Oceanographic Magazine / Issue Fifteen

ISSUE

15

Conservation • Exploration • Adventure

BIG LITTLE LIVES DISCOVERING PYGMY SEAHORSES, INCLUDING THE INDIAN OCEAN’S FIRST

T H E WO R L D ’ 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.

omegawatches.com

#WHEREVERYOUGO

PHOTO BY FABIAN JOHANN

CREWCLOTHING!COM

WELCOME

Editor’s Letter The benefits of re s t o ra t i o n w i l l be similar: a boom in biomass, a b o o s t t o n a t u ra l sea defences, a boon for the local e c o n o m y.

Conservation victories take time. In this issue we share the stories of two kelp forests separated by ocean and time. One of them, off the coast of Vancouver Island, Canada, is thriving once again, reaping the rewards of a decades-long conservation journey. The other, located off the South Coast of the UK, faces the very real possibility of disappearing completely, its conservation story – hopefully – just starting.

In Canada, it was a penchant for otter pelts that led to the decimation of swathes of the local kelp forest. The otters had played a critical role in keeping voracious kelp-munching creatures such as urchins in check. When those otters were almost entirely wiped out by the fur trade, urchins proliferated with devastating effect. Alaskan otters were introduced in the 1960s to address this imbalance. It worked. This re-established population has kept urchin numbers in check, which in turn has allowed the kelp forest to once again thrive.

Thinned-out by extreme weather in 1987, a once abundant kelp forest off the Sussex coast in England has since been almost entirely destroyed by trawling – an activity once impossible in the area due to the forest's propeller-clogging density. A new conservation group has formed and is working to return the forest to its former abundance. It is a kelp restoration story very much at the start of its telling. With early momentum building, including confidence that a trawlerbanning byelaw will be passed in 2021, there is hope that in good time this forest may too once again thrive.

Will Harrison Editor @oceanographic_editor

Success in Sussex will, of course, be achieved through different means to that seen off Vancouver Island. The benefits of restoration though, will be similar: a boom in biomass, a boost to natural sea defences, a boon for the local economy.

I hope you enjoy both stories, and I hope we are able to share more from Sussex in the future as its kelp conservation story continues to unfold.

@og_editor Oceanographicmag

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Contents O N T H E C OV E R

FEATURE S

B IG L IT T L E L I V E S

Delicate and diminutive, pygmy seahorses are some of the most enigmatic characters on the reefs they inhabit. With new species discovered in recent years, including the first in the Indian Ocean, thousands of miles from its nearest cousin, big questions are being asked of these little creatures.

The Japanese pygmy seahorse, Hippocampus japapigu.

Photograph by Dr Richard Smith.

Get in touch ED I TO R

Will Harrison

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

Amelia Costley

D EP U T Y 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

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

ISSN: 2516-5941

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

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CONTENTS

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TRIAN GLE I SLAN D

OTTER REVIVAL

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.

S US S E X KE L P

R IV E R A N D S E A

Off the northwest tip of Vancouver Island, with nothing but ocean between it and Japan, a speck of land throngs with life – a wild corner of the world where millions of seabirds call into the wind, and sea lions raise their young undisturbed. An island alive and thriving.

The reintroduction of sea otters to the coastal waters of British Columbia in the 1960s and ‘70s brought about an ecological rebalance that has also provided an economic boost to the area. But is this conservation success story as straightforward as it first seems?

Along South Africa's Wild Coast, at a place where river meets sea, there is a great coming together of species – as well as a confluence of tourism and science.

Just a few decades ago, an abundant kelp forest swayed off the Sussex coastline in the English Channel. Today, it has almost entirely disappeared. Can the forest be saved?

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BEHIND TH E L E N S

C O LUMN S

EDITOR'S CUT

THE SOCIAL ECOLOGIST

T HE O C E A N AC T IV IS T

In a special edition of Behind the lens, we take a collective look at the photographers featured throughout 2020 and showcase some of their beautiful work not previously showcased, along with some of their most powerful words.

Big wave surf champion, environmentalist and social change advocate Dr Easkey Britton reflects on the relationship between surfer and wave, and how that relationship might translate into living a more attuned life.

Freediver and founder of I AM WATER, Hanli Prinsloo, discusses the deep sense of personal heritage felt when freediving South Africa's kelp forests, and how this year has highlighted the importance of the natural world to us all.

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Frankie Grant United States A green sea turtle feeds on red algae in the shallows of the Matlahuayl State Marine Reserve in La Jolla, San Diego, as sunbeams shine down through the Eastern Pacific Ocean.

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#MYOCEAN

Gabriel Barathieu Indonesia A pygmy seahorse, seemingly on the move in Misool, Raja Ampat.

“I had wanted to photograph these pygmies for a long time,” says Barathieu, “but I also wanted to create an original photograph.”

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#MYOCEAN

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Cory Fults Hawaii Dr Carl Meyer of the Hawaii Institute of Marine Biology shark lab supervises two grad students as they implant an acoustic tag on a Galapagos shark. The tag will give valuable insight into movement patterns.

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Alex Lee Tonga A newborn humpback whale, mother and escort in the waters of Vava'u. “We gently floated alongside them for what seemed like an eternity,” says Lee. “It is a moment of raw and wild beauty that will stay with me forever.”

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BIG

little lives Delicate and diminutive, pygmy seahorses are some of the most enigmatic characters on the reefs they inhabit.

With new species discovered in recent years, including the first in the Indian Ocean, big questions are being asked of these little creatures.

Wo rd s a n d p h o t o g ra p h s b y D r R i c h a rd S m i t h

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F E AT U R E

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nticipation is always high when you’re set on looking for a particular species on a dive. You need the right conditions, broadly the right habitat and of course a little luck. People often ask how I find the well camouflaged pygmy seahorses that I study, particularly when they’re so tiny. I always say, it’s about having a mental image, and knowing where to look. After that, finding an animal just big enough to stretch across a US dime or a UK five pence coin in the great wide ocean is relatively easy! However, when you’re looking for a brand new species, that just one or two people may have seen before, that advice becomes rather redundant. So, as I descended in the nauseating South African swells, on a dive in search of the first pygmy seahorse sighted in the Indian Ocean my anticipation was completely through the roof.

