitment to comply with the Paris climate target of keeping global warming at PREVIOUS: Guyana's capital, Georgetown, lies two metres below sea level and is therefore highly threatened by climate change.

RIGHT: A PPP minister presents a speech during protests against the ruling party.

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“An oil spill would have dramatic consequences on the entire Caribbean environment and ecotourism sector, potentially killing millions of animals and polluting the water and beaches.

Exxon itself was responsible for one of the biggest oil spills in history – the Exxon Valdez.”

1.5 degrees. Moreover, it had promised to “no longer finance upstream oil and gas after 2019” in its task to end poverty around the world. But when it came to deciding whether the World Bank should support Guyana’s fossil fuel development programme, all of the bank’s executive directors voted yes. The representative for Germany was the only one to abstain from the vote, an unprecedented move at the time.

The World Bank has since given the Guyanese government US$55 million in public assistance aimed at oil development, fuelling an ongoing political crisis.

In December 2018, the ruling political party in Guyana APNU-AFC was voted out of office in a motion of noconfidence over allegations of corruption. Re-elections were supposed to be held within three months of the motion. They finally took place in March 2020, a year behind schedule and monitored by international observer organisations for fear of electoral fraud. The results were unclear, with the People’s Progressive Party (PPP) claiming the victory and the APNU-AFC refusing to concede. As public protests and negotiations over a recounting of votes ensued, the COVID-19 pandemic hit. The international observers left, the country went into lockdown and is still without a legitimate government at the time of writing. While the APNU-AFC and the opposing PPP still fight over who gets to manage the oil funds, the US oil giant ExxonMobil is already beginning to reap the rewards of the first oil drilled, which took place three months ahead of schedule. The World Bank funds, aimed at making operations and most of all oil sales run smoothly, played a significant role in speeding up this process. The oil well on the seabed from which the crude is extracted is located 5,719 feet below the surface of the sea. It extends almost 18,000 feet into the seabed, making it a highly risky deep-sea operation.

The project is comparable to the Deepwater Horizon oil exploration in the Gulf of Mexico, the disastrous consequences of which have still not been fully dealt with, 10 years after the oil spill. While there are plenty of aspects that need investigating in this catastrophic drilling project, it was the similarities the Deepwater Horizon oil spill, which became one of the worst marine disasters known to humankind, that compelled me to set out on a fact-finding mission. I wanted to travel to Guyana and find out why the country had been set on a path to self-destruction.

“Oil and gas production in 2020 is incompatible with sustainable development”, international lawyer Melinda Janki tells me when I visit her in her house in 44

Georgetown. The night before she had picked my team up from the airport and shown us the seawall. “Guyana has strong environmental laws. I know because I wrote them." Melinda has been fighting the oil development in her home country since the beginning. Together with other concerned Guyanese citizens she founded the campaign “A Fair Deal for Guyana – A Fair Deal for the Planet”. The group went to court to challenge the petroleum production license granted to three oil companies led by Exxon. Before the oil rush, Guyana’s development aim was to have 100% renewable energy by 2025. But with the promise of oil wealth government officials seem to have abandoned this plan. Melinda repeatedly faces threats as a result of publicly speaking out against the oil. She continually receives calls saying her safety in Guyana can no longer be guaranteed. Our own photographer Tom Vierus experiences first-hand just how volatile the situation really is. Not even a week after the general elections were held, his rental car is shot at by riot police while he films the escalating political protests around town. In the next day’s newspaper, we learn that a protester was killed. Before we head out to the city centre once more, we remove lead shot pellets from tiny holes in the back of the car.

“Exxon has exploited our eagerness and now we are contributing to global warming and climate change in a big way”, says Anand Goolsarran, whom I meet the following evening. While the frogs outside fervently sing their mating songs, the former auditor general of Guyana and president of the local branch of the Transparency Institute tells me how government officials have allowed themselves to be lulled into complacency with a luxurious trip to Texas, where they were wooed, wined and dined

by ExxonMobil. They signed whatever the oil major put on the table.

I also meet with Annette Arjoon-Martins, President of the Guyana Marine Conservation Society, who has been making dedicated efforts to understand just what the government is doing to protect the country’s ecosystems from the effects of an oil disaster. “Guyana is not prepared for an oil spill and the agreement with Exxon does not specify in enough detail the company’s responsibilities in case of a spill”, she says. The company has agreed to map the mangroves at the coast and to assess marine life in the area, from fish to birds to several of the endangered species of sea turtles nesting on Guyana’s shore.

Arjoon-Martins has not seen a comprehensive scientific assessment to this day. An oil spill would have dramatic consequences on the entire Caribbean environment and eco-tourism sector, killing potentially millions of animals and polluting the water and beaches. Exxon itself was responsible for one of the biggest oil spills in history – the Exxon Valdez, during which 11 million gallons of crude oil devastated the pristine Alaskan coast in 1989.

After a couple of days at the coast, a two-hour flight on a small propeller aircraft carries us to Iwokrama in central Guyana. Iwokrama is one of the last four pristine rainforests in the world. It encompasses a protected area

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TOP: The Environmental Protection Agency building in Georgetown.

MIDDLE: Lush rainforest makes Guyana a state with negative CO2 emissions.

BOTTOM: There is no waste system in Guyana.

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“Moreover, it had promised to 'no longer finance upstream oil and “xxx” gas after 2019' in its task to end poverty around the world. But when it came to deciding whether the World Bank should support Guyana's fossil fuel development programme, all of the bank's executive directors voted yes.”

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Catfish at a market in East Demarara.

of 371,000 hectares, threatened by droughts intensified by global warming. As we travel in awe through the dense jungle and on the mighty Essequibo River, I keep thinking about Melinda’s words: “The World Bank should pay us for preserving our rainforest and not for developing a fossil fuel industry.” The more I see of this beautiful place, the more I agree with her. I will never forget a little monkey suddenly taking a frightened dive down a palm tree with its arms and legs stretched out to escape the deadly grasp of a harpy eagle. Or the excitement of our guide when spotting the 'Holy Grail' for bird watchers, the scarce Rufous-winged ground cuckoo. Or the sound of the screaming piha, a passerine bird, or the roaring of the howler monkeys. We are also extremely lucky to observe two specimens of the Guianan cock-of-the-rock, their feathers glowing bright orange against the half-moon crest on their heads. In the vast Rupununi Savannah, where Sir Walter Raleigh and Spanish conquistadores suspected the mythical City of Gold, El Dorado, we are on a quest for giant anteaters.

On the Rupununi river, we try to photograph black caimans in the dark to help monitor their population.

The people working as guides and in the various lodges in the vicinity are mostly Indigenous Makushi, who seem to appreciate sustainable tourism as a source of income and a way of preserving their beautiful home.

Back in Georgetown I learn that the COVID-19 crisis has reached the Caribbean. Trinidad and Tobago has already closed its borders to German citizens. As one of the potential victims of an oil spill, the island would have been the next destination on my mission. With country after country going into lockdown in response to the pandemic, we have to catch the next flight back home to Germany. Before we leave, I meet with the German Honorary Consul in Guyana and the EU Ambassador to share my concern about the oil development with them.

I have grown more confident in the last days that it is at least possible to stop the World Bank’s involvement, since we uncovered another scandal: Part of the bank's funds have been used to hire ExxonMobil's law firm of 40 years, Hunton Andrews Kurth, which poses a conflict of interest. The law firm is supposed to draft new petroleum laws for Guyana, covering tax regime, production sharing contracts and environmental regulations. In a letter we urge the World Bank’s Executive Directors to intervene, but as of now, the bank declines all responsibility.

If we allow the expansion of the fossil fuel industry, then we as global citizens will have failed to mitigate the effects of global heating. In so doing, we are failing those who are most vulnerable to the devastating impacts of climate change. A second oil spill of the same scale as the Deepwater Horizon catastrophe will irreversibly damage the Caribbean’s natural environment. We have to stop the oil development in Guyana, which is expected to reach full production capacity in June 2020 for the first oil field.

In the face of the climate crisis, nobody can afford to let the World Bank, the oil companies or their investors get away with any of this.

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Column

By Peter Knights

The guest columnist THE WORLD’S WAKE-UP CALL. DON’T PRESS SNOOZE. “The mixing of species in cramped conditions, that suffer from stress, dehydration, and weakened immune systems, facilitate disease transmission. As one Chinese person described to me, these markets are ‘a small piece of hell’.”

About Peter Peter Knights is the founder and CEO of WildAid, an international wildlife conservation organisation. Peter created the first international programme aimed at reducing demand for endangered species products. Peter has been awarded a regional Jefferson Award for public service in honour of his role in achieving California’s ban on shark fins.

