Oceanographic Magazine / Issue Fourteen by Oceanographic Magazine

ISSUE

Conservation • Exploration • Adventure

B O R N TO I C E AND BRINGING BEAUTY TO THE WORLD: I N C O N V E R S AT I O N W I T H PA U L N I C K L E N

BEHIND THE LENS

T H E WO R L D â&#x20AC;&#x2122; S D E E P E S T WATC H When Victor Vescovo reached the deepest place on Earth, two OMEGA watches were there for the dive. His incredible World Record was completed with a Seamaster Planet Ocean on his wrist, and the Seamaster Ultra Deep attached outside the submersible.

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WELCOME

Editor’s Letter Th e d e a t h s of these North Korean crewmen a re m y s t e r i o u s ra t h e r t h a n m u rd e ro u s . That's how lawless the sea can be.

A great many things plague our ocean, but it is perhaps its lawlessness that often feels the most desperate. Yes, we have the United Nations' Convention on the Law of the Sea, but it lacks teeth. Outside of each country's Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ), which stretches 200 nautical miles from any given landmass (bar Antarctica), fishing vessels largely act with impunity. This issue has been highlighted in recent weeks by the armada of mostly Chinese fishing boats located just outside of Ecuador's EEZ around the Galapagos Islands – an EEZ which contains one of the world's most renowned marine reserves, full of pelagic life that doesn't, of course, recognise EEZ boundaries. Among the 250-strong flotilla are refrigerated container ships known as 'reefers', capable of storing enormous catches. Poor policing of waters inside of EEZs, largely due to a lack of resources or will, means illegal practices often occur without repercussions inside these 'regulated' zones too. Our lead story in this issue looks at the practice of 'saiko' in Ghana, where trawlermen illegally trade-at-sea with local fishers inside Ghana's EEZ, transferring tonnes of iced fish into specially-made canoes under the cover of darkness. This practice has evolved as a result of the damaging effect these trawlers have had on local fish stocks, devastating local fishers' abilities to bring in catches of their own.

Will Harrison Editor @oceanographic_editor @og_editor

Our guest column from The Outlaw Ocean Project reveals the shocking story of the world's largest 'invisible' fleet – more than 700 Chinese trawlers in the Sea of Japan. Fishing with their transponders turned off, and often within North Korea's EEZ, these vessels are decimating local squid stocks. They are also devastating lives; the bodies of dead North Korean fishermen keep washing up on Japanese beaches. The deaths of these North Korean crewmen are mysterious rather than murderous. That's how lawless the sea can be.

Oceanographicmag

Oceanographic Issue 14

Contents O N T H E C OV E R

FEATURE S

G HA N A IA N S AI KO

An emperor penguin releases millions of microbubbles from its feathers as it accelerates towards the surface of the Ross Sea, Antarctica. Photograph by Paul Nicklen.

Get in touch ED I TO R

Will Harrison

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

Amelia Costley

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

Beth Finney

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

Hugh Francis Anderson

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

Joanna Kilgour

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

Chris Anson

An ecological disaster is unfolding off the coast of Ghana. Under the cover of darkness and out at sea, trawlermen trade tonnes of iced fish with local fishers unable to source catches of their own in Ghana's plundered waters. This illegal practice is known locally as 'saiko'. PAG E 2 0

YO U R O C E A N IMAGES

@oceanographic_mag @oceano_mag Oceanographicmag

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. ÂŠ 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

A collection of some of the most captivating ocean images shared on social media, both beautiful and arresting. Tag us or use #MYOCEAN for the opportunity to be featured. PAG E 1 2

CONTENTS

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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.

MANGROVE POLICE

O D E TO SEAG R A SS

UR B A N N UR S E RY

Decades of deforestation to make way for agriculture, aquaculture and mining has left Madagascar's coastlines, communities and wildlife vulnerable to climate change and biodiversity loss. However, some local volunteer initiatives are looking to restore the balance.

Seagrass is considered unsightly by many resorts in the Maldives and is often removed. By revealing the importance of seagrass beds for local marine life, global carbon capture and tourism revenue, a new campaign is helping to reverse the destructive practice.

Beneath the shadows of South Floridaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s highrise coastal condos lies something unexpected: a manta ray nursery. With no formal population studies having been undertaken, one young biologist has taken it upon herself to discover more.

The mesopelagic zone is home to some of the ocean's weirdest and least understood creatures. It is also home to some of its most abundant. In light of dwindling stocks higher up in the water column, understanding life in the twilight zone is perhaps now more important than ever before.

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BEHIND TH E L E N S

C O LUMN S

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 meet iconic polar photographer and SeaLegacy co-founder, Paul Nicklen.

Big wave surf champion, environmentalist and social change advocate Dr Easkey Britton discusses the impact that interaction with the ocean can have on both physical and mental wellbeing, particularly through surf therapy.

What is the true cost of squid? The Outlaw Ocean Project reveals a harrowing story of a giant fleet, ghost ships and death in the Sea of Japan as Chinese and North Korean fishermen chase their share of the calamari market.

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PAUL NICKLEN

T W IL IG HT Z O N E

Oceanographic Issue 14

Todd Thimios Norway A pod of orcas surfs open ocean swell, low summer sun bursting through the waterline. “This moment was years in the making,” says Thimios, who captured the photograph just in time. “A few days after this image was taken, the Arctic was plunged into months of dark winter.” I N PA RT N E R S H I P W I T H

#MYOCEAN

Magnus Lundborg Sweden “During early summer, lion’s mane jellyfish patrol the coastal waters of the Skagerrak Sea in search of food,” says Lundborg. “If they survive the storms and predation, they can grow longer than a blue whale." I N PA RT N E R S H I P W I T H

#MYOCEAN

Cassie Jensen Bahamas â&#x20AC;&#x153;It is a beautiful gift to be among such intelligent, sentient beings," says Jensen, " and to see the connections Atlantic spotted dolphins have with each other â&#x20AC;&#x201C; as well as feel the ones they make with us." I N PA RT N E R S H I P W I T H

Hannah Prewitt Australia "There’s no better feeling than being in the ocean in the early morning,” says Prewitt. “I love creating abstract views of the sunrise. This photo was taken at the aptly named Sunrise Beach on the Sunshine Coast." I N PA RT N E R S H I P W I T H

#MYOCEAN

BEHIND THE LENS

Oceanographic Issue 14

BEHIND THE LENS

GHANAIAN

saiko

Oceanographic Issue 14

F E AT U R E

he ancient port town of Elmina in Ghana’s Central Region is dominated by a Portuguese-built 15th century castle. Black kites hang in the thermals above the fish market, which is confined on its northern edge by a deep channel that cuts up to a brackish lagoon fed by the Benya river. Doing my best to look like a tourist, I move awkwardly through the market, shooting short clips and snapping pictures with a DSLR. A hidden camera captures the scene from a button on my shirt. Fishmongers weave through the crowds with large aluminium bowls packed with fish balanced on their heads, shushing me aside as I make my way to the quayside. There, fish are passed along chains of workers from the holds of the canoes that pack the channel. Steam rises from the bellies of the wide ocean-going canoes, where thousands of blocks of frozen fish are beginning to thaw in the morning light. These canoes do not have the equipment on board to freeze fish at sea; only industrial vessels have that capacity. They do not even have fishing nets on board. As I lift my camera to capture the scene, a man quickly bats it down. He asks who I am and what I am doing there. "Delete all the pictures," he instructs. What’s happening in Elmina – and in port towns up and down the Ghanaian coast – is known as ‘saiko’. It began as an informal system of trading between the industrial trawlers that are licensed to fish in Ghana’s waters, and the local canoes that target small open water fish, such as anchovies and sardinella. The trawlers would sometimes catch these smaller species unintentionally while targeting the high-value, export-oriented seafood they were licensed to fish. So they would freeze this ‘bycatch’ and trade it with local canoe fishers for supplies: fresh water, fruit, even livestock. As the commercial species dwindled from overfishing, trawlers began to intentionally target the smaller fish on which local canoe fishers had traditionally depended and sell it back to fishing communities for profit. Eventually, as small fish populations were decimated, some of the local fishers stopped bringing nets to sea at all, and would simply meet with the trawlers, fill their canoes with frozen fish, and return to port. In time, unscrupulous businessmen began to muscle in, investing in speciallyadapted canoes capable of carrying tens of thousands of kilos of fish per trip. The illegal trade boomed. Saiko is the word used by fishers to describe this illegal transfer of fish between boats (known as trans-shipment at sea). It’s an industry that’s worth over US$50 million annually, and it’s pushing Ghana’s marine ecosystems to the brink of total collapse. According to recent assessments, Ghana’s small pelagic fishery could collapse within five years unless urgent and drastic interventions are made. As it stands, the country is now forced to import well over half of the fish consumed.

PREVIOUS: Saiko canoes moored at the port of Elmina. RIGHT: Fish smoking racks behind the port in Elmina. Fish processing provides a key source of income for women in coastal communities.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Saiko is the word used by fishers to describe the illegal transfer of fish between boats (known as trans-shipment at sea). It 's an industry worth over US$50 million annually, and it's pushing Ghana's ecosystems to the brink of total collapse.â&#x20AC;?

â&#x20AC;&#x153;The fear among the observers we met was palpable. In July 2019, one of their colleagues, Emmanuel Essien, went missing from the trawler Meng Xin 15. Many we spoke to suspect foul play.â&#x20AC;?

The ocean is a part of most Ghanaians everyday life, and not just for those who live by it - fish accounts for 60% of all animal protein consumed in the country.

F E AT U R E

Having helped bring ashore and sort a day's catch, a young boy leaves the beach, rope tidily coiled for another day.