Pygmy seahorses have become well known in the dive community, which is hardly surprising given their cheeky puckered lips, neon colours and incredible miniaturisation. Despite their notoriety, we actually know shockingly little about them. The original pygmy seahorses, that we now know of as Bargibant’s pygmy, were first spotted by a researcher at a museum in Noumea, New Caledonia. George Bargibant was bringing up a Muricella gorgonian for the museum’s collection and happened to notice a pair of tiny seahorses clinging cryptically to its surface. The species was named in his honour in 1970.

Over the next 25 years, there were very few reports of pygmy seahorses, until they began to be spotted by eagle-eyed divers in Papua New Guinea. Of course, this caused a flurry of excitement and these tiny fish became the celebrities of the coral reef. Divers began to realise that they lived exclusively on Muricella gorgonians and only certain ones of these. Later, pygmies began to be spotted living on other gorgonians, and those individuals tended to be smaller and more slender. In 2003, these were described as Denise’s pygmy seahorses. The same year, a free-living pygmy was discovered at the remote Lord Howe Island, almost 500 miles northeast of Sydney, and named as Coleman’s pygmy seahorse.

Beyond the scientific naming process, which included only basic ecological information, there had never been any further biological research into the biology of pygmy seahorses until I began my PhD in 2007. I focused on the two gorgonian-living species, Bargibant’s and Denise’s pygmy seahorses. Among other things, I investigated how rare or common they might be, as well as their social and reproductive behaviours. I found plentiful healthy gorgonians to accommodate them, but fewer than 10% were inhabited. Generally, these two pygmies were the least abundant of all seahorses. I also revealed surprising behaviours among the social groups living together on PREVIOUS PAGE: The Japanese pygmy seahorse, Hippocampus japapigu, that Dr Smith and colleagues named in 2018.

THIS PAGE: Pontoh's pygmy seahorses tend not to be associated with gorgonians, but make occasional forays onto them for food.

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ABOVE: Although superficially similar to some other pygmy seahorses, Dr Smith's research showed that the Japanese pygmy split from all others around eight million years ago.

RIGHT: Finding a pygmy seahorse in South Africa was like finding a kangaroo in Norway. It was the first of its kind known from the Indian Ocean. Dr Smith and colleagues named it as Hippocampus nalu in 2020.

“While writing up my thesis, several other new pygmies were added to the roster. In 2008, Pontoh's and Satomi's species were described. Both are free-living, preferring halimeda algae and hydroids in the case of the former, and soft corals and bushy gorgonians for the latter.�

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"Soon, I spotted the female partner of the male and we spent the rest of the dive watching the pair. Over the next few days I found a total of 13 pygmies around the area, so I was very happy to have been able to document some of their variation and it confirmed in my mind that this was a new species."

a single gorgonian, such as males attempting to strangle each other and ordinarily monogamous female seahorses mating with multiple partners.

While writing up my thesis, several other new pygmies were added to the roster. In 2008, Pontoh’s and Satomi’s species were described. Both are free-living, preferring halimeda algae and hydroids in the case of the former, and soft corals and bushy gorgonians for the latter. The next year, 2009, they were joined by the Walea Soft coral pygmy seahorse, which lives on shallow soft corals only in Indonesia’s Tomini Gulf. As divers’ attentions around Southeast Asia moved towards smaller animals on the reef, the number of new pygmy discoveries was increasing. In fact, not only with pygmy seahorses, but many other creatures too. Around this time the tiny and hair-like thread pipehorse (Kyonemichthys rumengani) was also discovered, as well as other pipefishes, gobies and shrimps. Basically, almost any group of miniature habitat-specific creature you care to think of was burgeoning with new discoveries.

Soon after I was awarded my PhD, I went off to Okinawa, Japan to present some of my findings at the quadrennial Indo-Pacific Fish Conference. The conference was obviously an important part of my visit to Japan, but I must admit to an ulterior motive. Some years before, I had seen an image of an unusual pygmy seahorse that immediately looked different to me. It was superficially similar to Pontoh’s pygmy seahorse, but I was determined to find it for myself and investigate further.

After the conference, and many months of preparation and planning (mostly with Google translate), I headed to Hachijo-jima, a small volcanic island 180 miles south of Tokyo. I had trawled the internet and managed to uncover a few pictures that had been taken of this seahorse from the island, so I decided this was the best place to go.

The first dive in Japan, I was sure would be my last. My amazing guide Kotaro had assured me that the best place to look for the pygmy would be a site called ‘Nazumado’, entry to which would require us basically repelling down a steep slope whilst holding onto a rope with one hand and my housed SLR in the other. At the end of the rope,

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you had to launch yourself off a small cliff into the water between crashing waves. As I negotiated my descent down the slope, I could hear the screams of people being wiped out by waves behind me. Finally, after the initial onslaught, we made it into some surprisingly calm water and headed off to look for the pygmy.

The diving around Hachijo is wonderful and surprising.

Kotaro reported thresher and hammerhead sharks from deeper water, but in the shallows a wealth of locally endemic creatures such as the stunning Wrought Iron butterflyfish, Hubbard’s hawkfish and an undescribed nudibranch were living alongside unexpected tropical vagrants like dragon morays, harlequin shrimp and boxer crabs. However, I was keen not to be distracted from my mission. Kotaro had been looking for the pygmies in anticipation of my visit, and quite quickly took me to an area where he had seen a resident pair. I have found from my research that pairs of free-living pygmies tend not to stray too far from a small home range. In fact, one male Denise’s pygmy I studied for several months lived out it’s day to day existence in an area equivalent to the size of three playing cards.

Kotaro and I scoured the boulders for the unusual pygmies, and before long I saw his arms waving erratically, alerting me to his discovery. He pointed to the rotund figure of a tiny pregnant male pygmy seahorse clinging to the algal tufts that covered the rock. Soon, I spotted the female partner of the male and we spent the rest of the dive watching the pair. Over the next few days I found a total of 13 pygmies around the area, so I was very happy to have been able to document some of their variation and it confirmed in my mind that this was indeed a new species.

My background is very much in marine ecology, and I have little experience in taxonomy, which is a different branch of biology entirely. As a result, I was thwarted from pressing on with naming this new species, for now at least. It was another few years until I met seahorse taxonomist extraordinaire Graham Short. I was at a conference in Tampa, Florida specifically for seahorse and pipefish biologists, and I was to give the keynote speech about the diversity of these fishes. During my talk, I explained about this new seahorse. Graham came to speak with me afterwards, and the rest is history. In 2018, along with colleagues from Japan, Australia and USA, we named the Japanese pygmy seahorse as Hippocampus japapigu. Graham’s work on the genetic origins of the new species showed that these pygmies, although superficially similar to Pontoh’s, had in fact split from the other pygmies more than eight million years ago.