Photograph by Paul Hilton

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@wildaid

@WildAid

www.wildaid.org

C

OVID-19 has hit humanity like no other recent crisis. The global outbreak has led to loss of loved ones, extreme economic hardship and tremendous suffering. Having worked to end the illegal wildlife trade for more than 30 years, I’ve seen first-hand the dismal and unsafe conditions that exist throughout the wildlife supply chain. It’s time the world wakes up and we end the dangerous wildlife trade to prevent the next pandemic.

Each year, zoonotic diseases are responsible for more than two billion cases of human illness and more than two million human deaths, according to a report from the Zoological Society of London and Hanoi School of Public Health. COVID-19 is just one example of a succession of pathogens infecting people that have come from commercial trade of wild animals for consumption or contact between wild animals and domestic animals. AIDS, SARS, Ebola, avian flu, and swine flu – the list goes on. Experts estimate that out of the 1.6 million potential viruses in mammals and birds, 700,000 could pose a future risk to human health. The question about the next pandemic has always been when, not if.

In the case of the coronavirus, two primary theories exist for how SARS-CoV-2 came to be. It either originated in bats and then passed to humans through a vector species, such as pangolins, a known carrier of viruses. Or, it is the result of a recombination between two different viruses that infected the same organism simultaneously. What is clear is that from source to market, conditions inherent to the wildlife supply chain pose a high risk for the emergence and transmission of zoonotic pathogens. To prevent the next zoonotic pandemic, we would be wise to stop the risky consumption of wildlife and #EndTheTrade.

In 1994, I was in a live animal market in Guangzhou in Southern China, investigating rhino horn trafficking. Wire crates with civets, badgers, owls, rats, snakes, and turtles were stacked precariously on top of each other with food and faeces dropping between the bars. It was then that I realised the live animal and bushmeat trade is the perfect recipe for an epidemic. The mixing of species in cramped conditions, that suffer from stress, dehydration, and weakened immune systems, facilitates disease transmission. As one Chinese person described to me, these markets are “a small piece of hell”.

'Wet markets' have offered meat and fish for thousands of years and exist all around the world.

Hygiene can be an issue, but it’s the addition of live wild mammals and birds that is of paramount concern. The sheer scale of exploitation and the ability to transport millions of animals from farflung habitats into urban centres means that urbanisation and globalisation can ignite and spread an infectious disease in a matter of days.

Finger pointing, though, is not the answer. The issue cannot be solved by one country or by any individual agency. The solution will rely on political will, and cultural and behavioural change.

In some countries, stronger laws and regulations are needed with stiffer penalties reflecting the massive potential damage of these illegal activities. In others, stronger prioritisation and training for wildlife law enforcement is required. Everywhere, there is the need for greater public awareness of the risks and reduction in the demand for commercial high-risk bushmeat.

At WildAid, we are using our demand reduction model, which has helped to reduce consumer demand for shark fin, ivory and rhino horn in countries like China, Vietnam and Uganda. In Vietnam, WildAid and local NGO partner, CHANGE, have been working with the government on an intensive effort to provide input that will inform permanent wildlife trade regulations and build broad public support for them. In China, we are building upon our existing campaigns and amplifying government regulations by adding new messaging about pangolins in possible connection with COVID-19. In Africa, we are working to exclude high-risk species like bats and pangolins from commercial trade and will soon release a documentary that highlights the hazards of urban bushmeat markets to both humans and wildlife.

This is a global crisis that requires global, urgent action, so we have joined with the Pangolin Crisis Fund, Global Wildlife Conservation and the Wildlife Conservation Society to implement key conservation strategies, including reducing consumer demand, phasing out supply chains, active monitoring for pathogens, and developing new opportunities for local communities dependent on wildlife consumption.

Our Coalition to End the Trade is inviting conservationists, scientists, policymakers, health professionals and the general public to join in driving a global paradigm shift to prevent future pandemics by signing the coalition’s Declaration to End the Trade at www.endthetrade.com.

As we gradually revert to more normal lifestyles it’s important illegal and risky wildlife trade doesn’t resume business as usual. Protecting the animals protects us all.

It’s time to wake up. It’s time to #EndTheTrade. PK

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Cristina Mittermeier

We have only one planet and only one ocean.

Join a global community of ocean advocates and take action to create a healthy and abundant ocean, for us and for the planet.

Oceanographic Issue 13

www.only.one @onlyone

BEHIND THE LENS

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

SHAWN HEINRICHS 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.

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Q&A SHAWN HEINRICHS Emmy Award-winning cinematographer, co-founder of SeaLegacy and founder of Blue Sphere Foundation.

Shawn Heinrichs is a conservation photographer, filmmaker and storyteller. He was one of the lead activists and cinematographers of the Emmy-nominated film Racing Extinction and, most recently, was featured in the award-winning Netflix series Tales by Light. He is a United Nations Wild For Life Champion, serves on the International Board of WildAid, is a Director of Manta Trust, a SeaLegacy Collective member, a Safina Fellow, and an iLCP Fellow.

OC EA NO G R A PH IC M AGAZ I N E (OM ): W H E N D I D YOU FIRST CONNECT WITH TH E OCEAN? SHAWN HEINRICHS (SH): I was born in Durban, South Africa, at the northern reaches of the ‘Wild Coast’, a stunningly beautiful section of the Eastern Cape that stretches from East London in the south to the border of KwaZulu-Natal in the north... so the Wild Coast was ever-present in my early childhood. My first memories of the ocean are of a place of endless bounty. I remember seeing huge shoals of sardines, breaching whales, squadrons of cape gannets dive-bombing from above. If I waded into the sea it felt as if I would barely be able to move for the amount of life there. It seemed inexhaustible. But my family moved to the US when I was young and that connection faded for a while. When I graduated from high school and started scuba diving, I reconnected with the oceans and rekindled that love from my childhood. It was this experience – or, rather, the collective experiences over several years of diving – that put me on the path I am on now. The ocean wasn’t the place I remembered as a boy. It was changing. It had changed.

I witnessed, first-hand, the degradation of dive sites I had come to love, pristine environments withering away. I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.

OM : DID T H E T R A N S I T I ON F ROM H OBBY I S T D IVER TO CONSERVATION P H OTOGRAP H ER FEEL L IK E A NAT U R A L P ROGRE S S I ON ?

SH: It did, yes. I was a keen photographer already and had, throughout my scuba diving education, used a number of different cameras and housings, from the iconic Nikonos film cameras to compact digitals, and eventually SLRs. That progression and development gave me both the confidence and tools to chase those big stories early on - the things that I felt really mattered, that people needed to see and hear.

OM : W H AT W ER E T H OS E E ARLY Y E ARS AS A CONSERVATION P H OTOGRAP H ER LIKE? SH: It’s always tough when you’re starting out. Slim to no budgets, restrictive contacts, and getting your work noticed. I spent years on the road. I still spend a lot of my time in the field – a conscious decision to stay connected with my work, rather than migrate behind a desk as a lot of people do. But those early years I was constantly moving: Mexico, Indonesia, Ecuador... more places than I can remember. These stories took a hold of me like I could have never imagined.

There’s a thrill in seeking the truth, chasing the story, taking those photos that make people sit up and listen. But the relentless nature of it can be pretty tiring, and it certainly was in those early days. Eventually, people started to notice. My work started appearing in mainstream media.

People around the world were horrified by images of the shark fin trade, for example. The sheer scale of it. The butchery. It was a world most people had no idea even existed, so far removed from the everyday. That’s one reason why photography is so important.

OM : W E’ R E H AVI N G T H I S D I S C U S S I ON D U RI NG LOCKDOWN AMID TH E COVID-1 9 PANDEMIC. IS TH IS T H E MO MEN T E V E RY T H I N G F I N AL LY C H ANGES? SH: One of the most powerful things about this virus is that we’ve never felt more connected to each other. And we've never felt more connected to the consequences of our treatment of nature

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as a global community than we do this very moment. Everybody now knows that something that happens on the other side of the planet could affect every single one of us in a matter of weeks.

How powerful is that?

There's this dark, scary side of it: the health consequences, the economic consequences. But there's also that bright silver lining: we know the source. Yes, there's some debate about the nuances of it, but we know it came from wildlife markets, from our flagrant disregard for other species, our sadistic treatment and exploitation of animals. Period. Describing the conditions these animals are in as ‘appalling’ would be a kind way to describe it. We're talking about the stuff of nightmares. Species are ripped out of jungles or bred on farms and piled together and on top of each other, by the hundreds, severely mistreated, injured, starved and abused to a point where their immune systems are so severely compromised that viruses and diseases run rampant. And because they're so close to one another, those viruses and diseases move back and forth, again and again – and it’s the strongest viruses that survive, of course. The whole thing is like a horrific science experiment.

Then you put humans into the equation – people slaughtering and consuming these animals right at the moment that diseases have taken hold. We're seeing double, triple jumps – jumps between the same species, then to another species and then to humans. We've created the perfect conditions to make that happen. And, as I said, the viruses that are the strongest makes the final jump – and it spreads across the world like wildfire.