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F E AT U R E

The Environmental Justice Foundation (EJF) works across West Africa and around the world, to document illegal fishing and empower fishing communities to protect the resources that they depend upon for food and income. To date, the information gathered by EJF teams and the local communities we work with, has led to scores of official investigations, the delisting of illegal vessels, criminal charges being brought against operators, and millions of dollars of fines levied against ship owners. In Ghana, EJF’s local staff and extensive network of community mobilisers, work to strengthen fisheries monitoring at a grassroots and political level. Speaking to Ekuwa, a fishmonger in the town of Ankaful to the north of Elmina, it’s clear what a catastrophe saiko has been. “There was a lot of fish when I became a fishmonger. Then saiko came and the canoes stopped catching all kinds of fish. Saiko has destroyed our ocean. The trawlers catch all the fish meant for our husbands and use it for saiko.” Ekuwa’s husband Kweku, a fisherman himself, is just as concerned. “I am worried about my children. There won’t be any fish left in the sea during their lifetime.” For Ekuwa and the many thousands of women like her along Ghana’s 540km coastline, fish is their livelihood. And for the many millions more who buy fresh and processed fish in Ghana, it’s a key source of animal protein vital for health and food security. For the industrial fleet, it’s a race to the bottom. Illegal fishing is systemic, and sanctions are rare, in spite of a recently improved and fairly rigid legal framework. There is an open secret in Ghana’s industrial fishing industry that undermines any kind of regulatory deterrent; around 90% of trawlers are operated by Chinese companies, despite foreign ownership of vessels being banned. Most are ‘owned’ by Ghanaian front companies, but the profits from their illegal fishing activities flow out of the country. This system of hidden beneficial ownership makes it almost impossible to sanction the true beneficiaries of illegal fishing. There are systems in place to try and deter illegal fishing but speaking to those on the front line of the fight to regulate the trawlers reveals deep flaws. In late January 2020 the EJF team rented a small apartment near Tema, the deep-water port where the industrial fleet is based. From here, we interviewed six fisheries observers who worked aboard Chinese-owned vessels. Kwesi was one such observer. It had taken many weeks of back and forth on WhatsApp for him to trust us enough to meet in person, and even when we met he was visibly wary. The observer program was established in 2015 to monitor the industrial fleet and was initially funded by the World Bank. Every trawler licensed to fish in Ghana was mandated to have an observer like Kwesi on board to document illegal activities. “The captain sees you as a bad person... When you see certain things and you try to take

“There was a lot of fish when I became a fishmonger. Then saiko came and the canoes stopped catching all kinds of fish. Saiko has destroyed our ocean. The trawlers catch all the fish.”

pictures or video, it becomes a problem. Sometimes the captain will even try to fight you on board. The captain will say to you, ‘I don't need you on the bridge again, walk out, out of my bridge’. If you refuse, he will start pushing you.” The fear among the observers we met was palpable. In July 2019, one of their colleagues, Emmanuel Essien, went missing from the trawler Meng Xin 15. Many we spoke to suspect foul play. Observers are isolated and alone when they’re on the trawlers, where the captains and senior crew are openly hostile. They are wary of reporting any illegalities they witness. “Before that time [Essien’s disappearance], if I was on board the vessel, I did challenge the captains, but from that time until now I don't challenge them. Because I don't know what will happen. If I'm taking a video or a picture, I'm also trying to protect myself so that nobody can see what is going on, especially the captain. I don't want him to see. If he sees something like that happening, I become disturbed. I started thinking that something could happen to me.” Since World Bank funding dried up in 2018, the Ghana Industrial Trawlers Association (GITA) was tasked with paying observer salaries. GITA is the industry body that represents the very vessels that the observers are placed on. Kwesi told us: “Now observers are paid by the Chinese; by the captains. The captains can tell you, 'you are no good, I will not pick you for my vessel anymore', and that ends it. 'I want this observer on board, I don't want this observer'. When it comes to the reporting, if they realise that you have taken pictures or video, they will call the managers at the shore... They will then call you and say, 'ok this is what we have for you' [a bribe]. You have to say yes. If you say no…” Kwesi paused, looking pained. “You are still at sea; you have no option. So, if you don't agree with them and they decide to do something to you at the sea, what are you going to do? They say, 'if you don't take the bribe here, your bosses will take it'.” The observer program was promoted as a shining example of progressive and effective fisheries management in a region plagued by illegal fishing. This clear conflict of interest has now rendered it ineffective. Having documented the unloading of the frozen trawler-caught fish in Elmina, the next step was to film

Oceanographic Issue 14

â&#x20AC;&#x153;I am worried about my children. There won't be any fish left in the sea during their lifetime.â&#x20AC;?

Catch being sorted for sale.

“Fishmongers no longer see the range of species they used to. The fish they are able to get is smaller and, in the case of saiko fish, lower quality. It’s never been harder to make a living as a fisher in Ghana. ”

Ghana’s fisheries are a primary source of income for 186 coastal villages, providing livelihoods for more than two million people.

F E AT U R E

“We had arrived in the middle of the trans-shipment. We could see the chain of workers moving the blocks of fish from the hold of the trawler and into the blanket-lined canoe.”

the trans-shipment itself. Fishing vessels of a certain size are fitted with Automatic Identification Systems (AIS) which allow for marine traffic monitoring and help prevent collisions. Months of daily satellite monitoring data gave us a good idea of where we might be able to document a saiko trans-shipment. EJF’s Ocean Campaigns teams in Ghana and the UK were tracking a number of vessels that regularly moved from the deeper fishing grounds along the edge of the continental shelf to the edge of the zone reserved for small-scale fishers, around 12 nautical miles off Elmina, in the early hours of the day. They would spend a few hours within this transshipment zone, before heading back out to sea before dawn. Presumably, the saiko trans-shipments were taking place in this window. The team had arranged the charter of a 15-metre semiindustrial fishing trawler from Takoradi, a port town to the west of Elmina. After explaining our objectives to the largely disinterested captain, we loaded the camera gear onto the vessel disguised in non-descript plastic bags and waited as the crew made ready and fetched fuel. The ancient diesel truck engine below whined and turned over as a cloud of acrid smoke billowed from the exhaust above the wheelhouse, before it died completely. After an increasingly tense 30 minutes, the engineer appeared from below and declared that a spare part was needed. It would have to come from Cape Coast, 100km up the coast. We waited on board as the sun sank below the horizon of gently creaking trawlers. At around 6:30pm, the part appeared and was taken below. Just 10 minutes later, we were emerging from the flat-calm harbour mouth as the last light faded over the Gulf of Guinea. Back in Elmina, the rest of the team watched the canoe port from the hotel window at the mouth of the channel to the fish landing site. The saiko crews were busy lining canoes with thick blankets to keep the fish frozen for as long as possible on the return journey. Outboard engines with colourful handmade covers were brought out and carefully clamped to the sterns of the lumbering canoes as the crew boarded. As they set out, I got the call from the team at the hotel; we knew that saiko trans-shipments would be going ahead tonight. The sea was rough and our trawler, light without gears or catch, rose and fell heavily with the waves. The moon was full and bright, and lit the deck in front of us as a shooting star streaked slowly across the sky over the

Atlantic. Gas platforms flared on the horizon. The small trawler was infested with cockroaches which scuttled into the folds of our clothing and deep into the camera bags, where I continued to find them for days afterwards. At around midnight, we began to see the lights from the trawlers in the distance. Via satellite phone, the AIS monitoring team told us they could see multiple trawlers moving towards the trans-shipment zone. At around 3am, we were approaching the closest vessel. It appeared stationary as we circled from a distance. We advanced slowly with the navigation lights off. At a hundred metres, we could discern the dark shape of a canoe tied alongside the trawler; we had arrived in the middle of the trans-shipment. We could see the chain of workers moving the blocks of fish from the hold of the trawler and into the blanket-lined canoe. The rough sea made it hard to get stable shots and I braced myself in the doorway of the wheelhouse, shooting photos at the apex of the vessel’s swing when it was momentarily stationary. But I could not make out the vessel ID or name. I asked the captain to make one close pass to get shots of the markings and we edged closer until we could see the faces of the crew and hear them working. Now we could clearly make out the vessel’s IMO number (which would later give us its name: the Meng Xin 10) and see the Chinese captain under the work-light keeping count of the blocks coming up from the hold. This trans-shipment was one of hundreds that EJF estimates take place every month. During a one-month period of data collection in mid-2017, the team found that an average saiko canoe in Elmina landed around 2,400 slabs of fish (around 26.4 tonnes) per trip. In a single day, 73,000 slabs (803 tonnes) of saiko fish can be landed by over 30 canoes in Elmina alone. At least 100,000 metric tonnes of fish were landed through saiko in 2017 – that’s 60% of the officially recorded catch, with a value in port of over $50 million. In the past three years, EJF has submitted 35 illegal fishing or suspicious activity alerts to the Ghanaian Ministry of Fisheries and Aquaculture Development (MoFAD). Some are based on satellite monitoring and are harder to verify. Some are accompanied by geotagged photographs of illegal activities taking place. Government investigations are rare, prosecutions even more so. The Meng Xin 10 has not faced sanctions, despite having been documented trans-shipping illegally in Ghanaian waters. In the six years I have been travelling to Ghana to meet with fishing communities and hear from those on the front lines of this environmental catastrophe, the situation has deteriorated drastically. Fishmongers no longer see the range of species they used to. The fish they are able to get is smaller and, in the case of saiko fish, lower quality. It’s never been harder to make a living as a fisher in Ghana and the future does not look promising. Unless urgent interventions are made, the ecological crisis that illegal saiko fishing is driving will have a dire human cost, as many millions of people will be at risk of losing their livelihoods and a vital source of nutrition. *All names, including the author's, have been changed.

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TOP: Smoked fish, Elmina. MIDDLE: A serene scene, away from the business – and busyness – of saiko. BOTTOM: The Meng Xin 10 trans-shipping to a saiko canoe. A large canoe can hold 4,000 11kg slabs and take three hours to load.

Oceanographic Issue 14

Column

By Dr Easkey Britton

The social ecologist BEING WELL IN THE SWELL "The young surfers' accounts revealed shifts in their sense of identity, selfawareness and connection to nature, improving confidence, interpersonal and communication skills."

Photography by Darragh Gorman / Liquid Therapy.

Oceanographic Issue 14

@easkeysurf

urfing was, and still is, my favourite way to express myself in the world, and to make sense of my place in it. All through history the sea has held a place of power in our collective imagination. We might fear it, but we’ve always been drawn to it, or when away from it, left with a feeling of longing. Environmentalist Rachel Carson argued in 1950 in her stunning account of our relationship with the ocean, The Sea Around Us, that we are all tied to our origins in the ancient sea. I grew up in a family of surfers on the west coast of Ireland where surfing was a celebrated part of life. I’ve felt it’s power to hold us together as a family through all kinds of ups and downs, and personally how it has held and healed me at various stages of my life. Studying the links between the ocean and human health, it came as little surprise to find that there is a surge in research on the benefits of nature connection, especially ‘blue space’ – the sea and other water environments – on our health and wellbeing. Surfing is emerging as one of the most rapidly growing ‘blue care’ activities, an alternative and complimentary therapeutic intervention that taps into the power of the sea and surf to heal. There are Surf Therapy organisations on every continent in the world offering programmes for a diversity of vulnerable and minority groups. This is crucial at a time when we are in the midst of a global health crisis with medicalised interventions and the associated high rates of prescription drug use to treat depression, stress, anxiety and mood-related disorders on the rise, especially for children. This is at a time when children are spending less time than ever before outdoors and suffering from what Richard Louv calls Nature Deficit Disorder. Scientific studies are catching up with what I’ve intuitively known and felt my whole life, the power of the sea to heal. The findings in these studies show how surf therapy involves active engagement and immersion in the sea that can create a sense of respite from everyday and acquired anxieties and disabilities and promote mental health outcomes. The health benefits of surf therapy are linked to the fluid and dynamic nature of surfing and the sea. The multisensory nature of surfing is linked with improved health, activating all our sensory systems at a cellular level and enhancing ‘neuroplasticity’ - helping the brain’s ability to become more agile and adaptive. The added challenge and unpredictability associated with surfing also builds resilience, helping us better cope with stress. Learning to surf in a group context can enhance a sense of belonging and identity through shared experiences in the surf. For amputees and those with spinal chord injuries, surfing can reduce dependency on opioid medication and improve balance and mobility. Those with Cystic Fibrosis found they could breathe more easily after surfing, the saltwater linked with fewer pulmonary flare-ups.