Just as the description of the Japanese pygmy seahorse was published, and we thought that seven species of pygmy seahorse would be the final tally, we received some unexpected news. In mid-2018, Dr Louw Claasens and Dr Dave Harasti, my colleagues from the International

Oceanographic Issue 15

ABOVE: Measuring 2cm or less, it's unsurprising that many pygmy seahorses are only now being discovered.

LEFT: Japan's reefs harbour a huge array of species found nowhere else.

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Since describing the Japanese pygmy seahorse, Dr Smith and his team have received reports of the species as far south as Taiwan.

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TOP: Whilst searching for pygmies in Japan, Dr Smith also came across a wealth of other miniature creatures such as this comically hirsute blenny.

BOTTOM: A juvenile South African pygmy seahorse, found by Dr Smith, was dark in colour and just 1cm in length.

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Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN) Seahorse, Seadragon and Pipefish Specialist Group, were in South Africa’s Sodwana Bay in search of a likely new species of pygmy pipehorse that had been spotted by a local dive operator Christo van Jaarsveld. Sadly, the weather was extremely rough and they only managed one dive. It did give them opportunity to chat with some other divers in Sodwana who may have seen the little pipehorse. One local instructor, Savannah Nalu Olivier, approached them with an image of an unusual fish that she thought may be what they were looking for. As it turns out, it was something altogether more unexpected. Louw sent me the image, and I confirmed their suspicions that it was in fact a pygmy seahorse: and moreover, the first record of one from the Indian Ocean.

Since Louw and Dave weren’t able to get back in the water again, they hadn’t confirmed the validity of this new species. Luckily, I was due to be in South Africa a few months later and planned a trip with Louw, who studies the endemic South African Knysna seahorse, to track it down. Upon our arrival in Sodwana, Savannah met us and graciously offered to take us to the place she had last seen the seahorses several months prior. Off we went on the inflatable rib through the huge surf and out to the dive site. These were not the tranquil waters around a palm-laden islet where you might expect to find a pygmy in Southeast Asia. We descended straight down to the flat bottom at around 15 metres, where a base rock was covered in a short algal turf and occasional tough corals.

It was very exposed; the coral shapes showed that the area is clearly regularly battered by storms and big seas.

Searching the rocks for pygmies was hard when the swells carried us a metre or so back and forth with each undulation, but again, the home-body lifestyle of the pygmy seahorses was hugely beneficial to us. Savannah took us to the area, and after three quarters of an hour proudly showed us a pair of these stunning little seahorses. Their bodies were covered in a beautiful white reticulated pattern with pops of scarlet red. Like most other pygmies they measured just 2cm long – stretched out they would have barely reached across a US quarter or a UK penny. Their habitat and behaviour was quite unlike the pygmies I had seen before. The exposed rocky outcrop where they lived suffered swells that battered the tiny fish with snowstorms of sand grains. At one point the female was buried up to her neck in sand, but nonchalantly shook it off before moving to an alternative algal frond.

We had only six dives in Sodwana, but we managed to spend plenty of time with the pygmies, and whilst searching at another site I managed to find a tiny baby just a centimetre long. Like the baby Denise’s pygmy seahorses that I have witnessed being born, the baby was very dark in colour, which suggests it had recently settled from the planktonic stage where the fry spend a couple of weeks floating around in ocean currents before settling to

“Their habitat and behaviour was quite unlike the pygmies I had seen before. The exposed rocky outcrop where they lived suffered swells that battered the tiny fish with snowstorms of sand grains.” the reef. It was wonderful to have found this juvenile, as it implies there are resident breeding populations, rather than just a few vagrant individuals.

We had one last dive in Sodwana and decided to turn our attentions to Louw’s original task in Sodwana: hunting for the undescribed pygmy pipehorse. We were diving with Christo who had originally brought it to our attentions. He took us to a deeper site, where the reef flat started at 25 metres, which was where he had last seen this oddity many months before. Trying not to be distracted by the stunning east African fishes around us, like Cooper’s anthias and rainbow wrasses, we moved out into the sand. Unbelievably, he took us right to the animal. The 5cm-long maroon and white fish was clinging to a small broken piece of algae. It had the typical pipehorse shape – neither seahorse, nor pipefish, but somewhere in between with a prehensile tail and seahorse-like body juxtaposing a pipefish-like head.

Over the next year, my colleague Graham worked on the taxonomic side of the description of the new pygmy, with CT scans, genetic analysis and in-depth morphological analysis whilst Louw and I added more ecological records from observing the fish first hand.

In May 2020 the paper was final published, naming this pygmy as the Sodwana pygmy seahorse Hippocampus nalu, in honour of Savannah who had first brought it to our attention. With the addition of this new pygmy, the total number of true pygmy seahorse species around the world comes to eight. With this being the first known in the Indian Ocean, 5,000 miles from the nearest previous record of a pygmy, there are sure to be more. We found that the Sodwana pygmy split from other pygmies around 12-13 million years ago, so who knows what other new pygmies the Indian Ocean might hold.

There have been bountiful new discoveries of marine creatures over recent decades, but it might be a surprise to hear that many of those on coral reefs have been thanks to the role of eagle-eyed recreational scuba divers.

In Asia, I believe that the reduction in megafauna has turned people’s attentions to the smaller life on the reef.

The seasonal humpback whales, grey nurse sharks and other megafauna in Sodwana perhaps kept people’s attentions in the blue water until now. As we continue to discover more of these miniature animals, there becomes real danger that they might easily have disappeared without us knowing.

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Column

By Dr Easkey Britton

The social ecologist THE WAVE IS A MIRROR

“Part of my reflective practice has led me to explore more deeply the relationship between the surfer and the wave and how that might translate into living a more attuned life.�

Easkey, at the water's edge.

Photograph by Andrew Kaineder.

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@easkeysurf

@easkeysurf

www.easkeybritton.com

About Easkey Dr Easkey Britton, surfer and founder of Like Water, is a marine social scientist at the National University of Ireland Galway. Her work explores the relationship between people and the sea, using her passion for the ocean to create social change and connection across cultures. She currently resides in Donegal, Ireland.