In a time when people are gripped with fear, feeling uncertain and powerless, this is the time to call it out and say, let's not only focus on the symptoms – which is to put on masks and try to create treatments and vaccines, that will only help for this round – no, let's also go to the source.

Let’s address our unconscionable, rampant, commercial exploitation of wildlife that is happening on a global scale, and let's go to these markets and shut them down for good. It is time for governments across the world, the regulators of these trade bodies that have oversight of how we exploit wildlife, to come together and say in a single voice, enough is enough, your business has become all of our business. Trillions of dollars lost, billions of people affected, millions of people sick, and hundreds of thousands dead; what more do you need in order to say we've had enough?

That was the inspiration behind our #ExtinctionEndsHere video campaign with SeaLegacy and Global Wildlife Conservation: “I’ve sent you the hurricanes. I've sent you the fires. And now you have this. Am I finally enough for you to make a stand and do the right thing?”

O M: H OW M U C H OF AN OBS TAC L E W ILL TH E ‘CULTURAL BARRIER’ P ROVE TO BE? SH: Cultural issues are cheerfully exploited by industry barons who use it as a card to manipulate consumers and policymakers. Let's talk about the elephant in the room: people say this is a China issue. The vast majority of people in China do not consume wildlife. They don't have the taste for it or the money to afford it. It's not in their diet. It is a very select few who do, because it's expensive. The vast majority of traditional medicine practitioners don't prescribe it because they don't buy into it – it's expensive, it’s exploitative and not readily available. And the issue extends well beyond China, across Southeast Asia, West Africa and Central/South America – it is a global issue that requires global action. But again, in all of these places you're talking about very niche slices of society, medicine and markets that the industry wraps in this cultural blanket. They're using that cloak to hide the sinister trail of exploitation, this bloodline that goes all the way back to the remote forests and the oceans and exploits the Earth's most vulnerable creatures for profit.

So, I'm sorry, there are no cultural excuses anymore – this pandemic just made it everyone's business. These illicit traders can't hide behind that cloak anymore. We’re calling them out and shutting them down.

O M: H OW H AS T H E PAN D E M I C I M PAC TED SOME OF TH E P LACES YOU WORK TO P ROTECT? SH: It’s important we don’t completely buy into the ‘nature is getting a chance to breathe’ narrative. Yes, that's happening in countries where people have disposable income, where people can afford to shelter at home because they're not living at a subsistence level, where there's two to three people living in a home and there's two cars per household that are typically used for lengthy commutes to work. Yes, nature’s getting a breather there... at least for a brief moment.

However, when you consider the situation in many developing nations, where the food on the table each day depends on the money they earn or what they gather that day, where the oceans, the rivers, and the forests are the providers, and where tourism dollars provide the economic engine that supports many of the communities who hold the keys to our last great natural treasures, the situation is quite different. Nature is now coming under huge pressure in some of the most sacred places, including marine parks where poachers are operating in waters currently free of rangers and tourists.

Continued on p.80...

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Q&A Continued...

In places where rangers are still operating, like Misool in Raja Ampat, we're getting reports right now that rangers are pushing harder than ever to hold that line, standing in defence against blatant attempts to exploit protected areas. Without folks like that, these places would be emptied – they're the last line of defence in these places. The upsurge in poaching is a terrifying prospect right now. The big question is: If we're seeing it happen in places like Misool, where rangers are still on patrol, where else is it happening where we don't have guards? The twist is that the very same trade that started this entire thing, the wildlife trade, is now the one that’s proliferating during this time of vulnerability.

OM: IS T H IS NAT U RE ’ S L AS T WARN I N G S H OT? SH: If we don’t act, this is going to happen again, and it could be ten times worse. We can recover from this one, but what about the next one? If it has anything like the level of contagion or deadly effects of some of these other pathogens and viruses, it will spell economic ruin for the entire global economy. And then what? So this is not a case of ‘let them greenies solve it’. Every single person on Earth now has a voice on this issue, the right to speak up, and I believe an obligation to act. There is no excuse that stands in the face of what we have to do right now, which is we need to shut the commercial exploitation of wildlife and wildlife markets down. That means we take some risks. That means people will lose jobs. We need to deal with that, take actions to help them. But there's no economic, health or cultural argument that stands up against what we are experiencing now, and what we could experience in the future.

OM: MOVING AWAY F ROM T H E PAN D E M I C , S H ARKS AND RAYS H AVE BECOME A FOCUS OF YO U R S , PA RT I C U L A R LY T H E I L L E G A L T R A D E I N A S I A . H OW O P T I M I S T I C A R E YO U A B O U T T H E S PECIES ’ F UT URE S ?

SH: If I wasn’t optimistic, I wouldn’t do what I do. Conservative estimates suggest at least 100,000,000 sharks are killed every year, so there’s plenty of reasons to be pessimistic – that number is clearly not sustainable. But I think our species has historically demonstrated a willingness to change and adapt when we are called upon to do so. The challenge is convincing enough people to create that groundswell of support that pushes through change – behaviourally, culturally, politically, and economically. Everyday citizens are key to this process. Our victory at CITES in 2013, where we initially helped bring about protection for manta rays, followed by close to 40 additional species of sharks and rays protected at subsequent CITES meetings, was achieved off the back of passionate citizens taking a stand for their natural world. A similar victory was, of course, achieved for more species last year, including the mako – the fastest shark in the ocean.

All the people who took a stand for these creatures’ protection are optimist… and so must I be.

OM: YO U S PEND A L OT OF YOU R T I M E I N W E ST PAP UA. WH AT KEEP S YOU GOING BACK? SH: Asia is the frontline of many ocean conservation issues, a place where biodiversity and exploitation collide. If we can reshape attitudes and create a healthier relationship and understanding between communities and their coastlines, that could have a huge positive longterm impact. It has been incredibly satisfying to see the recovery within protected zones in West Papuan waters over the last ten years. But we have to keep pushing forward if we want to see that change last. There’s still plenty of work to do there.

OM: W H AT H AVE BE E N YOU R BI GGE S T V I C TORIES TH ERE, AND WH AT CH ALLENGES REMAIN? SH: There’s a lot of great news there, and there’s the ongoing struggle. The great news is that biomass recovery has been profound in so much of Raja Ampat, particularly down in southern Misool where there’s strict enforcement: 250-600% biomass increase in just six years. Mindblowing abundance of fish. More sharks than I’ve ever imagined possible in these waters, squadrons of manta rays, and recovering populations of turtles. The declaration of the world’s first conservation province in West Papua last year was a huge moment, not just for West Papua but for conservation around the world. The deeper concern is that many other parts of Indonesia have been severely depleted by rampant exploitation, so outside fishermen come into Raja Ampat to poach. The battle is still raging. I think we’re winning it, but it’s definitely there. Secondly, we face the risk of loving it to death. The tourism explosion has become a real concern. Steps are now underway to address this threat and I am eager to see the results.

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O M: A S FAR AS YOU R ORGAN I S AT I ON, SEALEGACY IS CONCERNED, H OW DO YOU DIVIDE YOU R T IME B E T W E E N T H E OF F I C E AN D T HE OCEAN? SH: Our goal with the foundation is to significantly amplify the impact of our founders’ and supporting team’s field work, not to have us suddenly pulled from the field and for it to stop.

That’s how we operate. A lot of folks, they do great work for a while then go on the speaking circuit. We just keep working – we keep our sleeves rolled up and our heads in the water. The foundation is about keeping effective people in the field and driving change, while building support networks around them. Powerful imagery and storytelling remains at the heart of what we do. It’s important we never lose that focus.

O M: H OW H AS YOU R ROL E AS A C ON SERVATION P H OTOGRAP H ER CH ANGED? SH: I look at conservation through a social science lens. As I see it, the enemies of effective conservation appear on three levels: ignorance, apathy and greed. When I started out more than two decades ago, the biggest obstacle I faced was that so many people around the world were largely ignorant of the ecological disaster unfolding around them. So many people just didn't know. And because we didn't have our own publishing channels – like we do now with platforms like Instagram and Facebook – we had to go and get others to publish our stories. Traditional publications were the only route. That's where apathy hit hard. Important conservation stories that didn’t appeal to publishers just died on the vine and never got published. The Internet was in its infancy, so the ability to get your own story out was massively handicapped and the forces of ignorance and apathy continued to prevail. And then there was the most insidious enemy, greed. Multinational conglomerates and powerful industrial barons would go as far as to create fake NGOs as their marketing fronts, greenwashing their shocking exploitative practices, and they were so successful that even the regulatory bodies charged with protecting animals and habitats often bought into it. And as such, they were complicit. In the early years, we had all three layers squarely set against us. So try as we might, our conservation stories and environmental messages just trickled out. Fast-forward two decades, and suddenly we're in a world where we are the publishers, and we can reach 100 million people in a given month. You couldn't get those numbers before, even with the biggest publications. Now, we have the ability, in one day, to take a story from concept to global syndication. And so here we are at a time where we have this massive reach and a global audience that is hungry for the truth, especially in light of the pandemic. Now is the time to embrace the age-old art of storytelling, while harnessing the power of captivating imagery, to create those punctuated moments where a person connects with a species or an issue and something shifts in them. The combination of profound images with thought-provoking stories gives us, as conservation photographers and as a team at SeaLegacy, the ability to blow an issue wide open, reaching millions of people in a single day – something we could have only dreamed of as young conservation photographers.