@easkeysurf

www.easkeybritton.com

Surfing is an embodied way of interacting and experiencing the natural world, something we are growing increasingly separated from. From a research perspective, the challenge is how to measure or capture health and wellbeing outcomes in such a complex, fluid, and dynamic environment like the surf so we can better communicate the benefits to health professionals and policy makers. To understand in greater depth, the richness of these experiences of immersion in the sea that take us away from our worries on land, we also need more creative and participatory methods of evaluation. As part of my research, I worked with a surf therapy non-profit in Ireland, Liquid Therapy, and a group of young surfers with autism to better understand their experiences. Using a technique called Body Mapping, we explored their feelings and emotional wellbeing. Body Mapping engages the senses and draws on similar methods used in art and dance therapy as well as mindfulness-based practice. It encourages active and playful participation in the research with the aid of objects, symbols, colours and sensations. It also incorporates reflection and storytelling that provides the means to creatively explore the relationships between personal, social and natural worlds. Using a creative and embodied approach like Body Mapping created a space for different forms of expression, supporting wider forms of engagement and communication that didn’t rely solely on traditional forms (written/verbal) that could exclude or alienate. The young surfers’ accounts revealed shifts in their sense of identity, self-awareness and connection to nature, improving confidence, interpersonal and communication skills for those with low self-esteem. Surf Therapy provides a lens to see, understand and experience the sea as healing, restorative and health-enabling. It offers potential for novel health care interventions and health promotion, especially at a time of heightened psychological distress globally, that will continue after the pandemic is over. To tap into and realise the potential of surf therapy in a fair, just and inclusive way we need to restore the ocean as a safe and healthy space for all. 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. Currently resides in Donegal, Ireland. For more see: www.communitypsychology.com/ body-mapping-measuring-well

Oceanographic Issue 14

BEHIND THE LENS

Oceanographic Issue 14

BEHIND THE LENS

T H E M A N G R OV E

police

Wo rd s a n d p h o t o g ra p h s b y N i c k R i l e y

Oceanographic Issue 14

F E AT U R E

“Over the last century, the island has been nearly completely cleared of its trees, and the rivers run thick with topsoil being carried out to sea from the resulting erosion. Astronauts on board the International Space Station have said that, from space, Madagascar looks like a landmass ‘bleeding into the ocean’.”

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ABOVE: The mangrove police begin their beat of the protected area of swamps outside Ankazomborona village. OPPOSITE: Mangrove loss in Ambaro Bay. The main causes are deforestation for charcoal and 'slash and burn' for agriculture. PREVIOUS PAGE: Villagers in Antsatrana are primarily crab and shrimp fishermen who depend on the mangrove forests for their livelihood. Communities are increasingly using more sustainable fishing methods, such as nets that let immature crabs escape.

s we were nearing Ambaro Bay, Haja Ramiandravola, the WWF organiser with whom I was travelling stopped the vehicle and pointed. The view was bleak, a vast expanse of mud stretching almost to the horizon, studded with the occasional twisted stump. I had become used to these desolate scenes on my travels through Madagascar – the smouldering remains of forests, the bald mountainsides where landslides had left red, open wounds. A sound came from where he was pointing, the sound of chopping. In the distance, a figure, alone in the muddy expanse, was working at one of the few remaining stumps. We watched and listened as his blows fell, the sounds disjointed from the action by distance. He worked at the stump with his axe until he could loosen it, threw it on his shoulder, and set off. We watched him leave, picking his way through what had until not too long ago been dense mangrove forest, but was now only mud. For a conservation photographer and filmmaker, Madagascar is in many ways a dream assignment. The island has been isolated from the rest of Africa for 88 million years, and of its 250,000 species, more than threequarters are found nowhere else on Earth. I had been on the road with the WWF in Madagascar for several weeks, travelling across the country to photograph and film some of their major conservation projects in the country, from marine parks to lemur protection programs. On the island of Nosy Hara, I had photographed a chameleon no bigger than a human thumbnail, Brookesia Micra, totally undiscovered before 2005. In Marojejy National Park, we had seen some of the rarest primates on the planet, the bright white silky sifakas, whose population now

numbers no more than a few hundred. There had been jewel-like frogs, and timid tenrecs, miniature hedgehoglike animals endemic to the island. But tempering all of my wonder at the stunning biodiversity of Madagascar, was the scale of environmental destruction I saw in the country. I had come expecting to see large areas of felled rainforest. What I was unprepared for was just how little forest still remains. Over the last century, the island has been nearly completely cleared of its trees, and the rivers run thick with topsoil being carried out to sea from the resulting erosion. Astronauts on board the International Space Station have said that, from space, Madagascar looks like a landmass ‘bleeding into the ocean’. The longer I spent there, the more I realised how vital it is for organisations like WWF to support the conservation work of local communities in the fight to protect what still remains. Ambaro Bay, on the northwest coast of Madagascar, is one of the most biodiverse marine ecosystems in the country. As the leading producer of traditionally fished shrimp and crab, its economy depends almost entirely on the mangrove forest. The forest is the breeding ground and nursery for fish, molluscs and crustaceans. It is also an important nesting site for hundreds of bird species, including the critically endangered Madagascar fisheagle, one of the world’s rarest birds of prey. Providing for one’s family in the near term can force actions that are not sustainable long term. Mangroves used to cover the whole bay area, but have been cleared for timber, shrimp aquaculture, rice farming and mining, or damaged by erosion. Tavy – the local word for “slash and burn” agriculture – is as widespread here as it is

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elsewhere in Madagascar. An acre or two of forest is cut, burned and planted with rice. After several years, that area is left fallow to recover and the process is repeated elsewhere. As population pressure intensifies the practice, it becomes less and less sustainable. Charcoal production is another leading cause of deforestation. “This deforestation is linked to population growth and amplified by migration in the coastal areas of north and west Madagascar, as people flee drought and poverty in the south,” explained Heritiana Rakotomalala, a technical manager at WWF-Madagascar whom I spoke with after the assignment. “As a result, the need for fuel wood increases considerably. Some migrants who have no land or money resort solely to the exploitation of mangroves for charcoal and other things to survive.” In just three decades, Madagascar has lost about a quarter of its mangrove forest area. In Ambaro Bay, the rate of deforestation is more than double the national average and it is estimated that close to half of the forest has already disappeared. As the mangroves vanish, so too do the livelihoods of the population. Almost uniquely, mangroves are able to flourish in saline, oxygen-poor soil. Straddling the divide between land and sea, these semi-aquatic plants stabilise shorelines, trapping sediment and buffering coasts against erosion from storms and sea-level rise. Their strange, prop-like roots can filter out as much as 90% of salt from seawater, and their thick, waxy leaves store and seal in fresh water. “Mangroves constitute a natural barrier against hazards and disasters, such as sea level rise, tsunamis and cyclones, which can have a devastating impact on villages and coastal populations and consequently seriously harm the daily economic and social life of communities there,” said Rakotomalala. “Mangroves also feed these coastal populations because the mangrove constitutes a nursery area in particular for fishery products such as shrimp, fish and crabs. These communities depend predominantly on fishing and aquaculture, so without the mangroves, coastal communities are becoming increasingly vulnerable and impoverished.” Since 2014, WWF has been working with local community groups in the village of Ankazomborona as they seek to reverse the loss of their forests. As we drove, Ramiandravola described how the community has started to manage this reversal. “Their first task was to assign dedicated zones in the forest,” he explained. “Zones were created where forest is not to be touched, other zones where sustainable harvest is allowed, and further zones where reforestation is to take place.” The community agrees penalties for anyone caught breaching the rules. To ensure that the new guidelines are followed, and that illegal deforestation is stopped, WWF has worked with the community to support a team of ‘mangrove police’.

The Polisin'ala has respect amongst local communities.

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The roads in Madagascar are notoriously slow going – more pothole than road. When we finally arrived in Ankazomborona, the mangrove police were waiting for us, and keen to get moving. It was low tide. Immediately outside the village, we found ourselves in the estuarine mud that mangroves favour. The mud was thick and hot, oozing between our toes as we made our way through the remaining old growth forest. Red-clawed crabs scattered at our approach, ducking into their burrows. The mangrove police are an unarmed group of volunteers, whose presence ensures that the community’s agreed rules are being followed. Some of the team carried binoculars, to pick out anybody who might be logging illegally, while others carried walkie-talkies. The whole team strode forward with a sense of purpose, following their daily beat through the mangroves. At their helm was André, a natural leader with a beret and a ready smile, who directed the team as it fanned out through the trees. I did my best to run ahead to photograph the team, the mud sucking at my ankles. “The Polisin'ala, or mangrove police, come from the local area and have received a mandate from the regional forest administration to patrol the mangroves and enforce the local social conventions for mangrove management”, Rakotomalala tells me. “This structure is under the authority of the CLB (local basic committee), which regularly reports to the regional forestry administration. They carry out patrols anywhere between six and 12 days in a month, and if they can, bring offenders to the village council, in accordance with the local agreement.” Far more than just policing, however, the Polisin'ala are central to the communities’ reforestation efforts. As we walked, André and the team collected propagules from the surrounding trees. These long smooth spikes are the ‘seeds’ through which mangroves propagate themselves. Normally, when mature, these spikes drop to the ground and are swept away by the tide, distributing themselves along the coast. In these villages, however, nature is being given a helping hand by the mangrove police. We soon arrived at one of the open expanses of mud we had seen on the drive here, and André directed the team to form a line. Working together, shoulder to shoulder, they pushed their spikes into the mud, advancing a few paces and then repeating. Slowly, methodically, a muddy desert was transformed into a living nursery. Watching the team bent double about their work, I was reminded of the rice farmers we had

â&#x20AC;&#x153;The Polisin'ala, or mangrove police, come from the local area and have received a mandate from the regional forest administration to patrol the mangroves and enforce the local social conventions for mangrove management.â&#x20AC;?

A 'mangrove policeman' in Ankazomborona village surveys a protected mangrove forest for evidence of illegal activity.

BEHIND THE LENS

“So far, 1,400 hectares of mangroves have been planted: 14 million new trees in a matter of years.”

Oceanographic Issue 14

BEHIND THE LENS

Some of the 14 million new mangrove trees, as seen from the air.

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TOP: Mangroves are viviparous (bring forth live young) like mammals. These 'live young' are used to repopulate depleted forests. MIDDLE: A river, brown with topsoil, flows into the open sea. BOTTOM: Mangroves are a critical nursery for the young fish on which Madagascar's coastal population depends.