W

hat stories would the waves tell you if you knew how to listen to them?

As a surfer, my life is lived in intimate relationship with the ocean, exploring the power of the ocean to help us reconnect with ourselves, each other and nature. In the crises we face, the loss of our emotional connection with the more-thanhuman world, especially the ocean in all it’s wonder and aliveness, is of deep concern. To restore our connection requires a deeper form of listening; to reflect and reconnect with what matters most, to allow for new ways of noticing to emerge.

Part of my reflective practice has led me to explore more deeply the relationship between the surfer and the wave and how that might translate into living a more attuned life. It’s a journey that focuses on the process, not the product – that shows how relationships of reciprocity amplify everything.

I’ve been learning to listen to waves my whole life. I live by their whisper, rumble, roar, hiss, crash, slap and swish. I’ve been following their story from the moment they were born, thousands of miles off the western coast of Ireland in the North Atlantic, on the edge of the Arctic circle where the cold surface water of the sea is met by the heat of the sun, creating wind.

The wind passes her energy through the water causing it to move in a circular motion, the beginnings of waveform. At first a chaotic choppy mess of ‘fetch’ with no discernible pattern. Until, if the wind blows long and steady enough, these waveforms sustain themselves becoming swells, radiating outwards, a cosmic pulse formed by the union of fire and water.

Birthed from the unseen, they move beyond their source, carrying the energy of the wind with them.

Travelling together in groups, unimpeded across a vast ocean they grow in power and speed. The frontrunners moving as fast as 60 nautical miles per hour towards the wildly indented and rugged coastline of home, Ireland.

These oceanic waves become surfable only when they meet the seabed in shallower coastal waters where they begin to slow down. The wave’s ultimate form determined and shaped by the contours of the coastline, geology, tides and local elements. The wavelength, the circular motion beneath the surface, shortens and crests, the wave appearing to rise up out of the water.

This is when the surfer moves to meet the wave.

She chooses this one over all others... making herself available to possibility. The take-off is a moment of total commitment and letting go. Fully present to the intensity of dropping into the wave’s embrace.

No two waves are the same, this wave will never be ridden by another.

Intuition matters – the feeling of lightness on water, learning how her body moves with the wave, connecting with breath – a water dance where timing, positioning and patience supersede strength and force. It’s impossible to know what the wave will offer… The surfer can only respond moment by moment to what the wave gives her. Feeling the wave through all her senses. Not focused on the outcome, yet fully present, surrendering to something much greater.

There is a reciprocal exchange of energy. An interdependence between wave and surfer. How the surfer rides the wave gives expression and meaning to the nameless wave. This moment of union, creativity, aliveness and intimacy, is the wave’s final moment before it collapses in on itself, crashing onto the shore. The wave’s energy transmuted into sand, rock, and surfer. In the words of poet David Whyte, it is a moment of luminosity, because it is shot through with loss.

At times the surfer may become overwhelmed by the wave, swallowing her whole. And yet no judgement is passed. This ‘wipeout’ moment counters any tendency for a wave to overwhelm her from the inside, the wave of self-deception, of the need to control the story of the world around us.

The surfer knows the wave cannot be controlled.

Meeting and surfing the wave is an active, reciprocal exchange, coming into deep, visceral contact with the touchable essence and pulse of life.

How we meet the wave matters. To borrow from David Whyte, the wave is the invitation to be borne away, reformed, revealed by the powerful flow.

Although the surfer is a performer, with the desire to be seen, she also fully inhabits a world of raw, wild intensity and wonder, subject to the elements and tides. The wave’s face acting as a mirror where the surfer comes to meet herself.

Note: This column was first shared via Easkey’s Ocean talk at The Great Wave. For more information, visit: https://thegreatwave.house

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BEHIND THE LENS

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BEHIND THE LENS

TRIANGLE

Island Off the northwest tip of Vancouver Island, with nothing but ocean between it and Japan, is a speck of land that throngs with life. A wild corner of the world where millions of seabirds call into the wind, and sea lions raise their young. An island alive and thriving as a result of both isolation and protection.

Wo rd s a n d p h o t o g ra p h s b y R y a n Ti d m a n

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ABOVE: Many of Triangle Island's birds gather in rafts in the ocean. Murres stage in vast numbers before returning to their rocky perch.

LEFT: A black oystercatcher and its chick.

PREVIOUS PAGE: The rocky cliffs of Triangle Island are scattered with perching birds. From a distance and with the naked eye, it is difficult to discern between bird and rock.

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had finally arrived at Grant Bay, a little slice of seemingly tropical paradise on Vancouver Island’s west coast. It was challenging to get to, driving for what seemed like hours on unmarked logging roads, slowly winding towards the Pacific Ocean.

I was driving out to meet Ian McAllister, a renowned conservation photographer and activist in British Columbia (and a prior Oceanographic contributor) to begin the second leg of our Vancouver Island west coast trip, our end destination Bella Bella, known as the gateway to the Great Bear Rainforest. The west coast of Vancouver Island is less travelled compared to the sheltered east coast of the island. I experienced that first hand, becoming quite seasick only hours out of Victoria as we sailed into unprotected Pacific waters.

Twenty-five nautical miles off Vancouver Island’s northwestern tip lies the infamous Triangle Island. The cone-shaped rock sits in the Pacific Ocean past the Scott Islands group. It is the last bit of land before Japan. Not many people have heard of Triangle Island, and even fewer have set eyes upon it.

The marine charts told me we were getting close, but I couldn’t see anything on the horizon due to a low hanging fog. Then, as if from behind stage curtains opening for a show, the island appeared. The cliffs were jagged and steep, land the colour of rust because none of the low shrubbery had begun the transition from winter to spring. Pinnacles of rocky monoliths were visible in every direction; a landscape photographer could live a happy life here. Except they actually couldn’t – life is

pretty inhospitable on Triangle Island. Waves upwards of 100ft have been recorded, and consistent gale-force winds prevent any flora larger than small bushes from growing.

Salmonberry and salal bushes cover the vast majority of the island, but both experience stunted growth due to the weather. Not far from the island's jagged cliffs and rocky shores, an upwelling of nutrients is provided offshore at Cook Bank, where deep cold waters are pushed up from more than 6,000ft deep. For humans, this doesn’t mean too much (other than good fishing), but for seabirds, this means life. This never-ending food supply is ideal for breeding birds and the needs of their chicks. This is why they visit the island in their millions.