O M: A S SOM E ON E W H O' S BE E N ON TH E FRONTLINES OF CONSERVATION FOR TWO DECADES, EX PER IE N C I N G T H E BE AU T Y OF N ATURE AND ITS BRUTAL TREATMENT BY OUR H ANDS, WH AT DO ES T H E OC E AN M E AN TO YOU ?

SH: The ocean is the place I go to heal. It's a place where I feel completely held, suspended, weightless. With nothing separating me from nature, the true source of our deep connection with nature is revealed and laid bare. There are no fences. There are no safari vehicles. There are no roads separating us. It's just me and these magnificent species, face to face in a quiet, sacred space. It’s the most powerful reminder that we are inextricably tied to every single species on this planet. We are not apart from nature, but rather we are absolutely a part of nature. When I go to the ocean, I step out of the trappings of my daily life. I immerse myself into that quiet space and surrender to what is all around me; looking into the soul of a manta ray, connecting with a mother and calf humpback whale, and feeling a love of a magnitude that words cannot describe.

It is purification at the DNA level. It is a deep recharge, and when I come back from that space, it provides a wellspring of passion and fire that I draw upon in my stand to defend the oceans most threatened species and habitats.

O M: W H AT W OU L D T H AT L I T T L E BOY, TH E ONE WH O STOOD NEXT TO A BOUNTIFUL SOUTH A F R I C A N O C E A N A L L T H O S E Y E A R S AGO, MAKE OF OUR BLUE PLANET SH: Aspects of it would horrify him, for sure – the scale of industrial and illegal fishing and plastic pollution particularly. But before I showed him that, I’d take him to Raja Ampat. It’s not free from plastic, of course, but it’s a story of inspiration, proof that with hard work and collective will we can turn things around. It has become my place to truly unplug, to immerse myself in the magic of the underwater world as it should be. The feeling is as pure as that first moment I dipped my toes into the cool waters of South Africa and felt its healing presence and magnificent bounty.

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Kingdom of Tonga 'Flight of the Humpback Whales' - a mother humpback whale with her young calf, banks and charges as an aggressive male escort chases her in the clear waters of the South Pacific.

Mexico 'Celestial Giant' - a magnificent whale shark, bathed in brilliant light rays in the iridescent blue waters off Isla Mujeres, passes beneath on its nomadic journey across the oceans.

Galapagos 'Iconic Moment' - two icons of conservation, a whale shark and Darwin’s Arch, captured in a single frame.

Kingdom of Tonga 'Whale Tale' - a magnificent humpback whale sings alone, its hauntingly beautifully song echoing through the Pacific Ocean.

Southeast Asia 'Shark Port' - the bodies of hundreds of sharks landed on longlines are pulled from the holds of boats, heaved overboard, gaffed and carried up to the blood-stained market floor of a fishing port.

Hong Kong 'Shark Fin Walk' - fins from hundreds of sharks are stacked and dried on a rooftop, a trade that is driving shark species to the brink of extinction.

Indonesia 'Conservation Province' - crowds gather by the thousands across West Papua to witness their stories, projected across a ninemetre outdoor cinema screen, celebrating the role of their communities in protecting their forests and oceans.

Hawaii 'Manta Dance' - underwater performance artist, Hannah Fraser, performs a beautiful dance with a manta ray in the waters off Kona.

Mexico 'Mobula Ray Spiral' - squadrons of mobula rays feed on plankton in the dark of night, beneath bright lights off the coast of Baja.

New Zealand 'Mako Shark' - a formidable yet vulnerable predator, the king of the pelagic realm, recently received critically needed protection from CITES.

Indonesia 'Heart of Biodiversity' - a reef shark patrols the teeming waters of Misool, Raja Ampat, where 15 years of dedicated conservation has lead to massive recovery.

Mexico 'Sailfish Flare' - a sailfish off the coast of Isla Mujeres hoists its regal sail, its body lighting up with brilliant colours as it prepares to launch a strike on a fleeing sardine baitball.

Behind the lens SHAWN HEINRICHS Indonesia 'Manta Nursery' - a baby manta ray swims in Wayag Bay, Raja Ampat, a place that ranks second in the world for manta tourism, valued at over USD 15 million per year to Indonesian communities.

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Shawn has become a major force in the global movement to protect threatened marine species and habitats. Fuelled by his passion for the ocean, his ground-breaking work fuses dramatic imagery with intimate and thought-provoking stories, to connect the global community to the beauty and vulnerability of threatened marine species and habitats.

Mexico 'Mobula Ray Squadron' squadrons of mobula rays feed on plankton in the dark of night, beneath bright lights off the coast of Baja.

PERSONAL

@shawnheinrichs

SEALEGACY

@sealegacy

@shawnheinrichs @SeaLegacy

@sealegacy

@shawn.heinrichs.artist sealegacy.org

Oceanographic Issue 13

www.shawnheinrichs.com

Cristina Mittermeier

There is only one way to do this: together.

In the face of such huge challenges, it’s easy to feel like a drop in the ocean. But together, a million small actions can turn the tide.

Oceanographic Issue 13

www.only.one @onlyone

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LESSONS FROM

under the ice For some, the idea of diving the frigid waters of the Great Lakes in winter on a single breath might not be very alluring. But for others, this ice-topped wonderland provides a sanctuary for meditation and exploration.

Wo rd s a n d p h o t o g ra p h s b y G e o ff C o o m b s

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“A strange mix of calm and anxiety bubbles up when I am drawn into the cold darkness.�

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ABOVE: Standing on the edge of the ice flow, freediver Andrew Ryzebol looks out to the horizon.

OPPOSITE: Rapidly changing conditions can create kaleidoscopic patterns, contrasted by smooth ice.

PREVIOUS PAGE: Ryzebol explores the Alice G shipwreck, a tug that ran aground in a November 1927 storm.

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he ice cracks beneath my feet as I walk out onto the lake. I stare at the horizon and admire the vast expanse of white that covers Lake Huron, one of the five Great Lakes. Distant islands seem frozen in time, and the dampened sound from snow creates a peaceful atmosphere. Andrew and I begin taking turns with the auger, drilling through the ice to form our entrance to the waters below. The process takes great effort but has the positive side effect of increasing our body temperature.

The cold water slowly penetrates as I hop in. The exposed skin on my face stings for the first few minutes.

Maintaining a steady breath through my snorkel while looking at the seemingly endless blue depths below is key.

The ability to control the mind and breath is paramount to staying calm and adapting to extreme temperatures.

As I float in the opening, I tell my freediving partner, Andrew Ryzebol, to wait for me on the surface as I descend. Once I catch his eye from the depths, he should dive. The underwater currents are negligible – how far we drift is up to us.

I take my last breath, close my eyes and plunge down into the cold abyss. I feel my wetsuit constrict as the water pressure around me increases. All the air pockets in my 7mm suit are compressed and the cold begins to set in. The frozen ceiling of ice above me falls away.

When I reach around 30 feet, I feel neutral buoyancy take hold and shortly thereafter my body sinks effortlessly.

A strange mix of calm and anxiety bubbles up when I am drawn into the cold darkness. The kaleidoscope of patterns in the jagged ice envelope me as I look up.

The discomfort fades for a few brief moments, and the scale of the alien world takes shape. Moody shades of indigo give way to steel-toned cerulean, undulating in the pale light from above. When viewed from underwater, the ice can change dramatically from day to day depending on the weather. Strong winds and cold temperatures will force the ice to build in layers, forming sharp edges and large underwater icebergs. But when the wind is calm, the water freezes in smoother patterns. The ever-changing views and aesthetics of the ice force me to be adaptable to find new ways to capture it.

Andrew dives. I rise slowly to meet him, camera lifted.

He looks like an astronaut drifting above an icy planet.

For a moment, I forget that this isn’t the case. A warm beam of light shimmers through the water from our hole in the ice above. A sense of peace and a need for air intertwine, so I allow buoyancy to carry me to the surface. I take a breath and put my snorkel back in my mouth to look down at Andrew and see him rising up too. We will repeat this for as long as we can endure.