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seen everywhere throughout Madagascar, bent over at the waist, pushing their rice plants into the mud. The difference was critical though. While rice farming takes place in a landscape denuded of trees, here the community was sweating side by side to restore what had been lost. The fishing sector is one of the most lucrative in Madagascar, providing both sustenance and income for many of the population. Increasing demand, however, driven by population increases and international demand, is leading to increasing conflict as stocks dwindle. “Faced with declining stocks, industrial fishing companies and small-scale fishermen come into conflict because no one respects the fishing zones specifically allocated to each and blame each other,” said Rakotomalala. “To survive in the wake of vast international fishing fleets, small-scale fishermen use illegal fishing techniques and gear, which further exacerbates the depletion of stocks.” Besides supporting communities with the reforestation and management of their mangrove forest, WWF seeks out ways to aid local fishermen in their desire to work more sustainably. In a neighbouring village, local fishermen have begun using special hoop nets that allow juvenile crabs under a certain size to escape. Fishers are also beginning to implement the release of egg-carrying female shrimp, so as to ensure the next generation. The goal is to safeguard the long-term sustainability of these fisheries on which so many depend. In other villages, communities are cultivating new beekeeping projects. The honey provides a valuable alternative income stream to charcoal production. Back at the village, the mangrove police had one last thing to show me. At the rear of the village hall where the community has its headquarters, WWF and its partners have constructed a small climate station that records the daily climatic variations. The findings of this and similar stations are alarming. In the past five decades, precipitation in the region has dropped more than 10% and is concentrated in shorter, more intense, rainy seasons. Average temperatures are half a degree warmer than just a few years ago, winds are stronger, meaning fishing days are fewer, cyclones are on the increase, and sea levels are rising. It has been reported that in 2018, Madagascar was among the top four countries in the world for extreme, climaterelated events. The two cyclones that struck the island just before my visit were responsible for 70,000 people being forced to seek refuge. Madagascar is on the climate change frontline. The race to rescue Madagascar’s mangroves is, as much as anything, a race against time to protect against the devastations of climate change. Mangroves are intrinsically resilient and adaptive against climate change. By trapping sediment, they can protect against sea level rise. They are a first defence against the onslaught of storms and cyclones. Maybe most importantly of all in the long term, they are one of nature’s most powerful carbon sinks. Experts believe that mangroves can store more carbon per acre than any other forest variety, and up to four times more carbon than tropical forests, such as the Amazon. This carbon can be locked away in mangrove forests for thousands of years if they are left undisturbed. Through the mangrove police and associated initiatives, community organisations, supported by WWF and other partners, are targeting the restoration of mangrove coverage in Ambaro Bay to its 2014 level and prevention of further loss. So far, four villages have begun reforestation efforts and community management of their forests. This work will expand to 20 villages in the near future. Throughout much of my trip around Madagascar, I felt a sense helplessness. The smoke of deforestation was constantly in the air. It seemed to have settled like a mist over the country, even in the most remote national parks that we visited. The plight of Madagascar seemed so intractable, with conservation locked in a losing battle with both the short-term needs of a population that has grown from 7 million to 27 million in just 50 years, international demand on resources and the ravages of a changing climate. Spending time with the mangrove police, however, I felt a glimmer of hope that here, at least, a long-term solution might just be possible. Seeing the community working together, and fully aware of the risks of what was at stake, was inspiring. As the mangrove police strode through the forests, their sense of purpose was palpable, and infectious. “People want to continue to maintain their way of life, which is based on fishing and activities linked to the sea,” said Rakotomalala. “For this, they agree to structure themselves, to organise and to actively participate in the management of their resources. They want the natural resources that are the basis of their way of life to last and to provide an invaluable legacy for future generations. However, there are extraordinary pressures: the natural increase of the population, migrations, those from big cities who plunder resources, and the devastating impact of climate change. The community requests the support of people of good will [and] NGOs to support them in achieving their objectives.” Before leaving the village, I launched a drone to get a sense of what had been achieved so far. From the air, I saw huge expanses of young trees radiating from the village. So far, 1,400 hectares of mangroves have been planted: 14 million new trees in a matter of years. The threats continue to increase, but thanks to the work of these communities, here at least the fight is far from over.

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Column

By Joseph Sullivan & The Outlaw Ocean Project

The guest columnist THE HIDDEN COST OF SQUID

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Along the length of Japan's west coast, hundreds of North Korean fishing vessels have been washing up on the shores, their only cargo the decomposing bodies of their crews.â&#x20AC;?

About The Outlaw Ocean Project The Outlaw Ocean Project is a nonprofit journalism organisation based in Washington, D.C. that focuses on reporting about environmental and human rights crimes at sea. It was founded by Ian Urbina, a former investigative reporter for The New York Times. For more information, visit: www.theoutlawocean.com

Photograph courtesy of The Outlaw Ocean Project.

Oceanographic Issue 14

www.theoutlawocean.com

he story of the hidden cost of calamari begins along the shores of the Sea of Japan. This is one of the most heavily contested and poorly monitored patches of ocean on the planet, framed by four countries (South Korea, North Korea, Japan and Russia) all of whom stake overlapping and disputed territorial claims to its waters. It is here that a mysterious and grizzly phenomenon has baffled Japanese authorities for years. Along the length of Japan’s west coast, hundreds of North Korean fishing vessels have been washing up on the shores, their only cargo the decomposing bodies of their crews. New revelations have come to light that may explain this macabre phenomenon. An extensive investigation by NBC News and The Outlaw Ocean Project has revealed the largest fleet of illegal fishing boats ever documented and the role this previously invisible flotilla may be playing in the dead bodies washing ashore in Japan, as well as a precipitous decline in the squid stock. The grim discoveries of these so-called ‘Ghost Ships’ is disturbingly common in Japan. As many as 165 of these vessels were found in 2019, with the Japanese Coast Guard reporting the bodies of 50 North Koreans washing up in the same period, according to the investigation. The ships are largely dilapidated, wooden vessels with little to no facilities or shelter for those unfortunate enough to serve as their crew. Autopsies of the bodies revealed the crews to be overwhelmingly male, most of whom died through starvation, dehydration or hypothermia. Yet the mystery of why so many of these doomed vessels are washing up, sometimes carried for months by wind, current and tide to Japan’s shores, has long been unanswered. The most likely scenario is that these are desperately poor fishermen from Kim Jong Un’s hermit state, who find themselves under ever greater pressure from Pyongyang to catch larger quantities of what is already a stock under strain. Desperation has driven them to explore and exploit waters far beyond North Korea’s Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ). But pressure at the hands of the government is not thought to be the sole reason for these dangerous forays into foreign waters. The international investigation team included Global Fishing Watch, a non-profit organisation that specialises in the use of satellite technology and AI to track illegal activities on the high seas. They were able to detect a previously invisible fleet of more than 700 Chinese vessels thanks to satellite technology capable of detecting the extremely bright lights used by squid fishermen at night to coax their prey closer to the surface. This armada had until recently been operating in the shadows owing to their captains routinely turning off their Automatic Identification System (AIS) transponders, rendering them invisible to authorities on land. The Outlaw Ocean team documented the Chinese fleet crossing into North Korean waters under the cover of darkness, travelling with their AIS transponders off merely 100 miles from shore. These vessels are operating in direct violation of the 2017 sanctions imposed by the UN Security Council (of which China is a member) in response to Pyongyang’s nuclear tests. Those sanctions forbid all fishing by foreign vessels in North Korean waters, in a bid to stifle a previously vital source of revenue in the form of fishing rights sold to foreign operators. The Chinese vessels are notoriously aggressive and known to intimidate local fishermen around the wider region. In North Korean waters, it appears that they have out-muscled local fishermen, who cannot compete with these larger ships, which often exceed a gross tonnage of 200 tonnes; forcing them to take further out to sea, encroaching into the EEZs of Japan, South Korea and Russia in search of an adequate catch. All too often, their vessels are unfit for such voyages, increasingly crewed by inexperienced mariners; often soldiers haphazardly retrained as fishermen. Many crews have fallen victim to the harsh conditions in these waters, battered by heavy storms, or succumbing to exposure. Others have had their fate sealed by simple engine failures, or running out of fuel, suffering a tragically slow death as their battered wooden ships drift for months on the currents. The impact of the illegal Chinese fleet has been severe, perhaps nowhere more so than in the dozens of widows villages that dot the North Korean coast, a macabre reference to the communities in which men have gone to sea and never returned. The discovery of such an enormous illegal fleet highlights the significant shortcomings in terms of international law and its enforcement across the world’s oceans. The myriad loopholes and grey areas in legal structures such as the UN Convention of the Law of the Sea coupled with a lack of enforcement in the case of squid fishing, and a lack of transparency in the international supply chain leaves consumers largely in the dark about the hidden cost of their food, beyond that printed on the menu. It highlights the need for all of us to ask the sometimes uncomfortable questions of where our seafood is from, how it is caught, and perhaps most of all, at whose expense? JS / TOOP

Oceanographic Issue 14

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 10

www.only.one @onlyone

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

PAUL NICKLEN Behind the Lens places a spotlight on the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s foremost ocean conservation photographers. Each edition focusses on the work of an individual who continues to shape global public opinion through powerful imagery and compelling storytelling.

BEHIND THE LENS

Q&A PAU L N I C K L E N Internationally-acclaimed nature photographer, award-winning photojournalist, author and International Photography Hall of Fame inductee. Paul Nicklen is a Canadian photographer and conservationist. He has received more than 30 of the highest awards given to photographers in his field, including the BBC Wildlife Photographer of the Year and the prestigious World Press Photo for photojournalism. In 2019, he received the Order of Canada, the centrepiece of Canada’s honours system that recognises a lifetime of outstanding achievement, dedication to the community and service to the nation.

OC EA NO G R A PH IC M AGAZ I N E (OM ): YOU W E RE BORN A LONG WAY FROM TH E OCEAN. WH EN YO U W E R E J U S T F O U R Y E A R S O L D , YO U R PA R E N T S M OV E D TO B A F F I N I S L A N D , A P L AC E WH ER E T H E O CE AN AN D L I F E ARE I N T E RT W I NED. GIVEN TH E COURSE YOUR LIFE H AS RUN SINCE, DO YO U AT T RI BU T E T H AT M OV E TO F O RTUNE OR FATE? PAUL NICKLEN (PN): If anyone were to ask me to go back to a defining period of my life, a run of years that truly shaped who I am today, it would be my childhood living with the Inuit of Iqaluit and Lake Harbour. I was thrust into a society and culture that fostered within me a deep love and understanding of the Arctic environment, enabled the development of unique and ancient survival skills and, perhaps most critically for the journey that has unfolded in the years since, emboldened my creative mindset. It was a truly formative time – my left brain learning the requirements for surviving in -45 degrees Celsius and 100mph winds, my right brain enraptured by Inuit ghost stories such as the sea monster Qalupalik, who pulled children beneath the ice. I fell in love with the right brain creative process of storytelling, but was also learning to become tough – as kids we’d play games to see who could stay buried in a snowbank for the longest, or who was the last to stand the pain of wearing just a T-shirt outside during a storm. But it was the stories that mesmerised me – rich visuals of ghosts and great hunters on land. I was in awe of that storytelling process, as well as with the land and the seascape that formed the foundations of those stories, and that eventually manifested itself in art of my own. I think it would be fair to say that as soon as my family and I arrived to Baffin Island, my path was set. OM : W H EN D ID YOU F I RS T C ON N E C T W I T H T HE OCEAN? PN: It was something that developed over the years. Even though Iqaluit, where we lived until I was seven years old, has the second highest tides in the world at 42ft, it wasn't until we moved to Lake Harbour that I realised how central to life the ocean was. When playing out on the tidal flats you’d have to run back to safety when the tide turned because the water came in so fast. At a place called Soper Falls, the waterfall switches direction as the 40ft tide swings! Eventually, I started joining my dad and the Inuit hunting and traveling on the ice. On our way back from expeditions we’d have to wait for the tide to rise up by 30ft in places so that we could drive our snowmobiles off the sea ice and back onto land. Then, at the age of nine I got my first snowmobile. I started taking off on the ice, exploring and fishing with my friends. To be cut loose at that age, to be out there with wild animals, to be personally connecting with the environment and understanding the interconnectedness of it all, was illuminating. I truly fell in love. OM : YO U R MOT H E R WAS A P H OTOGRAP H E R. WH EN DID P H OTOGRAP H Y TRANSITION FROM A FASCINATING THING ‘MUM DID’ TO SOMETHING THAT WAS CENTRAL TO YOUR OWN IDENTITY? PN: Watching my mom convert her beautiful negatives into prints in the dark room in our humble little house was magical to me, but I didn't ever think I could be a photographer. When you grow up in the North, there’s a feeling that you won’t ever be anybody. It’s a sentiment that permeates the entire community – or certainly did back then. For me and my peers, all we did was dream. We didn't have a television. We didn't have a telephone. In terms of material things, all I had were encyclopaedias and Jacques Cousteau books. I was always reading, dreaming or