The island’s first human visitors were likely First Nations people thousands of years ago, who would have canoed from similar locations where we departed, but without a sail or engine. Such expeditions would have taken a great deal of planning, and luck in avoiding the worst of the Pacific Northwest's wild weather. There are numerous midden sites on the island, containing the remnants of bountiful forage.

The island was rediscovered by the British Admiralty in 1849, when it was given its present name due to its geometric shape. By the early 1900s, the number of shipwrecks surrounding the island prompted the then Canadian Department of Marine to build a lighthouse.

Triangle Island’s peak is nearly 700ft above sea level, making every bit of the isolated piece of land steep.

Very steep. In 1909, a trolley system was blasted into the craggy cliffside side, and only a year later, in 1910,

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The Department of Marine did not appreciate that the lighthouse would be covered in fog, mist or low-hanging cloud for 240 days a year.

“

Low-hanging fog is a typical sight around Triangle Island – a real hindrance to the effectiveness of the island's once operational lighthouse.

Rocky pinnacles and monoliths dominate the perimeter of the main island. All of these surrounding islets are also covered in nests.

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TOP: Gulls and puffins share grassy slopes for nesting and are often spotted together. This puffin is returning to its chick after a bountiful forage.

MIDDLE: A pigeon guillemot spreads its wings for flight.

BOTTOM: A glaucous-winged gull chick ventures outside of its nest on a sunny morning – a rare sight without an adult close by.

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a 46ft lighthouse was erected on top of the island. A surveyor from the Department of Marine said: “We laid out the site at the summit of Triangle Island 650ft above the sea, for a powerful first-order light, which will ultimately develop into one of the most important of all lighthouses on this coast.” The Department of Marine did not appreciate that the lighthouse would be covered in fog, mist or low-hanging cloud for 240 days a year.

The treacherous winter weather soon proved too much for the island’s inhabitants, and many of its manmade structures. By 1912, a number of the island’s dwellings were deemed uninhabitable. The lightkeepers reported feeling nauseous from the amount their facilities moved in the hurricane-force winds.

They had to use a rope system to move safely from building to building. In 1918, after rebuilding and a turnover of several lightkeepers, a ship named the Galiano made an emergency supply drop to the island.

With food and rations delivered, and the ship departed for Vancouver Island with one of the lighthouse keepers aboard. It was never seen again. The last calls from the boat were heard only by the radio operator on Triangle Island: “Holds full of water. Send help.” By 1919, the lightkeepers were permanently removed from Triangle Island. The radio station operators followed two years later in 1921.

And so the island returned to nature. Once again, the only inhabitants were the millions of seabirds.

Today, the island is typically visited by fewer than ten researchers a year. Access to the Anne Vallée (Triangle Island) Ecological Reserve (named after bird researcher Anne Vallée, who died as a result of a cliff fall on the island in 1982) is strictly regulated by the government. Public access is prohibited. I felt blessed to have been able to spend a few days exploring the island with Ian in the spring season, a spontaneous stop-off on our journey north to the Great Bear Rainforest. I admired its raw beauty, but we were too early to witness the birds in significant numbers. As we left, I took one final photograph of this distant and epic island, for myself, to remember the visit. I never imagined I would see the island again.

Several months later, the phone rang. Ian was working on a television project about Steller sea lions for National Geographic. They intended on filming at Triangle Island, and they needed a drone pilot. I gleefully accepted. This time Triangle Island was our destination. This time it would be awash with life.

With winter having passed, and taken the worst of the weather with it, the island had transformed. Dark brown cliffsides had turned into lush green ranges – almost the entire island had changed colour. The island’s plants flourish from the nutrients derived from vast amounts of guano the seabirds deposit every year. Those same birds use the plants to shelter from the weather and make their nests. It is a symbiotic relationship that provides the island with an abundance of life. I saw murres, puffins, auklets and various other seabirds flying in every direction. I could hear and smell the thousands of Steller sea lions laid on the beaches before I saw them.

Although seabirds spend most of their time at sea, all birds eventually search out land to nest and breed.

The remoteness and inhospitable nature of Triangle Island, coupled with the Cook Bank upwelling, make it the perfect breeding ground. The birds have a bountiful source of food, and no natural predators. This is why, within every square foot on the island, you can find two nests. The island is packed with millions of mating birds and their chicks, practically feather-to-feather. Some of the inhabitant’s even nest underground, in fragile burrows that they repeatedly use throughout their lives. The island one of North America's most sensitive ecosystems. For this reason, since 1994, only small crews of scientists have been allowed on the island to work on long-term seabird research and monitoring programs.

Every year, more than two million birds stop at Triangle Island for the spring and summer months. That equates to approximately 40% of British Columbia’s seabirds, and more than 21,000 birds per hectare. There is order to the madness though: the murres inhabit the rocks, puffins have the cliffsides, auklets dig in their nests on the plateaus, and gulls scatter throughout.

Viewed from a distance, Puffin Island, connected to Triangle Island, looks dark grey in colour. It isn’t. The island is particularly popular with common murres, its barren rock prime real estate for the nesting colony.

More than 3,000 pairs of nesting murres cover nearly every inch of the cliffside. Comparable to a beehive, birds can be seen taking off, landing and flying in every direction. The sight is matched by the scent of fresh guano and the noise.

Auklets comprise the most abundant colony on Triangle Island. More than one million Cassin’s auklets stop over at the island to breed – that’s more than half the global population – along with approximately 80,000 rhinoceros auklets. The two subspecies burrow under the island’s grass and shrubbery to nest.

Despite their number, they are very difficult to spot. This is because they’re nocturnal, only emerging from their burrows at night.

There are also two different species of puffin that nest on this remote rookery: tufted puffins and horned puffins. The much more abundant and common of the two, tufted puffins, have a mime-like face and

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“ Nearly 60,000 tufted puffins burrow into the cliffsides to lay their eggs and raise their chicks. Puffin burrows can be more than five feet deep and are often reused by the same birds year after year.

THIS PAGE: A tufted puffin sits outside its burrow, waiting for its partner to return with fish for their chick.