I started freediving under ice with Andrew back in the winter of 2016. We dove the fresh waters of Lake Huron and Georgian Bay in the summer and when winter came, we felt compelled to continue exploring. My photography career was just beginning and I figured that there would be potential for some great images under the ice, although I didn’t realise to what degree. This curiosity to investigate the same waters in a different season forced me to test my limits. My diving abilities improved, and my sense of creativity expanded.

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A few final breaths before descending to explore the Sweepstakes shipwreck – a large wooden schooner that sank in 1885.

I am fortunate to live close to one of the freshwater diving capitals of the world in Tobermory, Ontario. This small town lies on the northern tip of the Bruce Peninsula – a land mass that runs directly through Lake Huron and Georgian Bay. The Great Lakes vary in their appearance, but the waters around the Tobermory area are extremely clear with vibrant turquoise hues. The water reminds me of tropical destinations, but without the warmth. Despite the cold, Tobermory offers stunning conditions for diving, along with many wooden shipwrecks more than 100 years old that are exhilarating to explore under ice.

Along the coastline, in Big Tub Harbor, the Sweepstakes shipwreck lies in around 25 feet of water. It’s an eerie sight, perfectly preserved in the cold waters since it disappeared below the surface in 1885. On our last visit, Andrew and I had to cut through 2.5 feet of ice before we could start exploring. We jumped into the cold water and peered below the surface, pushing ourselves underneath the ice with our hands to find the nose of the wreck. Its ominous bow was highlighted by the blue ice above, and dark shadows shrouded its sides. We swam towards the bow of the wreck while keeping one hand on the ice above our heads. For more than 100 years this wreck has been preserved and lying in wait under the ice to be explored.

During the winter months, the water temperature drops and snow settles. If there is no ice on the water, the waves in the open lakes can reach 30 feet. Winter storms can be deadly, as regularly proved the case throughout the turn of the century, when these lakes were sailed by wooden schooners and shipping vessels, some of which – like the Sweepstakes shipwreck – now rest at the bottom of the lake. The winter months also reduce the number of tourists coming from the city, and most of the local businesses close. When things start winding down, the ice divers are just getting ready to go.

The ice forms on the northern shorelines of Lake Huron and Georgian Bay first, along with the shallow western side of the peninsula. When January and February roll along, the ice is blown south by high Arctic winds. This forces the ice to build on the rocky shoreline of the northern and north-eastern end of the peninsula, resulting in the formation of razor-sharp and jagged pieces of ice, often piling on top of each other in robust layers.

From the unpredictable weather patterns and our experience in forecasting the weather using NOAA data, Andrew and I have figured out how to estimate when the ice will be best for our adventures. However, the conditions are always changing, and we never know for certain what things will look like until we’re there. The joy of this is that we never see the same thing twice, and each year brings different underwater landscapes.

Freediving under ice is an experience that feeds the imagination. The physical and mental challenges often

F E AT U R E

TOP: Duck diving from one world to the next.

BOTTOM: Ryzebol reaches to touch an iceberg that has formed just a few metres from shore.

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“Doubt can force you to review the situation and whether what you're about to do is within your limits. It's what separates the daredevil from the methodical explorer." discourage people from trying, but if you can overcome those demands, the experience is rewarding. It offers you underwater views that look like dreams. As I dive beneath the frozen surface the world goes silent, and my eyes become fixed on the intricate patterns of ice above. This underwater realm is beautiful, mysterious and potentially deadly.

The challenges of diving under ice make the experience more than a simple exercise in creativity.

Documenting the underwater realm is challenging, but when you combine breath-hold with having a frozen and solid surface above your head, the psychological demands are magnified. The mental and physical both play significant roles where our senses are heightened, and our mind is made acutely aware of the risks.

The cold air temperature in the Tobermory area, when combined with the ice and water, is the greatest challenge to cope with. After a couple hours, my body begins to shiver. The sense of calm while underwater turns to a test of real patience and endurance. I can feel my toes and fingers slowly going numb despite wearing thick neoprene. After each dive we get a little colder. It is an inevitable part of the experience.

Aside from the obvious physical challenges, our mental capacity is the most important tool to meet the demands. The power of the mind to control the body is profound. It can be studied in examples across history – from extreme athletes performing incredible feats, or freedivers holding their breath for twenty minutes after breathing pure oxygen. The discipline of the mind is the way to endure challenge.

The mental challenge is the primary reason I continue to dive, aside from my desire to capture the beauty found under ice. The extreme elements of winter plus the demands of holding my breath and going under a frozen ceiling requires discipline. Discipline that tells me to get out of the water when I’m shivering too much, and discipline to not dive too deep. It requires resolution, as well as awareness of my body and mind, which is not necessarily needed when diving in tropical climates.

Freediving under ice requires us to be confident in our abilities to assess the environment and the conditions. It requires us to know our bodies capabilities as well as our limitations. The obvious lack of air supply when freediving can create fear in those who have never tried it. But for the well-trained, freediving creates peace and euphoria. This peace found under the ice, however, is only found for brief moments. The discomfort is always present, and it requires us to harden the mind in order to withstand it.

Of course, thoughts like ‘Will this be my last dive?’, or ‘What if I blackout?’ can creep into my mind. That voice of doubt can come before I go down or even during a dive. I do my best to push those questions out of my mind, but I believe a healthy level of self-doubt while diving is good for the sake of your own safety, and the safety of those you dive with.

Some may think it is wise to not go too deep while under ice. While I agree with this to an extent, it is better to be deeper and certain of where the hole is, than to be stuck against the surface and have no sense of direction. There was one moment where I was up against the ice, and for a split-second, I didn’t know where the exit hole was. That split-second of doubt is enough to make me know I’d rather be deeper. Doubt can force you to review the situation, how your body is feeling and whether what you’re about to do is within your limits. It’s what separates the daredevil from the methodical explorer.

The ice humbles me. The desire to push my limits has no place when freediving under ice, as it could be my last dive if I did something reckless. I love the methodical approach one must have in extreme environments. Thinking through the planning of each dive and communicating to my dive buddy what exactly I’ll be doing is key to staying safe. My physical, mental and creative abilities all need to be sharp and combine to make what I do possible.

But there are times I wonder why we do what we do. Why suffer and shiver in a snowstorm just to take some photos? It is actually the why that keeps me coming back. My thirst and love for exploration keeps me motivated to continue documenting the underwater realm. Love is the most profound value we have as humans. It’s an emotion, a value and an action. I freedive under ice because I love the challenge and the beauty found underneath. I love how it pushes my creativity and creates dreamlike experiences. I love the shifting aesthetics and the experience shared with my closest friends.

Freediving has taught me how important it is to be thoughtful in life. The more remote the places I explore, the more I appreciate relationships, family, food, clothing, and a roof over my head. When I’m shivering on a frozen lake, those homely comforts seem like luxuries. The simple things are often overlooked, but they are the ones to be thankful for.

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Column

By Hanli Prinsloo

The ocean activist HER FIRST NAME

I

have swum with these dolphins hundreds of times before. I’ve been coming here for more than twenty years. I recognise many of them and many know me too. Slipping off the boat into the crystal blue Indian Ocean to be met by clicks and whistles and friendly faces would usually be nothing new. But today is different to any other day with my bottlenose friends. Today, they get to see what nobody has seen before. Nestled deep inside of me is my small daughter, seven months old and swimming in her own miniature ocean. The sounds of my heart beat, pulsing blood flow and the muffled noises of the outside world have been her only soundtrack for as long as she has existed. But today, she gets to hear something I had always hoped for when I dreamt of what I would like to share with my future baby: the meeting between dolphin friends and an unborn child.

Dolphins have a highly evolved ability to see through sound, called echolocation. On the front of their head, where our forehead would be is their so-called melon, a fatty liquid organ that serves as the lens for their underwater third eye. Sound waves are focused through the melon, directed at what they are investigating (perhaps a fish hiding under the sand, or a small human huddled in a womb) and then bounced back, like an echo, to be absorbed by the lower jaw, travelling to the inner ear and on to the nerves connected directly to the brain. Here, in their very large and complex brain, these sounds are translated into an image. Seeing with sound, one of the many fascinating special talents of these highly intelligent beings.

Back to sitting on the boat in the middle of a sparkling blue Indian Ocean with a small swimmer inside me waiting to meet her new friends. The dolphins are jumping and playing in the pounding shore break, leaping high out the water behind the waves as they show off their surfing skills. Speeding towards us I slow my breathing and pull on my mask and fins, deep breaths into my stomach, I feel my lungs expand above the bump. I gently rub my belly, hoping my small swimmer is ready for this moment. I am shivering with excitement, struggling to keep my heart rate down as the dolphins start circling the boat. My partner Peter gets in first, to quickly check what’s down there and how the waves and currents are before I slip in.