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entertaining myself outdoors, scurrying about in the intertidal zone, turning over every rock with fascination, learning from the ocean, enthralled by the return of the huntsmen and the wildlife and nature they encountered. On a family excursion to Italy when I was 15 years old, my mom lent me her Pentax K1000. To be seeing the world through a camera was fascinating to me. I loved it, but never did I think I was going to be a photographer or explore underwater like Jacques Cousteau. Years later, at university, while walking back from class late one evening, I saw a notice advertising scuba diving. Up until that moment, underwater exploration had always felt out of reach for someone like me. Suddenly everything changed. I knew there was an avenue for me in life. I quickly became obsessed. I didn’t have a car, but I did have a motorbike, so I’d put my drysuit, weight belt and tank on, strap my things to the back and drive to dive sites at night. Diving was my first true obsession, rather than photography. That sense of exploring beneath the waves was like nothing I’d experienced before. O M: YO U R L I F E C H AN GE D S I GN I F I C ANTLY AFTER UNIVERSITY. FULL OF DOUBT ABOUT A PH OTO G RAP H Y C ARE E R, YOU D I S AP PEARED INTO TH E WILDERNESS, ALONE, FOR SEVERAL MO NT H S , W H E RE YOU E XP E RI E N C E D A VISCERAL RESET. DOES TH AT MOMENT – AND TH E A S S O CIAT E D E M OT I ON S AN D F OC U S – STILL FUEL YOUR WORK TODAY? PN: Yes, definitely. When I left university, I was all about diving. I made up projects at the Bamfield Marine Sciences Centre that allowed me to get my camera underwater – I had a new Nikonos V that I had worked so hard to get. I was out there primarily for scientific study, but I was really down there taking pictures most of the time. I was exploring, swimming with six-gill sharks – beautiful, life-enriching experiences. Then I got a job as a biologist, working on lynx and polar bears. In many ways it was a dream job. I sold all my dive equipment and resigned myself to becoming a surface photographer. I started to make pictures of grizzly bears, polar bears and wolves, which was amazing, but I felt unfulfilled – I was desperate to get back underwater. Then I went on a three-month solo expedition. To have that time and space to think was a gift. It was like entering into a meditative state for three months. I realised that you are who you decide you are. It that moment, surrounded by wilderness, I knew – with confidence and clarity for the first time – that I was going to use my camera to start connecting people to the beauty of our planet and the issues it faces. I also knew that my heart was truly underwater. I didn't have the finances, resources or equipment at that stage, but I had conviction. When I returned I wrote an 80-page essay to the Canadian government seeking funding for a Nexus F4 underwater housing. It took me a month to write, and it worked – the housing came with an additional $8,000 grant, which went towards publishing my first book. The determination and passion that came from that expedition was monumental in shaping my journey since. That mindset prepared me for challenges further down the road, like when my mentor Flip Nicklin told me I wasn’t an underwater photographer or when Kent Koberstein, the director of photography at National Geographic at the time, told me he didn’t think I was ready – he already had the best underwater photographers on the planet. So I asked myself a question: what sets me apart as an underwater photographer? The answer: the ability to be freezing and miserable, to endure frozen fingers and frozen toes, and to still get the shot. So that’s what I did – I suffered, and I came back with images my peers weren’t getting. Flip’s enthusiasm and approval for those early images was all the validation I needed. I’d found my niche. O M: YO U ' V E S P E N T A L OT OF T I M E A LONE ON ASSIGNMENTS. DOES TH AT ISOLATION EVER W EIG H H E AV Y OR ARE YOU ALWAY S FILLED WITH A SENSE OF COMFORT AND P URP OSE? PN: The only time I'm ever lonely, scared or worried is when I'm in big cities. When I'm alone in nature, I’m home, surrounded by all the important things in life – weather, wind, light, ice, snow, animals, ecosystems. I always feel incredibly fulfilled in the wild. O M: H OW BI G A C H AL L E N GE I S T H E TASK OF RECONNECTING P EOP LE AND P LANET? PN: It’s certainly a challenge, but we have the tools to connect with people on a scale that hasn’t been possible at any other time in human history. I love that out of my 6.6 million followers on Instagram, 550,000 of them live in New York City – a city I know is generally disconnected from nature and the ocean, despite it being a coastal city. I embrace the job of connecting those people to the ocean and this planet’s wild places. Whether they work on Wall Street, in an ad agency or on a hotdog stand, I know I offer something different to their busy lives, that I can reach in directly and grab their attention, their hearts. Powerful, evocative, beautiful photography and storytelling allows people to escape, to go on a journey, to care.

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Q&A Continued...

OM: YO U S PEND A L OT OF T I M E ON T H E ROA D. WH AT DOES H OME MEAN TO YOU? PN: A friend of mine once told me he decided to live in Spokane, Washington, because it's the ugliest city he could think of so he wouldn't miss it while traveling. I understand the logic, but it’s not a sentiment I can relate to. My life at home is beautiful. That beauty has been amplified during this pandemic: with less boat traffic we’ve seen grey whales feeding on herring eggs right on our doorstep and humpbacks and orcas have come back into the area. Two nights ago I was out on my paddleboard and had a humpback whale come up right beside my board. He was so close I had to sit down. So I respectfully disagree with my buddy from Spokane. It’s a little more emotional to be away from it, but home, for me, is a place of restoration and reward. OM: W H AT H A S T H E N AT U RAL W ORL D TAU GHT YOU ABOUT YOURSELF? PN: More than anything else it has taught me the importance of balance. A big part of that comes from my connection to Inuit culture – the respect of the natural world passed down from the elders to the rest of the community, the recognition that everything has its place in a harmonious ecosystem. As true as that is for ecosystems across the world – as well as the planet as a whole – it is also true of us as individuals. In nature, that balance comes from getting out of its way – a reason why I support Marine Protected Areas – and it’s no different for us as people, or certainly me as a person. When I feel anxieties rising, I try not to overthink. I find a peaceful, meditative state, invariably framed around nature, and get out of my own way. Life on this planet is one big balancing act, and we as people are very much a part of that. It’s been a great lesson learned. OM: H A S NAT UR E RE V E AL E D AN Y T H I N G TO YOU TH AT AN IMAGE COULD NEVER TRANSLATE? PN: To sit next to a spirit bear while it sleeps under a tree, or to have a wolfpack accept you and sit ten feet from you as they howl, those moments are impossible to translate. I pinch myself that those are my experiences. Truly, they are the moments I live for, but that feeling of being truly wild is always just out of reach. On the three-month expedition we spoke of earlier, I got close to wild then: I was seeing a herd of muskox 20 kilometres away, I caught smells on the wind, I noticed changes in energy as bears and wolves approached. As a photographer, as an artist, I want to continue to chase that ‘true wild’, to be that fly on the wall, a ghost, because only then will I be able to translate who these animals are, what they feel and what they need. OM : T H E R E ’ S A N I N T I M AC Y TO YO U R I M AG E S. DO YOU SEEK THAT OUT STYLISTICALLY OR IS IT A CO NS EQU ENCE OF T H E T I M E AN D T RU S T TH AT YOU DEVELOP WITH INDIVIDUAL ANIMALS? PN: It was the great Robert Capa who said: “If your pictures aren't good enough, you're not close enough.” His subject was war, mine is nature, but the same rule applies. In nature, that closeness takes time. I start off with a long telephoto lens and I let the animal hear me, get comfortable with me. If I don't move day after day, week after week, they know who I am, they know what I smell like, they know that I'm not a threat. Eventually, over time and without having stressed them out, these animals let me into their world. I once had a pack of sea wolves, who've seen very few people, leave all their new-born pups with me to babysit while they went to hunt – that level of acceptance is what I’m always chasing because it allows me to better understand my subject and better communicate their story. That’s why I sit on the edge of a river with grizzly or spirit bears for a month, every day, from dawn to dusk, waiting for that moment of acceptance. It is only then – emotionally satiated and full of gratitude – that I start to compose the images that truly matter. OM: IN YO UR B O O K ‘ BORN TO I C E ’ YOU S AY TH AT FEAR AND FASCINATION ARE TWO H ALVES OF O NE MIND . H OW D O T H OS E T W O H ALV E S INFLUENCE YOU? PN: When you’re about to dive with leopard seals or walrus, everything in you is telling you to stay on the boat. It’s a battle. For me personally, the pull of fascination is just too strong. I get to go under the ice and dive with these incredible animals. Very few people get to experience that. Getting in the water with orcas is an equally demanding process. When you see a six-foot-tall dorsal fin scything through the rough waters of Norway, the sea and sky both full of darkness, you question what you’re about to do. Then you put on your mask and drop below the surface, just a couple of inches, and everything changes. Poetry, beauty, magic. The biggest battle is telling the stories that need to be told to save this planet and the creatures who call it home, and doing it through their eyes – anybody can take a picture of a spy-hopping