PREVIOUS PAGE: In unison, common murres fly from their perches, headed for the open ocean. Murres fly in large flocks and generally stay together while searching for fish.

distinctive golden head plumes, or tufts, during the breeding season. I was afforded a particularly wonderful view of these birds from one of our anchorages, offering me a daily view of them flying to and from their burrows, their beaks loaded with fish. Horned puffins are peculiar looking birds that, to my mind, resemble clowns. They have an orange and yellow bill and no head plumes. There are not many known nesting locations in Canada for horned puffins, aside from Triangle Island.

Nearly 60,000 tufted puffins burrow into the cliffsides to lay their eggs and raise their chicks, just like their Cassin’s and rhinoceros auklet neighbours. Puffin burrows can be more than five feet deep and are often reused by the same birds year after year. Tufted puffins form long-term pairings and mate with the same partner throughout their life. Incredibly, this species can dive up to 80ft deep to gather fish for their chicks – significantly deeper than their cousins, the pigeon guillemots, a dark bird with vivid red feet, that also feeds on smaller fish but at much shallower depths.

The largest bird species found on Triangle Island is the bald eagle. Common throughout British Columbia, bald eagles nest in the spring and raise their chicks throughout the summer. What is unique about the eagles on Triangle Island that they nest on the ground. With traditional perches not available – high up in coniferous trees – they have had to adapt. Triangle Island is the only known location in British Columbia where eagles nest on land.

Like puffins, bald eagles return to their same nest year after year and maintain the same partner for life. They strengthen their existing nest each year with whatever materials are available, such as kelp and driftwood.

Triangle Island’s rocky shoreline and intertidal zone is dominated by black oystercatchers. Oystercatchers are known for their reddish bill and distinctive whistling call.

These birds nest on rocky shores and beaches and rely on camouflage for protection. When camouflage fails, they use a unique form of distraction to protect their eggs – a series of displays and calls while moving away from their nest. This distraction method is largely employed to redirect Steller sea lions, who descend on the island’s beaches in vast numbers each year.

Triangle Island is home to the second-largest Steller sea lion colony in the world and the largest in British Columbia.

Every year upwards of 10,000 sea lions visit the island to give birth to their pups. They come for the same reasons the birds do: lack of predators and an abundance of food.

Witnessing the early days of this year’s pups was a gift, as was the experience of seeing the strong bond between mothers and their young.

Triangle Island is one of the most important ecological reserves in all of Canada. To spend time there was both humbling and energising. As the planet continues to grapple with the devastating impacts of climate change, it was an uplifting experience to peer into one of the world’s wild corners, to see how vivid, noisy and full of life somewhere can be when left to its own ancient rhythm. Wild and thriving, a remote Pacific island just as it should be.

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“

Triangle Island is one of the most important ecological reserves in all of Canada. It was an uplifting experience to peer into one of the world’s wild corners, to see how vivid, noisy and full of life somewhere can be when left to its own ancient rhythm.

The jagged edges of Triangle Island are illuminated by a rare glimmer of golden hour sun.

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

Behind the Lens places a spotlight on the world’s foremost ocean conservation photographers.

Each edition focusses on the work of an individual who continues to shape global public opinion through powerful imagery and compelling storytelling.

BEHIND THE LENS

EDITOR'S CUT

2020 BEHIND THE LENS The Annual Collection

The power of imagery to invoke a desire to change, to do, to take action, is significant.

Often just as powerful as the photographs themselves, are the words that accompany them, the behind-the-scenes story of the there and then, the inspiration for the shot or why its subject matters. We have been enormously privileged to feature the work of some of the world's finest ocean conservation photographers, each of them a member of the SeaLegacy Collective, throughout 2020. In honour of that collective, we have collated some of the featured photographers' most powerful work not previously featured, along with a selection of their most inspiring and insightful quotes.

It’s hugely important that we share stories of beauty and that’s a motivating factor for me personally – the love for the coast and for my home, which is ultimately why I do this work. I feel like I don’t have any other option.

TAVISH CAMPBELL Issue 11

Media was how we showed a parliament and the President of Timor Leste what it was that they were protecting, and that media would decorate his words at these global conferences.

That’s huge for a country like Timor Leste.

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These stories took a hold of me like I could have never imagined. There’s a thrill in seeking the truth, chasing the story, taking those photos that make people sit up and listen.

S HAW N HE IN R IC HS Issue 13

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.

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I think the central theme to all of this is sense of place, which seems like such a radical concept nowadays. This concept of picking a place, calling it home and fighting for it. Whether it’s glamorous or not, depressing or not, or hopeful or not, we all rely on these functioning ecosystems to survive. I think one of the most powerful things you can do is not run away from that – to pick a place and give back.

TAVISH CAMPBELL Issue 11

If I wasn’t optimistic, I wouldn’t do what I do.

Conservative estimates suggest at least 100,000,000 sharks are killed every year, so there’s plenty of reasons to be pessimistic – that number is clearly not sustainable.

But I think our species has historically demonstrated a willingness to change and adapt when we are called upon to do so.

The 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.

PAU L N I C K L E N Issue 14

SHAWN H EI NR I CH S Issue 13

The challenge is convincing enough people to create that groundswell of support that pushes through change – behaviourally, culturally, politically, and economically.

Everyday citizens are key to this process.

SHAWN HEI NR I CH S Issue 13

I can’t just stand by and watch this stuff happen.

I’m in a place of incredible privilege to have the resources and access to witness and also document these tragedies along our coast. So, I really have a responsibility to do something about it and ultimately try to give back.

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BEHIND THE LENS

EDITOR'S CUT

2020

Continued...

The combination of profound images with thought-provoking stories gives us, as conservation photographers and as a team at SeaLegacy, the ability to blow an issue wide open, reaching millions of people in a single day – something we could have only dreamed of as young conservation photographers.

SH AWN H E IN R IC HS Issue 13

If we can reshape attitudes and create a healthier relationship and understanding between communities and their coastlines, that could have a huge positive long-term impact.

S HAWN HEIN R I CHS Issue 13

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.

PAU L N I C K L E N Issue 14

It’s exactly what you’d think the deep sea was like. You’re in this big acrylic dome, so once you’re in the water it looks like there are no walls. It’s so quiet, and you realise you’re probably the only people at the bottom of the ocean at that time.

A N DY MA N N Issue 12

There’s love for these beautiful, generous fish that feed this whole coast. If I can also communicate that message as well and get people even a little bit interested in these scaly creatures that most people never see, that’ll feel good.