Sleek grey bodies are zooming about all around me and below me. Speckled bellies, wide eyes, rippling sunshine on perfectly streamlined shapes. I slowly feel gravity mercifully disappear as the ocean holds me and the extra watery world I carry. A mother and calf approach and start circling me, the calf coming so close I could reach out and touch her. Intense eye contact as they start

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circling me, the calf darting in and out between me and its mother, transfixed by something only they can see.

Dizzy and out of breath I gasp for air as they join a small group and come back for further investigation. Taking one big breath I hang quietly in mid-water as the curious dolphins come closer. I hear the intensity of their clicks and whistles change and their heads start bobbing up and down as they scan. This time there is no eye contact, all their attention is focused through that inner eye on my bulging belly. I am suspended in this connection, watching and listening as they swim slowly around me, looking at the life inside of me. Each new visitor or pod member gets given its own signature whistle. Somewhere in all the sounds I hear below the surface these mothers and their babies are giving my daughter her first name.

Dolphins are highly social and family-oriented creatures. Mothers carry their young for twelve months and nurse for another 12-18 months, and calves stay with their mothers for up to six years. During the first months together, you will see the young calf stay close to their mother, often having a flipper or fin touching, swimming in perfect synchronicity. Dolphins have a complex language that researchers have been trying to decipher for decades. So far, we know that they have great intelligence but we haven’t figured out how to ask the right questions in order to fully understand the range of their intellect. We know they are self-aware (can recognise themselves in a mirror), we know they have names for each other and even family names within a pod (like surnames) and when two pods meet they whistle and click sharing both their family and first names with the new acquaintances. But this is just the tip of the iceberg – our minds are unable to explore the ways in which they navigate their world.

Surrounded by dolphins, my heart swells as my every sense and whole being is present in this meeting. A dream I have harboured for many years is coming true at last. My mask is fogged with tears as I pull myself back onto the boat. Burying my face in Peter’s shoulder I cry. I cry for the privilege, I cry out of overwhelming gratitude, for the beauty our oceans offer us, for the threats facing my kind and my curious sleek friends below the surface.

For a week we spend long and magical hours at sea with the dolphins, deepening our understanding and relationship with them and each other, capturing magical moments to be shared one day.

Today, our daughter is one month old and as I stare at her bright eyes, I wonder if she will remember those hours suspended in the great ocean nestled inside her small sea. One day I will take her back to the same pod of dolphins and tell her the story of her first name. HP

Oceanographic Issue 13

@hanliprinsloo

@hanliprinsloo

@hanliprinsloofreediver

About Hanli Hanli Prinsloo is a South African freediver and ocean advocate.

She is the founder of I AM WATER, a Durban-based charity that seeks to reconnect South Africa's underserved urban youth with the ocean. www.iamwaterfoundation.org

“Somewhere in all the sounds I hear below the surface, these mothers and their babies are giving my daughter her first name.�

Photograph by Peter Marshall

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I N TO T H E

mist

The elusive spirit bears of British Columbia are one of Canada's most treasured subspecies. But with extreme and persistent declines in salmon populations, how long will they be able to survive?

Wo rd s b y C h e r y l Ly n D y b a s / P h o t o g ra p h s b y Ja c k P l a n t

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his is the story of a creature almost as mythical as Sasquatch – a white bear called a spirit bear. Unlike Sasquatch, however, scientists have verified that spirit bears exist. In British Columbia’s (BC) remote Great Bear Rainforest, this extremely rare bear appears, seemingly out of nowhere, in the coastal rainforest’s shadows. It is also the story of the spirit bears’ kin – black bears and brown bears – and how they all share salmon, their common prey, in a dusky, moss-covered realm.

Scientists know the spirit bear as Ursus americanus kermodei, the Kermode bear, named after biologist Frank Kermode. Kermode, a former director of the Royal British Columbia Museum in Victoria, was among the first to research the subspecies. The spirit bear is a colour morph of the black bear Ursus americanus. The trait is recessive; both parents must carry a copy of the mutated gene for their offspring to be white.

“Spirit bears have one of the most distinctive and conspicuous ‘polymorphisms’ of any mammal,” says ecologist Tom Reimchen of the University of Victoria. Reimchen has spent much of his life studying the bears. “The white morph,” he says, “comes from a mutation in the same gene associated with coat colour variation in other mammals.”

Spirit bears are relics of the last ice age, a time when being white likely conferred an advantage to animals living near icy glaciers. Some scientists think that black bears on what is now the BC coast might have become separated from mainland Canada by ice, then inbreeding in this “refuge” increased the mutation’s frequency. As the glaciers melted, the bears became stranded on newly formed islands.

Today, spirit bears live in the most distant places on the planet: BC’s Princess Royal and Gribbell Islands, some 50 miles north of Klemtu. Klemtu itself lies 330 miles due north of the city of Vancouver. Gribbell Island has two major salmon streams; Princess Royal Island has 30. These islands are ruled by salmon and bears. In late summer and early autumn, salmon migrate upstream to spawn in their thousands – and the bears await their arrival.

The white bears were likely never common, but now no more than a few hundred exist, according to conservation biologist Chris Darimont of the University of Victoria and the Raincoast Conservation Foundation. Darimont has studied the bears’ genetics through the ursids’ hair and scat. “We can estimate how many of the black individuals carry the white form of coatcolour gene,” he says, “giving us insights into the natural processes and human pressures that maintain the white version or lead to its demise.” Around one in every ten black bears in the region is a spirit bear, says Darimont. By

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“Spirit bears live in the most distant places on the planet islands ruled by salmon and bears. In late summer and early autumn, salmon migrate upstream to spawn in their thousands - and the bears await their arrival.�

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'region', he's referring to the Great Bear Rainforest (GBR), also known as the Central and North Coast forest, on the BC coast.

The GBR is a 6.4-million-hectare expanse that’s part of the largest coastal temperate rainforest in the world. The GBR was officially recognised by the Government of British Columbia in February 2016 in an announcement that 85% of the region’s old-growth forests would be off-limits to industrial logging.

“It’s an incredibly special place for spirit and black bears, as well as brown bears and the many other species that depend on Pacific Coast salmon runs to survive,” says Darimont.

From late summer through autumn, spirit, black and brown bears frequent fast-running, boulder-lined coastal streams brimming with salmon. In spring and early summer, they pad through lowland estuaries. There they feed on protein-packed sedges, barnacles, mussels and other invertebrates they wrest from rocks in the intertidal zone. “But they’re always waiting for the return of the salmon in fall,” says Reimchen.

That return may depend in part on how BC’s glaciers fare in a time of accelerating climate change. A new study of glacial retreat and Pacific salmon suggests that 85% of North America’s salmon watersheds have at least some glaciers left, but that 80% of those glaciers will be lost by 2100. What that means for salmon, scientists say, as well as for bears, is complicated.

Glaciers have shaped past and present habitats for Pacific salmon ('Pacific salmon' is the collective term for five salmon species: chinook, also called king; coho; pink; sockeye; and chum). During the last glacial maximum, some 45% of the current North American range of Pacific salmon was covered with ice. Now most salmon habitat is in watersheds where glaciers are retreating, according to lead study biologist Kara Pitman of Simon Fraser University in Burnaby, Canada.

Disappearing glaciers will leave some salmon ecosystems more vulnerable to heat and drought, Pitman reports. Salmon will likely be threatened by lower water flows and increasing water temperatures. “There will be winners and losers that vary by area and salmon species,” says Darimont, who was not involved in the study. “How this scales up to bears and other consumers of salmon is a little hard to predict.”

“Does this mean that commercial fishing fleets would target more of the salmon that would have ended up in British Columbia ‘bear rivers’?” adds Reimchen. “Based on the history of commercial fishing on this coast and on global climate change, I would predict that things would get worse for bears.”

Matt Sloat, a fish ecologist and science director at the Wild Salmon Center, says that “this is a sober assessment of predicted changes to the salmon landscape. Change is inevitable. But it’s also the case that salmon can continue to thrive, especially if we give them room to move into new habitat.” The Wild Salmon Center works to conserve wild salmon rivers and ecosystems across the Pacific Rim from California to Alaska to Russia. Sloat participated in the study.

THIS PAGE: After a poor salmon return, a spirit bear attempts to thieve a fish from the jaws of an older black bear, a decision he would later regret. Both bears survived the incident.

PREVIOUS: A spirit bear surrounded by the lush vegetation of the Great Bear Rainforest.

OPENING SPREAD: The reflection of a spirit bear bounces off the Pacific Ocean as she feeds on mussels and barnacles – a major source of protein for the bears.

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“A new study of glacier retreat and Pacific salmon suggests that 85% of North America's salmon watersheds have at least some glaciers left, but that 80% of those glaciers will be lost by 2100.�

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TOP: A black bear rests and watches coho salmon jump up the river below.