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orca, but what is it like to be in a pod of 20 of them while they're working a ball of herring? We’re a fearful species, but if we listen to that fear we’ll never go anywhere. O M: A S YOU R P ROF I L E AN D RE AC H HAVE GROWN OVER TH E YEARS H AVE YOU CONSCIOUSLY CH A NG E D T H E WAY YOU OP E RAT E , AWARE OF NEW RESP ONSIBILITIES? PN: I strive to be a provider of hope. When I launched my gallery in New York, I invited the city, via Instagram, to come say ‘hi’. I was expecting 30 people. More than 3,000 turned up, the line stretching around the block. People came in wanting hugs, wanting to give me hugs, wanting to tell me their stories, wanting to connect. I get emotional thinking about it. These were real people dealing with real emotions, similar to mine, trying to process the world and where we are. I realised then that I had a responsibility to give people hope and purpose and passion. O M: AT YOU R 2 0 1 1 T E D TAL K YOU H A D TEARS WELLING IN YOUR EYES AS YOU RECEIVED A S TA NDIN G OVAT I ON . AS A S TORY T E L LER, ARE TH OSE RESP ONSES WH AT IT’S ALL ABOUT? PN: Yes – certainly in terms of the emotional connection around storytelling and the impact it can have. Throughout my 20 years working with National Geographic, many of my assignments have been permeated by a sense of fear – of failure, of not getting the images, of letting people down. And so when people gather to rejoice and celebrate that work after you've done the hard graft, you've done the storytelling, you've done the best you could, that’s special. The fear disappears. In that singular moment, the audience can feel you, they can read you, they can hear the undiluted power of your message and the calls of the wild animals you strive to give a voice to. They appreciate the beauty of a leopard seal, understand the importance of spirit bears, acknowledge the precious urgency of keeping oil off the British Columbia coast to protect a habitat that First Nation communities have fought so hard to protect. That’s what it’s about. O M: YO U F OU N D E D S E AL E GAC Y I N 2 0 1 4 WITH YOUR PARTNER CRISTINA MITTERMEIER. TELL US A B O U T T H E I N S P I RAT I ON BE H I N D TH AT AND WH AT YOU H OP E TO ACH IEVE. PN: The motivation was to connect people and stories on a more consistent basis. During an expedition that year to Svalbard, 550 nautical miles from the North pole, the first two polar bears we saw were dead. They were on land, due to there being no ice, and they had starved to death. In that moment, everything changed for me. Working for National Geographic had been an amazing gift, but I felt it was time to transition to a media that allowed my stories to stay out there longer than a magazine’s run time, as well as get out into the public domain faster. It was time for me to step off that story treadmill. Cristina had her own revelations, but we decided together that it was time to create a storytelling movement where we could meaningfully connect people with the big issues on a longer-term basis. I already had a million followers on Instagram at that time, each of them hungry for stories, and I could connect with them every day. So that’s what we did, and that’s what we continue to do – connect, empower, engender change. Excitingly, we’re now working hard on the next phase of our activism journey, creating an amplification agency for everybody else's work. As a conservation community we need to share and communicate better. The Only One platform (www.only.one) will address that – a beautiful, kinetic beast that will grow itself and could truly be a game-changer. Whatever energy the global audience puts into it will be reflected back in conservation wins. O M : YO U R E C E N T LY C O L L A B O R AT E D WITH LEGENDARY ROCK BAND, PEARL JAM. HOW ENER G IS I N G I S I T TO S H I F T GE AR AN D WORK ON DIFFERENT P ROJECTS LIKE TH AT? PN: I get starstruck easily – I’m still that kid who grew up in the Arctic with no TV. To have my artwork feature on the cover of a Pearl Jam album is cool. I love that meeting of artforms, different artists with different fanbase demographics collaborating to amplify a central message. To be aligned together like that is powerful. These guys are performing to tens of thousands of people in highly emotional settings; it’s a privilege to be associated with that messaging. O M: YO U R D RE AM AS A YOU N G M AN WAS TO BE AN UNDERWATER P H OTOGRAP H ER FOR NAT IO NA L GE OGRAP H I C . W H AT ' S T H E DREAM NOW? PN: In many respects I’m at a beautiful point in my journey, and I think part of that is being able to see things with such clarity now. I started out in science, then shooting pretty pictures, then becoming a journalist, and now a conservation photographer. The only way I can battle my anxiety for the state of this planet is to continue to get out there, to work, to give a voice to the voiceless creatures of this world, to crush media and turn that media over in service to conservation. That is the singular mission now. Most importantly, I’ve got to hang on to Cristina's coattails. She’s on fire. She’s on a mission. She's going to save the world.

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Canada 'Gathering of Unicorns' - Male narwhals rest in a hole in the ice before descending to feed on polar cod in Lancaster Sound, Nunavut.

Yukon, Canada 'Frozen' - A male grizzly bear is covered in ice from lunging for salmon in the Fishing Branch River.

Ellesmere Island, Canadian Arctic Bowhead whales live their entire lives in and around sea ice since their food, copepods (swarms of tiny krill-like crustaceans) live their life-cycle under the ice.

Svalbard, Norway 'Face to Face' - While I was waiting out of blizzard, this bear was peeking through the window of my tiny cabin. I opened the window and face to face, she found my camera and smile of gratitude looking back at her.

Ross Sea, Antarctica 'Evolve' - An emperor penguin releases millions of microbubbles from its feathers as it accelerates towards the surface.

Antarctica 'Polar Palace' - An iceberg slowly succumbs to erosion.

Norway 'Wild Pod' - A pod of orcas travel together as they search for large schools of herring that overwinter in the northern fjords.

Norway 'Liquid Curtain' - A humpback whale sprays a curtain of water as it dives down onto a large school of herring in Lofoten.

Canada A Kermode Bear, a black bear born with white fur, takes a nap on a carpet of moss in British Columbiaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Great Bear Rainforest.

Svalbard, Norway 'Ice waterfall' - Water gushes off the Nordaustlandet ice cap. This image was used on Pearl Jam's latest album cover.

Hudson Bay, Manitoba, Canada 'Polar Dance' - Polar bears stand up and box regardless of the whiteout and stormy conditions.

Antarctic Peninsula, Antarctica 'The Gesture' - A leopard seal does a playful threat-display by opening its jaws as wide as possible.

Behind the lens

PAUL NICKLEN Antarctic Sound, Antarctica 'Chinstrap Traveler' - A chinstrap penguin clings to the grooves of an iceberg.

PERSONAL

@paulnicklen

SEALEGACY

@sealegacy

Having grown up in the Canadian Arctic, Paul is uniquely qualified to create a brand of documentary photography which informs and creates an emotional connection with wild subjects in extreme conditions. His work delivers audiences to an underwater realm witnessed by few. Paul is equally recognised by the conservation community for his outspoken work and has received the Natural Resources Defense Council BioGems Visionary Award. He has also received an Honorary PhD from the University of Victoria (BC) and, in 2018, was named one of National Geographicâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Adventurers of the Year.

@paulnicklen @SeaLegacy

@paulnicklen @sealegacy

www.paulnicklen.com

sealegacy.org

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Cristina Mittermeier

There is only one way to do this: together. In the face of such huge challenges, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s easy to feel like a drop in the ocean. But together, a million small actions can turn the tide.

www.only.one @onlyone

T H E I M P O RTA N C E O F

ocean meadows Seagrass beds have long been deemed unsightly by resorts in the Maldives, blemishes that need removing in order to maintain the archipelagoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s picture-perfect reputation. Now, campaigners for the Resilient Reefs Project are rapidly changing that reputation by revealing the importance of seagrasses for local marine life and global carbon capture, as well as the positive impacts they can have on the tourism industry. Wo rd s b y S h a h a H a s h i m / P h o t o g ra p h s b y M a t t Po r t e o u s

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remember my first experience of seagrass very well. I was living on a reclaimed island called Hulhumale’ at the time, a five-minute boat ride from the capital city of Male’. The island had been built to make space for an increasing population at the city centre, but in the process, it destroyed the once thriving reef that it was built on top of. I knew I had a very slim chance of seeing healthy corals. Still, I wanted to venture underwater to get up close with its inhabitants, to disappear into their world. I surveyed the shoreline. I could just about make out dark patches in the sea on the northern side of the island. I struggled over broken rocks and discarded construction material and finally plunged myself waist deep into the water. With plans already underway to reclaim the island further, this swim was my only chance to witness what lay beneath the waves at this particular spot. I started to swim. Having seen stingrays swimming in the silty lagoon from the shore, I was a little apprehensive - growing up we were told that the ocean was a dangerous place. After a few minutes I reached the dark patches I had spotted earlier. As I drew closer, I started to make out what was in front of me. It was a densely vegetated underwater meadow, a forest of long green grasses swaying back and forth in the water, dancing amongst the rays of sunlight. I was mesmerised. I started visiting this patch more often and with each visit came a new surprise. Pairs of ribbon eels swam freely in the water flaunting their bright blues and yellows. Schools of bumphead parrotfish cruised by without taking any notice of me. Fevers of juvenile stingrays lazed on the sandy patches in the afternoon sun. Yellow coral gobies checked me out from behind branches of staghorn corals. Patches of very healthy rose-like corals glinted in the sunlight and small fish that I had never seen before on coral reefs were spotted sheltering amongst the seagrasses. I felt like I had stumbled upon a well-kept secret. At that time, in the Maldives, seagrasses were considered ugly and both Maldivian people and tourism businesses actively destroyed them. Some resorts would cover seagrasses with tarp to suffocate them while others would remove them laboriously by hand or with tools. This didn’t sit well with me. I couldn’t understand how anyone could think these beautiful places merited being destroyed. Surely seagrasses served a purpose? I discovered that seagrasses are flowering plants that adapted to survive underwater 100 million years ago. Just like plants on land, seagrasses photosynthesise and release oxygen as a byproduct. Smithsonian Institute estimates that just a hectare of seagrass can produce 100,000 litres of oxygen a day. Seagrasses are found on all continents, except Antarctica. To date, more than 70 species of seagrasses have been recorded. Soberingly, a study by the University of California found that almost 15% of these are now considered threatened due to habitat loss and degradation, driven by rapid development and pollution. Seagrasses are thought to be one of the most rapidly declining ecosystems in the world. It is estimated that 29% PREVIOUS: Clusters of seagrass in the Maldives, as seen from above. THIS PAGE: Freedivers explore a healthy seagrass bed.

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“Seagrasses are flowering plants that adapted to survive underwater 100 million years ago. Just like plants on land, seagrasses photosynthesise and release oxygen as a by-product.”

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;IUCN estimates that seagrasses are responsible for storing about 15% of the total carbon stored in the ocean. Furthermore, they can bury that carbon in the seabed 40 times faster than tropical forests bury it in soil.â&#x20AC;?

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MAIN IMAGE: Buffered by a sandy beach, two green worlds collide - vegetation on land and seagrasses beneath the waterline. TOP & MIDDLE: Members of the Resilient Reefs Project collect data. BOTTOM: A thick, vibrant bed of seagrass - a haven for marine life.

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;The data we gathered revealed that guests saw more megafauna in the seagrass meadows than on the reefs. Conserving these meadows was good for business. â&#x20AC;?

Seagrass beds provide habitat for a variety of species, large and small, including cowtail stingrays.