TAVISH CAMPBELL Issue 11

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We all need to examine and be truthful about the role we’re playing, what our motivations are and how our ego is involved. The people who I respect the most in the conservation world are the people who you might not necessarily label as conservationists. They are often these matriarchal figures who are really fighting for our home and fighting for there to be a home for their grandchildren someday.

TAVISH CAMPBELL Issue 11

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.

PAU L N I C K L E N Issue 14

S HAW N HE IN R IC HS Issue 13

If you’re in tune to the natural world, it’s pretty clear that sharks have certain behaviours that are undeniably charismatic.

It’s powerful when they look at you – I feel like there’s a rudimentary understanding.

A NDY M A NN Issue 12

The ocean is the place I go to heal. It's a place where I feel completely held, suspended, weightless. With nothing separating me from nature, the true source of our deep connection with nature is revealed and laid bare.

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.

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BEHIND THE LENS

Paul Nicklen A large male polar bear swims under a piece of ice in the Arctic Ocean, its reflection for company.

Shawn Heinrichs A mako shark, the fastest shark in the ocean, swimming at the waterline, its dorsal fin breaking the surface.

Tavish Campbell A jagged iceberg reflects perfectly in the frigid waters of Antarctica.

Paul Nicklen Emperor penguin parents watch over their chick.

Tavish Campbell For Pacific herring, numbers offers safety, as does the dizzying effects of collective movement.

Andy Mann An oceanic whitetip shark performs a sharp - and graceful - turn.

Paul Nicklen A grizzly bear uses its long claws to get at the best bits of a salmon.

Shawn Heinrichs A shark fin trade worker shifts his stock, stacked in racks to dry in the sun.

Andy Mann A large oceanic whitetip glides in the clear waters off Cat Island, Bahamas.

Paul Nicklen Emperor penguins erupt from the water, defying their clumsy reputation, proving their grace.

Shawn Heinrichs An American crocodile in the shallow mangroves of the Gardens of the Queen, Cuba.

Paul Nicklen A gentoo penguin looks out to the open ocean to make sure the coast is clear.

Behind the lens EDITOR'S CUT 2020 Shawn Heinrichs A sailfish moves in on a small baitball of sardines that it has separated from a much larger ball.

WITH THANKS TO ALL THE PHOTOGRAPHERS FEATURED IN 'BEHIND THE LENS' THIS YEAR.

Shawn Heinrichs A humpback whale calf leaves the security of its mother to head to the surface to breathe.

TAVISH CAMPBELL ANDY MANN SHAWN HEINRICHS PAU L N I C K L E N FOR MORE INFORMATION ON THE IMPORTANT WORK THEY SUPPORT, VISIT SEALEGACY VIA THE CHANNELS BELOW.

SEALEGACY 82

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Oceanographic Issue 15

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BEHIND THE LENS

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Oceanographic Issue 15

BEHIND THE LENS

ANCIENT COEXISTENCE

Otters and First Nations The reintroduction of sea otters to the coastal waters of British Columbia in the 1960s and ‘70s brought about an ecological rebalance and has provided an economic boost to the area. But is this conservation success story as straightforward as it seems?

Wo rd s b y M a r g u e r i t e d u P l e s s i s P h o t o g ra p h s b y Ja m e s Th o m p s o n

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f you paddle your kayak into the emerald green waters off British Columbia’s Pacific Coast, you may be fortunate enough to spot a sea otter gently floating on its back, its body wrapped in a blanket of kelp as its dexterous hands work to crack open a clam. This appetite for shellfish places sea otters in a complex and deeply interconnected relationship among the marine life that shares its habitat, including humans.

Humans and sea otters have shared this coastal ecosystem for more than 12,000 years. Once a rare sight in these waters, northern sea otters (Enhydra lutris) are a conservation comeback story. Considered extinct in much of British Columbia by the turn of the 19th century, a 2017 count by the Canadian department of fisheries estimated around 8,000 sea otters along the west coast of Vancouver Island. The broader ecosystem has benefitted from this resurgence, including those who have profited economically. Despite this positive benefit, we humans have a complicated relationship with sea otters.

Our relationship with northern sea otters has been shaped by the forces of evolution and history. Otters have held the distinction of being revered for their pelts, but are also viewed as troublesome competition by coastal inhabitants who labour meticulously to cultivate shellfish such as clams and crabs from the intertidal zones. For thousands of years, these groups struck a balance, but European colonisation has pushed that equilibrium to the extremes, with unexpected consequences.

Unlike other animals that threaten crops tended by humans, otters have something else that has made them a target: fur. Sea otter fur is a marvel of evolution. With up to one million hairs per square inch, it is the thickest of any mammal. The layers help to trap air bubbles, creating natural insulation. This insulation is so effective at trapping air that young sea otter pups are often too buoyant to dive below the surface for their own food, so their mothers carefully tether them to the nearest kelp frond and leave them peacefully bobbing on the surface while lunch is gathered.

For First Nations people along the Pacific Coast, otter pelts were seen as an elite status symbol. “These were animals that only the chiefs and their hunters were allowed to take,” said Wikkinnish, also known as Cliff Atleo Sr, former president of the Nuu-chah-nulth tribal council. “They were prized in terms of their pelts, and only people of high standing wore them.” The pelts were an ideal material for making waterproof winter clothing or to serve as insulation for dwellings. The Nuu-chahnulth tribe, located on the west coast of Vancouver Island, captured their community’s experiences with otters in the documentary Coastal Voices. This project gathered a diverse group of Indigenous leaders, experts, scientists and artists from British Columbia and Alaska to discuss

PREVIOUS: A male sea otter drifts past a small island covered in colourful kelp off Vancouver Island’s west coast.

RIGHT: By sleeping on isolated islands, sea otters conserve energy and protect themselves from predators such as sea lions and orca.

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“With the return of sea otters, the ecosystem began to rebalance. Over time, urchin populations were reduced allowing for the restoration of the kelp forests where many finfish communities eat and spawn. The enriched ecosystem thrived.” the historical significance and current impact that sea otters have.

As Europeans arrived to these coastal waters in the 17th and 18th centuries, it was not long before sea otter pelts were being sold to European elites – an exploitation practice initiated by Russian fur traders further north in Alaska. Within a few decades, the story of the Pacific sea otter would ring similar to those of the Great Plains bison, the muskox and the beaver. By the time the city of Victoria became the provincial capital in 1871, sea otters had all but disappeared from BC's waters.