BOTTOM: Skill and patience afforded this spirit bear a salmon dinner by the river.

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Retreating ice will create thousands of miles of potential new salmon habitat, the researchers believe.

They point to salmon species’ long history of evolution and adaptation; the fish have been around since the Miocene Epoch (23 to 5.3 million years ago), a period with warmer temperatures and higher sea levels.

“Salmon have been dealing with an evolving landscape for a long time,” Sloat says. “They’ve outlasted ice ages and floods and scores of natural disasters. But humancaused climate change is happening fast. We need to make sure that any productive new salmon habitat isn’t lost to short-sighted development.”

That could pre-empt gains for salmon. Ice retreat could open new river valleys for salmon – or new sites for resource extraction and development. These are choices managers will need to make, according to Pitman. “We recommend that they consider the future state of salmon and how habitat may change by integrating longer-term predictive modelling of glacier retreat, and keeping pace with how salmon populations are changing.”

Just after dawn on a cool August day, a group of biologists and naturalists mill around on the dock of the Spirit Bear Lodge in Klemtu. We’re waiting for the motor vessel KX Spirit to take us to a place that could have been plucked straight out of a fable. Once aboard the KX Spirit, we thread north through foggy, narrow straits. A point of land emerges from the mist, the tip of Princess Royal Island. KX Spirit’s captain, a member of Canada’s Kitasoo/ Xai’xais First Nation who’s known simply as ‘Moose’, drops anchor off Princess Royal Island and lowers a zodiac over the side. Crewmembers Mercy Georgia Starr Mason, also a Kitasoo/Xia’xais member, and Elissa Crouse climb in, followed by everyone but Moose, who remains with the boat. Mason and Crouse guide us to a shoreline where the boulders are taller than us. An hour of rainforest bushwhacking later, we perch on wet, mossy logs halfway down a narrow path to a steep creek. The creek will soon be filled with pink salmon making their journey upstream to spawn.

Reimchen and others have found that white bears have an advantage over black bears in catching salmon – the salmon can’t see white fur as clearly as black fur.

Because salmon are the major source of protein for bears, “greater capture success by white bears could facilitate their persistence,” says Reimchen. Whither go salmon, he believes, so go bears.

From our spot on the trail, we hear waves breaking on a beach. We’re a short distance from where the creek meets the sea. Within minutes, Mason turns, then raises one finger to her lips. Rooted in place and with hearts pounding, we watch as a white bear makes its way along a rocky ledge to the creek below. There it 'snorkels' for salmon, dunking its head in the water and peering left and right in search of unwary fish. After an hour, the spirit bear gives up and heads to another spot. It’s a lucky day for us, but not for the bear. No pink salmon today.

“Despite the risks of a small population size and the

destabilising effects of immigration [black bears that don’t carry the mutation making their way to the islands], the long persistence of the white bears is a good sign for the future,” says Reimchen.

However, brown bears, which also eat salmon, are making their way to places in the GBR where salmon runs are still relatively healthy. Declining salmon numbers along the mainland coast are the driving force.

Once the heavier brown bears reach the GBR, they can easily out-compete spirit and black bears for prey.

"That’s already happening fairly frequently," says Brian Collen, general manager of BC’s Knight Inlet Lodge. As the salmon swims, Knight Inlet is 205 miles south of Princess Royal Island. The inlet is a fjord bordered by narrow, steep cliffs created by a massive glacier. Knight Inlet is one of the longest fjords on the BC coast – it cuts inland some 78 miles from the sea – and is fed by the Klinaklini River. The river ferries nutrient-rich meltwater from the Klinaklini Glacier to the inlet.

Knight Inlet is known for its abundance of brown bears.

No spirit bears dwell in the inlet, but 'salmon tussles' between its brown and black bears may foreshadow life for spirit bears on islands to the north. Indeed, "the presence of a grizzly [brown] bear on a salmon stream mostly eliminates use of salmon by black [including spirit] bears," state Reimchen and Darimont in a recent paper published in the Journal of Animal Ecology. Next, the researchers are investigating how habitat destruction and the presence of humans near salmon streams may prevent bears, whether brown, black or spirit, from finding fish.

In Knight Inlet, says Collen, "the number of brown bears in the last couple of seasons has been in line with what we’ve seen in the past. But low counts of pink salmon have brought challenges for the bears, especially for females with cubs. Pink salmon returns along the entire Pacific Coast have been down.”

A huge patch of warm ocean water, named ‘The Blob,’ formed in the North Pacific Ocean in 2013. It continued into 2014, 2015 and 2016, when it was thought to have dissipated. By later in 2016, however, The Blob was back.

It may be to blame for the decline in salmon numbers, says biologist Melanie Clapham of the University of Victoria. Clapham spends her summers conducting research on Knight Inlet's bears and the salmon that sustain them.

"Pink salmon have been way down," Clapham says, "leaving the bears with less protein-rich food." In 2017, 10 cubs didn't make it, a major loss. If the downward salmon trend reaches places like Princess Royal and Gribbell Islands, that will limit spirit bears’ long-term prospects.

He believes that the Great Bear Rainforest’s ursine residents are its ambassadors. Animals that remind us of important links between forest and ocean, salmon and people, past and future. A century from now, Darimont asks, "will the bears still be here, or will they have vanished into the rainforest mist?"

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BEHIND THE LENS

The river & THE WALL In 2015, the President of the United States first revealed a plan to build a southern border wall. Now the wheels are in motion. What impacts could a wall have on the people and wildlife reliant on the Rio Grande?

Wo rd s b y Jay K l e b e r g P h o t o g ra p h s c o u r t e s y o f Th e R i ve r a n d t h e Wa l l t e a m

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I

plunge my paddle deep into the cool waters of the Rio Grande River, now a cloudy mixture of brown sandstone and chalky limestone silt.

I am now officially on the Mexican side of the river. It carries me into a rapid strewn with the upturned canoes and supplies of two of my friends. I fight the flow of the river to set up for a run over the right edge of a slightly submerged slab of slick, yellow limestone. As I will the 1,000lb canoe into slower water just above the falls, I feel for a moment as if the force of my strokes has fused my body to the canoe. The moment quickly subsides.

I plummet into the cold water. I feel the weight of the canoe on my back. I grab at the darkness then push against the gunwales. My foot is stuck, pinned by a strap and attached to half a ton of submerged expedition gear.

The seven of us, five crew members and two cameramen, are only halfway through our 1,200-mile journey along the entire 260 linear mile length of the Texas-Mexico border and I am certain that this will be my contribution to the film – drowning beneath the wreckage of my vessel in the most isolated place in Texas, a state, that is larger than the entirety of France.

The idea for this adventure began a year ago, as good friend and filmmaker, Ben Masters, and I were both on different assignments in the Sky Islands of West Texas.

While Ben was shooting a short documentary film on the plight of mountain lions, I was leading a trip for a group of friends to see desert bighorn sheep recovery efforts at work in the 6,000ft Del Norte mountains of West Texas. I was Associate Director of Texas Parks and Wildlife Foundation at the time. Like mountain lions and other mammals, desert bighorn sheep rely on the mountains that slice into Mexico as a natural migration corridor and on the river that serves as their primary water source in the largest desert in North America.

However, the US government was openly discussing efforts to thwart decades of Texas’ conservation efforts.

The administration was touting the completion of a 30ft steel and concrete wall on the southern border, the construction of which began in 2006. It would cut through Texas’ largest federal and state-owned lands held in public trust and sever all migration across and access to the Rio Grande River. In a state with only 3% publicly owned land and the remaining 97% protected fiercely by private landowners, it was unconscionable.

I began to connect the dots between the survival of species and critical international migration corridors across the Rio Grande River. I called Ben as soon as I could, as I knew that he too was alarmed that the general public was unaware of the damage a physical barrier would have to land, water and wildlife in Texas.

We talked briefly about how stable populations of lions, sheep, deer and black bears in West Texas were reliant on access to the Rio Grande and Mexico’s vast wilderness PREVIOUS: Heading into the depths of the Lower Canyons, the third longest wilderness river section in the continental US. THIS PAGE: The team travelled 250 miles across Big Bend National Park by mustang.

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“If wildlife were reliant on the river and its surrounding habitat, then the entire TexasMexico border was in peril... ...NO ONE, OUTSIDE A GROUP OF RESEARCHERS AND WILDLIFE PROFESSIONALS, KNEW THE CONSEQUENCES OF THE PRESIDENT'S CAMPAIGN PROMISE.”

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“If they were smuggling drugs, I wanted to call border control.

IF IT WAS A GROUP OF FAMILIES, I DIDN'T.”

TOP: Austin Alvarado paddling through Boquillas Canyon.

BOTTOM: Heather Mackey conducting an early-morning bird survey on the river, the lifeblood of the region.