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of global seagrass has been lost and if trends continue, another 20-30% could be lost in the next 100 years. In the Maldives, seagrasses are found in shallow lagoon areas between the low-tide mark of the island and the coral reef which protects the island. They are not found uniformly across the country, but it is not understood why this is. Maldivians often confuse seagrasses with seaweed. Seaweeds are a type of algae that do not have flowers or veins and are not specialised to absorb nutrients like seagrasses. In recent years, seagrass areas are believed to have expanded in the Maldives. Scientists put this down to high nutrient input from sewerage outfalls and restricted water flow due to coastal modification projects. Like any other land plant, they grow stronger and faster when nutrients are present, providing an essential function in cleaning up the water column. Seagrasses can also help protect coral reefs and humans from disease. In Indonesia, a study led by Cornell University (US) found that reefs bordered by seagrass meadows had 50% less bacterial pathogens capable of causing disease in humans and marine organisms. Seagrasses are home to a huge numbers of marine species that depend on them for food and shelter. A study by the National Centre For Sustainable Coastal Management in India discovered that a single hectare of seagrass can house as many as 100,000 fish. Critically endangered green and hawksbill turtles feed on seagrasses. Green turtles can eat up to two kilograms of seagrass a day and they tend to return to the same areas to feed. When resorts remove their seagrass meadows for aesthetic reasons, the chances of their guests seeing turtles around the island decreases significantly. Kuredu Island Resort, which has a four-hectare seagrass meadow, one of the largest patches of seagrass of any resort in the Maldives, has a resident green sea turtle population of 76. Many commercially important reef fish use multiple habitats such as seagrass meadows and mangroves at different stages of their life cycle. For fish like groupers, snappers, emperors and parrotfish, these meadows are a haven from predators in their juvenile stages. A study by British seagrass scientist Richard Unsworth found that seagrass meadows provide valuable nursery habitat for more than 20% of the world's largest 25 fisheries. The draw card though, is the capacity for seagrasses to fight climate change – they absorb enormous amounts of carbon dioxide from the water. IUCN estimates that seagrasses are responsible for storing about 15% of the total carbon stored in the ocean. Furthermore, they can bury that carbon in the seabed 40 times faster than tropical forests bury it in soil, according to a study led by the Institut Mediterrani d’Estudis Avançats, Spain. Protection of seagrasses in the Maldives is imperative if the country – my country – wants to protect its islands and people. A staggering 80% of our islands are less than a metre above sea level; we are at the frontline of climate change. These magnificent plants can help us protect ourselves. They bind the sediment together, reducing the energy of waves, which is turn reduces erosion.

In 2016, I started working for Blue Marine Foundation (BLUE), which is working to get 30% of Maldivian waters protected, and moved to Laamu Atoll to live at Six Senses Laamu, our partner resort. Within the first few weeks of being there I noticed the resort removing some of the seagrass around the island – a practice that was quickly stopped following discussions with the resort’s general manager. With the local seagrasses protected, the Maldives Underwater Initiative team and I got to work with our broader task of making seagrass interesting. We developed education material, snorkelling excursions and got guests involved in seagrass conservation by asking them to record the megafauna they saw on their snorkels or from their over-water bungalows. The data we gathered revealed that guests saw more megafauna in the seagrass meadows than on the reefs, which made for happy customers. Conserving these meadows was improving business. The resort was also sand pumping ten times less than it was prior to committing to protect its meadows. The data showed that seagrass could be an asset to tourism, and we wanted to help others realise its value. Before we could tackle this issue, we needed to understand the scale of seagrass removal by resorts in the country. An initial survey of 49 resorts showed that more than 50% of those that had seagrass were actively removing it. This was the catalyst for the #ProtectMaldivesSeagrass campaign. BLUE and Six Senses Laamu developed a social media campaign to encourage other resorts to stop removing their seagrass beds. Within a few months, more than 25% of the country’s luxury resorts had committed to protect more than 830,000 square metres of seagrass across the country. Months later, seagrass conservation was included in the government’s new Strategic Action Plan, the first time seagrass had ever been included in a national planning document in the Maldives. Earlier this year, the Ministry of Fisheries, Marine Resources and Agriculture agreed to work with resorts to collect data on seagrasses around resort islands, in the same way they do for reefs. Efforts are now underway to calculate how much carbon the Maldives’ seagrass meadows store. Such data would allow the Maldivian government to include blue carbon ecosystems within its ‘Intended Nationally Determined Contributions’ to the United Nations, a summary of greenhouse gas mitigation offered by each signatory nation of the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change. It may also provide new impetus for better seagrass protections. The seagrass monitoring protocols developed throughout this project have been standardised for use across the country via the Maldives Seagrass Monitoring Network, a collection of seagrass champions who feed data into a national database. Securing nationwide data will build a detailed picture of the diversity, abundance and distribution of seagrasses across the Maldives archipelago, which in turn will help us in achieving protection for seagrass meadows under national law.

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URBAN

nursery Beneath the shadows of South Floridaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s high-rise coastal condos lies something unexpected: a manta ray nursery. With no formal population studies having been undertaken, one young biologist has taken it upon herself to discover more. Wo rd s a n d p h o t o g ra p h s b y B r y a n t Tu r ff s

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PREVIOUS: Men fish off a concrete pier, a manta ray in the shallows behind them. RIGHT: A researcher snorkels with a ray to capture ID photographs.

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he thin wrack line of South Florida’s beaches divides two distinct worlds. Ashore, the sprawling development of the metro area's seven million inhabitants spills across the state like torrential rain across its level streets. Towering condominiums encroach on coastal dunes, casting shadows by day and disruptive artificial light by night. Seaward, shallow coastal waters are peaceful and calm with sandy bottoms interspersed by limestone and coral reef, the warm Gulf Stream bringing diverse visitors such as whales, sharks and endangered leatherback turtles. Those turtles, along with the manatee, are emblematic of the Sunshine State. Ask most Floridians to name the species most regularly sighted in or associated with the panhandle’s waterways, it will very likely be one of those two. It almost certainly won't be the manta ray – not in modern, developed Florida at least. Dr Eugenie Clark in her book, The Lady and the Sharks, notes that mantas were semi-abundant in Florida prior to the 1950s, but that their populations appeared to be declining. There also exists a series of photographs of President Theodore Roosevelt posing alongside mantas he had harpooned as trophies in the early 20th century. Today, sightings are irregular – as a lifelong Florida resident and waterman, I had only ever seen one manta ray in my life. Until I met Jessica Pate. Pate, a marine biologist, was working for a sea turtle nesting programme in South Florida when she started noticing dark shadows in the shallow waters close to the shores on which she was working. Until then – even as an active diver with an understanding of the local reefs – she was unaware mantas visited South Florida’s coastal waters. Curious, she asked questions within the local marine science community and was surprised to discover that while mantas did frequent the area, no formal studies had been undertaken on the species. "I convinced a friend with a boat to take me out to look for mantas,” says Pate. “We found one pretty quickly. She was close enough that I could have reached out to stroke her.” While in the water together, the manta ray regularly turned over (mantas have better vision below their bodies and this behaviour was likely an attempt to better see Pate) and swam in slow circles. There seemed to be a mutual curiosity. It was a moment of reciprocity that captivated Pate. She needed to learn more. In 2016, she began her study, persuading me with her conviction and passion to help. We hired a rental boat and took days off work to search for manta rays. That first season’s objective was simple: prove that manta rays could be reliably and regularly located. With an awareness that the local dive community rarely saw mantas on deeper reefs, we focused on surveying shallow coastal waters less than five metres deep, off the beaches where Pate had first observed the species. In the first hour of our first survey we encountered two manta rays. We were jubilant. Hopes

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Upon sighting a manta, one of the research team would freedive with the ray and photograph the individual´s dorsal and ventral surfaces.

of a serious, meaningful study skyrocketed. Although sightings slowed dramatically thereafter – including a month-long stretch with no encounters – we continued surveying every week. By the end of that summer, we had encountered 11 individuals. It was a modest start, but significant. Pate doubled her efforts and founded The Florida Manta Project (FMP) with the Marine Megafauna Foundation (MMF). She recruited a team of young female volunteers – a point of pride to Pate – to conduct field surveys three times a week throughout the summer. These boat surveys involved scanning the surface for dark shapes and using a drone to improve efficacy. Upon sighting a manta, one of the research team would freedive with the ray and photograph the individual’s dorsal and ventral surfaces. Back on land, those images would be analysed for 'belly' spot arrangements that, much like a human’s fingerprint, could be used to identify an individual ray. A pattern quickly emerged from the data. “I was surprised to learn that nearly all the mantas were juveniles,” says Pate, “and that we were seeing the same individuals over and over again.” As of July 2020, the FMP team has identified 65 individual manta rays. A manta's age is determined by the size of reproductive claspers in males and the relative body size of females. Males typically reach maturity at about three metres, and females at four metres. In both instances maturity is estimated to take 8-10 years, with total lifespans conservatively put at 40 years. Most of the FMP's dataset falls between two and three metres of disc width, within the juvenile size range. Some individuals are small enough to be considered young of the year. One criterion for a habitat to be considered a nursery is the repeated usage of that habitat by juveniles. FMP’s data shows that 42% of all recorded rays have been sighted in the area more than once. One juvenile, nicknamed Gillie, has been seen 23 times in three years. As well as offering compelling evidence that South Florida’s coastline is a manta ray nursery, these re-sightings also give the FMP team insights into individual behaviour patterns. Most mantas show no interest in the researchers, but others, including one of Pate’s favourites, Stevie Nicks, seem curious about people. Each time Stevie has been encountered, she has engaged in “upside down” swimming behaviour similar to that of Pate’s first manta. On one occasion, FMP volunteers spent an hour in the water with Stevie cutting away fishing line from her body while she swam slow, patient circles below. While the incident perhaps highlights a degree of comfort that some mantas like Stevie Nicks feel in human company, it more importantly reveals the great perils all mantas face inhabiting waters bordered by sprawling human A manta ray, beyond the breakers.

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One criterion for a habitat to be considered a nursery is the repeated usage of that habitat by juveniles. FMP’s data shows that 42% of all recorded rays have been sighted in the area more than once.

Life on land looms large over life at sea.

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There have even been reports of mantas feeding multiple kilometres inshore, in murky waterways flanked by high rise apartment buildings.

populations – mantas have been sighted off Miami’s party beaches, feeding near Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville in Fort Lauderdale, and swimming past President Trump’s Mar-a-Lago resort in Palm Beach. According to FMP data, 27% of the local manta ray population has been observed entangled in fishing line. Fishing line can cause injury by cutting into the ray’s body and, in extreme cases, prevent normal swimming, which could lead to death. Boat strikes, distinguished by the wound and scar patterns that propellers create, are another risk. The FMP team has documented 10 incidents of such injury – a statistic that doesn’t come as a huge surprise given the size of Florida’s boating community and the use of horse power as a social metric. One juvenile male manta, nicknamed Kevin, instantly recognisable by a truncated left pectoral fin, has been particularly unfortunate, though that misfortune has given the FMP team unprecedented insight into a manta’s ability to heal. Kevin has suffered multiple entanglements as well as two deep propeller injuries. The wounds proved survivable, both completely closing within two to four weeks. While the severity of each wound will naturally vary, re-sightings of injured manta rays will, over time, allow Pate and her team to build an understanding of boat strike recovery time amongst the population. To better understand and mitigate the risks of future entanglements and boat strikes FMP has recently partnered with another local female-led organisation, Field School. The project has seen hundreds of fishermen interviewed in order to better understand how mantas become entangled in fishing line. The knowledge and attitudes of the participating fishermen towards manta conservation was also assessed. “Humans are central to both the causing and solving of all environmental problems,” says Dr Julia Wester, Director of Program Development for the Field School. “If you want to protect environmental resources, you will only be successful if you engage directly with the people who interact with and use those resources.” The fishermen interviews revealed that most instances of line entanglement are unintentional, though some do use mantas to target gamefish known to associate with rays. Most interviewees were aware of manta rays and viewed conservation efforts positively. The team is now on the second phase of the study, producing outreach materials that encourage

fishermen to reel in lines whenever rays are sighted and recommendations that anglers avoid casting directly in front of any rays while fishing for associated gamefish. The big question is how far the nursery extends. FMP’s study area is just a small fraction of similar contiguous habitat. Through social media and MMF’s online Manta Matcher platform, Pate has received reports of mantas both to the north and south of her study area. To better understand where the boundaries of this nursery habitat might lie, Pate has begun a collaborative satellite tagging study with a team from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA). Mantas were added to the United States Endangered Species Act in 2018 due to global declines. Government scientists, however, lack sufficient data to effectively promote conservation and recovery. “This study will provide a better understanding of ray movements and habitat use, including environmental drivers of movement, and exposure to threats in specific areas,” says South East Region Giant Manta Ray Coordinator for NOAA Fisheries, Calusa Horn. Preliminary results show that juvenile mantas can travel hundreds of nautical miles and far offshore between visits to specific nearshore locations. Returns to South Florida sites reinforce the notion that it is an important habitat, but the long distance travel adds complexity to developing comprehensive conservation strategies around a designated nursery area. “There are few known manta ray nursery grounds in the world,” says Pate. “This one is unique in existing along a developed coastline and not on a remote island.” There have even been reports of mantas feeding multiple kilometres inshore, in murky waterways flanked by high rise apartment buildings. “This study will require years to fully understand how manta rays use this nursery habitat, when and where they go, and when they transition to adulthood.” Plans are also in place to expand the study area into Central Florida, where there is a seasonal aggregation of manta rays comprised mostly of adults. Pate hopes to ascertain if this more northerly population is related to the young rays in South Florida. Connect the populations, connect the conservation efforts. “My ultimate goal,” says Pate, “is that someday the Florida manta ray will be as iconic and recognisable as the sea turtle and manatee.” Perhaps it is time for rays to come out of the shadows.

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J O U R N E Y TO T H E

twilight

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t’s 1.30 in the morning, the 73-metre ship I’m on is bobbing in that familiar steady motion that only long oceanic swells deliver. “Twenty-five metres to surface” calls out the bosun. We hurry into our wet weather gear, and all our last minute preparations for the nets to be hauled on deck, eager to find out what is in them. Of course, we have a fair idea of some of the animals we will find – lanternfishes, bristlemouths, krill, salps – but as a young scientist it’s no stretch to say that each time is like the proverbial kid in the candy shop. Perhaps for seasoned deep-sea scientists this fades (though I doubt it), but there are always new weird and wonderful animals that I am encountering for the first time, each and every catch. I’m part of a team at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, and the reason we’re out in the open ocean is to study the mesopelagic zone, otherwise known as the twilight zone. So little is known about this far reaching realm, which is not surprising given how inaccessible it is to humans. As the common adage goes, more is known about space than the deeper parts of our ocean. In that regard, there is still a dearth of basic information on most of the midwater fauna, from as broad as how much is down there, to specifics like how long many of the species live and what the food web pathways are. For many of these questions, the only way to study this is to bring a few samples onto the ship and into the labs. But these collection efforts also serve a dual role, and the identifications and measurements serve to ground-truth acoustic data, with the goal that large-scale biomass estimates can be made, in essence limiting the need to catch more fish and invertebrates in the future to figure out what and how much is there. In addition to knowing how abundant and how resilient these animals are, all this biological information feeds into broader questions. Combined with complex chemical and physical oceanographic data, imperative knowledge of the role this ecosystem plays in sequestering atmospheric carbon, or in regulating global climate is possible. Research aside, the real stars of this story are the astonishing and bewildering animals that inhabit this foreign world. Billions of years in the rich oceanic soup has led to an incredible diversity of morphologies and behaviours as animals have adapted to life in a cold, dark, highly pressurized environment. Jaws full of over-sized teeth, elaborate lures and technicolour light shows are all the norm here. For a large portion of the twilight zone a nightly journey to the surface is on the cards, worth the energy expenditure for the bounty. Then, a return to the safety of the darkness by dawn, completing the largest animal migration on Earth. For those that stay behind in the deep, meals are sparser and life is slow. Slow enough that small body sizes and watery tissues are commonplace, lending to low metabolic lifestyles.

PREVIOUS: A fangtooth consumes a shrimp. THIS PAGE: A black swallower, mouth agape.

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"THERE IS STILL A D E A RT H O F B A S I C I N F O R M AT I O N O N M O S T O F T H E M I D WAT E R FAUNA, FROM AS B R OA D A S H OW M U C H I S D OW N T H E R E , TO S P E C I F I C S L I K E H OW LONG MANY OF THE SPECIES LIVE."

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"IT IS THE BIOLUMINESCENCE T H AT I S P E R H A P S T H E MOST REMARKABLE F E AT U R E O F T H E M E S O P E L AG I C â&#x20AC;&#x201C; I N FAC T THIS IS THE LARGEST A N D M O S T P E RVA S I V E BIOLUMINESCENT BIOME O N T H E P L A N E T. "

A barbeled dragonfish.

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A transparent hatchetfish.

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"THE KALEIDOSCOPE OF BIOLUMINESENCE T W I N K L I N G I N E V E RY D I R E C T I O N WA S A S I G H T TO BEHOLD."

And of course there are the multitude of gelatinous organisms. Living in a viscous medium and never having to encounter a hard surface, soft-bodied organisms and their elaborate designs thrive. Jellyfish, salps and siphonophores are but a few types, and collectively these animals are wildly underestimated and poorly understood, largely due to being very difficult to collect historically. But new light is revealing they are orders of magnitude more abundant, playing an enormous role in food web dynamics, and sequestering carbon in quantities much larger than originally thought. But it is the bioluminescence that is perhaps the most remarkable feature of the mesopelagic – in fact this is the largest and most pervasive bioluminescent biome on the planet. In some instances, these flashing lights serve to attract prey in those animals with lures, such as the angler and dragonfishes. On the contrary they also serve to avoid predation, and some shrimps and cephalopods squirt jets of bioluminescent goop as a form of decoy. Additionally, due to the inherent nature of a constant but very low level of light (hence the twilight zone), bioluminescence has become a staple of camouflage here. This counter-illumination strategy is the most common utilisation of bioluminescence here, created both exogenously (by bacteria) or endogenously (by the animals themselves). By adorning the underside of the body with light organs, these photophores can match the intensity of down-welling light, which fluctuates depending on depth or time of day, effectively making their silhouette invisible to anything hunting them from the darkness below. Again, there is much to learn about animal activity in the twilight zone. But while science garnered from traditional sample collections is paramount, if we want to understand natural interactions or behaviour – invaluable to a more comprehensive understanding of any living thing – this is simply not possible from net collections. So, one must visit the pelagic world first hand. A plethora of sensor-laden instruments and robots are beginning to shed new light in these deep pelagic environs. The continued development of remote and autonomous operated vehicles is bringing new images into our consciousness, better explaining some of the

bizarre morphologies. Even to the point of untethered vehicles capable of intelligently tracking small largely transparent animals for hours on end, improving our understanding in leaps and bounds. Another obvious way to see this midwater world is by going there ourselves. Scuba diving is the obvious means, and involves heading out into the open sea, waiting for the sun to disappear and then rolling into the inky black waters and drifting along with the current and whatever life it sweeps along. It takes a certain amount of nerve to ignore the thought of anything that lies outside the beam of light, but soon enough the array of plankton and nekton takes over the senses completely. However, unlike mesopelagic marine life, us humans are limited by depth, and barring technical decompression methods, this limits us generally to the top 30-40 metres. While this is great to see those animals that live near the surface, or travel up close to it each night, we are simply not deep enough to see all those permanent deep water denizens. Enter submersibles. I feel extremely fortunate to be one of the lucky who has descended in one – a vertical voyage inside a 2-metrewide, 16cm-thick acrylic globe took me 750 metres below the surface to see the twilight zone firsthand. Plunging deep into the dark vast three-dimensional environment lends an unmatched perspective to go with the topside ship research. I was struck by many things: how small and shy the inhabitants were, how sparse everything was, but most of all, the array of light producing organisms – the kaleidoscope of bioluminescence twinkling in every direction was a sight to behold. Though it was near pitch black all around, looking towards the surface there was the faintest of downwelling light, almost imperceptible to my eyes, but enough to make the counter-illumination strategy a successful one. And one that prevails in every ocean across the globe. Globally, these small and delicate animals that inhabit the mesopelagic are among the most numerous in the seas – in fact members of the bristlemouth genus Cyclothone are estimated as being the most abundant vertebrate on this planet. How is it that we really don’t know that much about them then, or more importantly, how they will be impacted by upcoming anthropogenic pressures in the near future. Indeed, this journey into the twilight zone isn’t one solely about the unique biology and ecology of the inhabitants, but additionally one of stewardship, and crucially, a race against time. Up until now, the mesopelagic has been a realm mostly beyond the extractive fingers of humans, barring some exploratory or small scale harvesting. This is in part due to its inaccessibility in deep waters far from land, in part due to the high cost of rounding up very spread out resources, and lastly, due to the low value perceived for the mostly small and oily fauna that live there. However, the depletion of many coastal and demersal fisheries due to the demands of feeding the rapidly growing human

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" C O L L E C T I V E LY WE MUST FIND S O L U T I O N S TO B E T T E R U N D E R S TA N D T H I S P L AC E . . . S O T H AT T H E S E W E I R D AND WONDERFUL C R E AT U R E S C O N T I N U E TO ABOUND."

population will likely force a marked shift to harvesting the mesopelagic zone on a large scale. The increase in technology is also shifting this. There are ever improving techniques to fishing deep, and factory processing that can separate palatable from non-palatable, at least for fish meal at this point. But time is pressing and we need to know how resilient the twilight zone animals are and the ecosystem that they are a part of as a whole before it is inevitably turned to for harvesting on a grand scale. Plus, out here it is the high seas. How do we best regulate this place beyond national borders, and how do we collectively share this space ethically, responsibly and most importantly sustainably? As scientists, conservationists, explorers and adventurers, we are still scratching the surface of many aspects of the twilight zone. Moreover, we have only been visiting this realm for the blink of a geological eye. Pelagic life has had billions of years to mould itself into the ecosystem we see today, yet in the last hundred years it has faced unprecedented change, both bottom up in the way of climate change and now top down as exploitation increases. Traditionally, oceanographic science has been the domain of government funding. But philanthropy is increasingly a valuable ally to research and exploration, and combined science stands in a stronger place. Collectively, we must find solutions to better understand this place, lest we witness the decline of one of the last frontiers of wilderness, and so that these weird and wonderful creatures continue to abound. Our planet may well depend on it.

A juvenile flying fish.

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