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in the northern state of Coahuila. If wildlife were reliant on the river and its surrounding habitat, then the entire Texas-Mexico border was in peril. No one, outside of a group of researchers and wildlife professionals, knew the consequences of the President’s campaign promise.

“I am thinking of taking a trip from El Paso to the Gulf of Mexico. I know very little of what’s truly there, what’s planned and what’s at stake,” Ben said.

In February 2017, National Geographic filmmaker Filipe DeAndrade landed in El Paso for a reconnaissance mission with Ben and I. Filipe grew up with his family in Rio de Janeiro, and after arriving on a tourist visa, remained undocumented in the US throughout his teenage years. We spent a couple of days scouting the Rio Grande downriver from El Paso and Big Bend State Park, whose border lies on the river and at over 300,000 acres makes up about half the Texas state park system. Having surveyed and researched the first 300 miles of the trip, it was clear that we’d need mountain bikes for the dirt levees and gravel ranch roads. Due to upriver dams and irrigation canals in New Mexico, the mighty Rio Grande was reduced to a trickle flowing through concrete canals in El Paso. We would need horses to film the Big Bend’s numerous cathedrals of rock formed over 500 million years and to traverse volcanic domes that would swallow entire cities in their vertical rows of limestone teeth.

We would need canoes for the trip through the Lower Canyons and navigable portions of the river to Laredo, and to ride bikes again to get us close to the wall already built in the Lower Rio Grande Valley and finally enter the Gulf of Mexico on canoes.

While researching for the film in West Texas, Ben stumbled upon Austin Alvarado and Heather Mackey riding their bikes in Big Bend National Park’s Chisos Basin. Austin is a river guide on the Rio Grande. His family escaped violence and genocide in Guatemala in the late 1990s for a better life in Texas. Heather is from upstate New York with a degree in ecology from Cornell University. She discovered Texas while studying the impact of river restoration on birds and butterflies along the Big Bend stretch of the Rio Grande.

On December 1, 2017, we all set out from El Paso.

The Forgotten Reach, a roughly 100-mile section of the Rio Grande downriver from El Paso posed the first and greatest challenge of the trip. It is a place where humans have yet to settle and where the pavement stops. The river has been starved by reservoirs, farms, cities, and invasive salt cedar trees and relinquishes its last drops into the sandy river bottom before Mexico’s Rio Conchos flows north and enables a rebirth. The mountains on either side form a river to peak gauntlet 3,000-6,000ft high of sand and clay roads and thorny scrub.

We rode our bikes through 50 miles of steep hills for two days in the Forgotten Reach and then flakes of snow began to fall. It mixed with the sand and clay

roads, clogging the bikes, until we could no longer pedal or carry them any further. Freezing and frustrated, we decided to walk the remaining 50 miles.

As we neared the paved road leading to the border towns of Presidio and Ojinaga, we learned of a group of 15 migrants who had crossed the border the night before.

They had travelled 1,800 miles from Guatemala to reach the US-Mexico border, then another 60 miles through the same unforgiving terrain in freezing temperatures and snow. No camera crew, no bikes or microlite synthetic jackets. One man died in the mountains of extreme hypothermia before US Customs and Border Protection arrived. The struggle, we realised, was difficult for us, but life-altering and real for the 60,000 who crossed the southern border that December.

We mounted Ben’s mustangs at the western edge of Big Bend State Park as the snow cleared. Along the 250 miles on horseback we learn of a 75-year effort to marry Big Bend National Park with the remote wilderness in Mexico, joining together habitat for more than 446 species of birds, 3,600 species of insects, 75 species of mammals and more than 1,500 species of plants. It’s difficult to fathom a steel and concrete wall complete with razor wire and flood lights being built in such an inhospitable and remote part of the US-Mexico border where from 2017 to 2019 only 1-2% of all apprehensions of undocumented border crossings on the southern border occurred.

I push, pull and wriggle my foot, trying to free myself from the confines of Upper Madison Falls. I refuse to drown on camera. On the finished cut of the film, it will only last a few seconds. It feels like a lifetime. I emerge from beneath the floating mass and exhale. Austin throws a line; I grasp it and manage to hang on to the vessel that nearly killed me and will carry me another several hundred miles downriver to safety. We spend the night salvaging gear downstream and finally fall asleep on a rocky island, cold in waterlogged sleeping bags.

We continue down the Lower Canyons, an 83-mile stretch of river defined by the height and verticality of its canyon walls, for another week. After 14 days in the canyons and 46 days of travel, we emerge at the midway point on our adventure – the Lake Amistad National Recreation Area. We experienced freezing temperatures and 20-knot headwinds, making the 30-mile crossing across aquamarine waters slow and demoralising.

After crossing around the 250-foot dam, the terrain flattens out, there are irrigated alfalfa and sorghum farms and cattle ranches, and the river becomes shallower as it heads to the Gulf of Mexico. These conditions are perfect for crossing the river from Mexico into the US. A heavy fog grounds one of only two of Border Patrol’s tethered aerostat radio blimps. We are nearing nightfall, the most active time for illicit drug and human traffic on the river.

We are 450 miles from the Gulf. Just upriver from our

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Mustangs served as reliable companions along the Rio Grande.

“It's difficult to fathom a steel and concrete wall complete with razor wire and flood lights... ...BEING BUILT IN SUCH AN INHOSPITABLE AND REMOTE PART OF THE US-MEXICO BORDER.”

camp site, 18-wheelers, cars and people cross two international bridges between Eagle Pass and its Mexican counterpart, Piedras Negras, Mexico. I have just switched my headlamp on as the grey mist turns black. I see someone standing in the middle of the river, about 25 yards ahead. I assume that it’s Ben, dislodging his canoe from a shallow sand bar. I then see splashing on the Mexican side of the riverbank, more than a dozen bodies hurling through the shallow water and tossing what look like black trash bags. We pause, not knowing if or how many of the group crossing is hiding in a stand of cane on the US shoreline next to the narrow channel that is our only path forward.

When the team finally regroups, there’s talk of notifying border patrol. If one of the crossers, concerned that we might alert border patrol of their location, decided to stop us or commandeer our canoes, I thought, the authorities should at least know our current location. Filipe and Austin were concerned about calling border patrol if we had just come upon a group of families fleeing violence and death for sanctuary in America, as their families had. We turned off our headlamps to obscure our position and rowed quietly into the narrow channel. A hint of moonlight lit the waves as the canoe rocked past the shallow crossing, and I imagined the watchful eyes in the darkness, not knowing if they were terrified, relieved or simply numb. As Filipe said later: “If they were smuggling drugs, I wanted to call border patrol. If it was a group of families, I didn’t.”

There are 12,000 motion sensors as well as 17,000 border patrol agents and national guard troops on the US’s southern border. I was naive to think that we weren’t being monitored by US law enforcement or the Mexican cartels. Every law enforcement agent we spoke to said that anyone with an interest in what was moving across the border would know our every move.

Over the next two weeks, we return to our bikes. A system of nearly 270 miles of interconnected floodways and levees in the Lower Rio Grande Valley was designed in the 1930s and 1950s for flood control and cropland irrigation. Unlike the Rio Grande of the Big Bend that serves as a fulcrum of cross-border wildlife migration, the river between Laredo and the ocean is at the centre of a spectacular convergences of birds, butterflies and illegal cross-border traffic.

More than four million people inhabit this bi-national region and rely solely on the Rio Grande River to supply drinking water and irrigation for growing fruits and vegetables. It’s a popular stopover for birds migrating along the Central and Mississippi Flyways between wintering areas in Central and South America and breeding areas further north in the US and Canada. It is considered one of the most species-rich butterfly areas in the US, with more than 50% of recorded butterfly species rarely occurring anywhere else in the country.

This is also the southern border’s epicentre of undocumented migrant apprehensions, making up some 45% of them along the southwestern border in 2017. Since 2007, however, the number of undocumented immigrants who overstayed visas after first entering the country legally far outnumbered those who crossed between them. A wall would do nothing to stop them.

As for drugs, a 149-page Drug Threat Assessment report prepared by the DEA in 2018 found that the majority of drugs coming through the southwestern border are coming in through legal points of entry – like land bridges on the Texas-Mexico border – concealed in vehicles. Moreover, drugs coming from Colombia are more often transported by plane and boat.

As we leave the eastern edge of Brownsville, steel barriers, streetlights and the green rows of cropland lined by palm trees fade away. Black and white skimmers and neon pink roseate spoonbills glide alongside our battered canoes. Pelicans circle above us in their hundreds and the river meanders, prolonging both its and our journey from the desert mountains to the sea. I hear the waves crashing on the beach, see the salt dry on my skin and long for the clarity of purpose, the camaraderie and dark skies of the previous 72 days. We may be the last to see these wondrous places before a physical barrier alters them forever.

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