Humans adapted to this near-extinction. With the otters gone, populations of sea urchins, abalone, clams and crabs exploded, which meant easy access to an abundance of nourishing seafood for humans.

An initiative by the Canadian federal government in the 1960s sought to reintroduce sea otters to the waters around Vancouver Island. A population of sea otters from Alaska’s remote Aleutian Islands were imported (rehomed in advance of a US nuclear test on Amchitka Island), and thrived in BC’s waters. As an endangered species, commercial and personal hunting of sea otters was banned under the Species-At-Risk Act, and their numbers began to grow into the thousands. This was hailed a victory by policymakers and scientists alike.

“When otters were reintroduced, they were coming into habitats that had a very high abundance of prey that they were able to consume,” explained Linda Nichol, a marine mammal research biologist with the Department of Fisheries and Oceans Canada. “They actually keep shellfish like urchins, clams and abalone at reduced levels, which in return allows the kelp to grow.”

While feasting on the abundance of shellfish, the otters were doing more than filling their bellies – they were restoring balance to the ecosystem. The ancillary consequence was the recovery of kelp forests. Kelp suffered during the ‘reign of shellfish’, leading to underwater deforestation. Urchins were particular culprits at clearcutting kelp forests – they attach to the base of a kelp strand and chew through it until it releases and drifts away. Once cut down, the large abundance of urchins easily kept the kelp forests from growing back.

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Much like terrestrial forests, kelp forests play a critical role in ecosystem sustainability. “Kelp forests subsidise much broader ecosystems,” commented Dr Kai Chan, professor at the Institute for Resources, Environment and Sustainability at the University of British Columbia.

“They grow up mostly over the course of the year and in the winter are broken up, then all that nutrition gets spread out into the open ocean, up to 30 kilometres away.

Some of it also ends up on beaches where it sustains amphipods and other small invertebrates, which in turn feed a chain of critters who are eaten by successively larger species all the way up to coastal wolves.”

With the return of sea otters, the ecosystem began to rebalance. Over time, urchin populations were reduced allowing for the restoration of the kelp forests where many finfish communities eat and spawn. The enriched ecosystem thrived. With the advantages for nature established, the remaining question was how this new system would impact the local human population.

A study published in Science in June 2020 developed a model to explore this question. The study, led by Dr Edward Gregr, an adjunct professor at the Institute for Resources, Environment and Sustainability at UBC, coauthored by Dr Chan and supported by others including Linda Nichol, found that there is a financial benefit to recovery of this ecosystem as well; a potential benefit to the tune of $53.6 million (Canadian) a year. Researchers assessed the economic benefit of an ecosystem with otters versus one without otters and found that an otter-present system could yield a higher economic value. Some of these gains include an increased yield of finfish catches, increased tourism, and removal of carbon dioxide. These benefits offer significantly more benefit that the estimated $7.3 million loss caused by the otters’ eager consumption of shellfish.

“This is perhaps the first time there has been an effort to articulate the benefits of otters in the same economic language we use to describe fisheries,” said Nichol. “The language is money. It's not an ecological way of looking at things, but it's a way of comparing apples to apples.”

As Dr Gregr notes, “The study’s monetary evaluation does not consider the cultural value of natural resources.

Oceanographic Issue 15

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TOP: Sea otters must eat 25-30% of their body weight daily to maintain their high metabolic rate and keep warm.

MIDDLE: Sea otters regularly come together in groups called rafts for warmth and security. There are actually three otters in this image.

BOTTOM: Lacking a layer of blubber like other marine mammals such as seals, sea otters rely on their fur to stay warm. They will spend almost as much time grooming as eating in a day to ensure their fur remains oiled and full of air bubbles, which maintain its insulation.

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F E AT U R E

“Otters were an important part of First Nation culture. But the prevailing sense was that these Alaskan otters had come and decimated their local resources.�

MAIN: A juvenile bald eagle wrestles a sea otter carcass from the incoming tide. Adult sea otters are too large to be prey for eagles but their mostly surface dwelling pups are vulnerable to attack from above.

TOP: A raft of male sea otters entwined in kelp stir in the early morning.

BOTTOM: The rugged west coast of Vancouver Island once denuded of sea otters is seeing localised populations thriving once again.

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Who likes cold feet? A sea otter keeps its dexterous front paws and powerful hind paws dry and warm in the rising sun.

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“'I believe we can come up with a plan that will sustain our people and our oceans,' said Hiisiiqwth.”

We did not, for instance, include the subsistence value of shellfish for coastal communities. This is because when it comes to evaluating the social and cultural values of animals in coastal communities, the discussions get complicated.” When an abundance of shellfish was available, coastal communities relied on fresh shellfish as a greater portion of their dietary food source, especially from fresh catches rather than clam gardens.

Clam gardens are an ancient form of aquaculture built by First Nations people to support clam production for food. Traditions like these weren’t passed along during the time when otters were absent because clams were abundant. As the otters returned, supplies of fresh clams decreased. The diminutive mammals were viewed by many as pests. “When the sea otters came [back], they ate up all our clams,” explained Saqwistl, also known as Hilda Hansen of the Kyuquot/Cheklesaht Nation. In the hundred years otters had been absent from the local ecosystem, their ancient cultural reverence had largely dissipated.

“Otters were an important part of First Nation culture. But the prevailing sense was that these Alaskan otters had come and decimated their local resources, which they'd come to depend on,” explained Dr Chan.

The otters’ unanticipated homecoming may well have been forgiven if the coastal communities were able to reap the proposed economic benefits. Unfortunately, although First Nations communities were originally involved in the finfish fishing industry, a move toward individual tradeable quotas and privatisation has squeezed them out. Shortly after this trade squeeze, the otters were returned to local waters with regulations preventing them from being hunted. Resentment grew over the converging circumstances. Otters were interfering with First Nation people’s food security, but they were not allowed to manage that same otter population as their ancestors once did.

“Our ancestors had a way of managing our relationship with sea otters, they had a place in the ecosystem,” commented Skil Hiilans (Allan Davidson), a Haida Hereditary Chief. “With today's laws there is a delicate balance and indigenous people need to be a part of the discussion regarding their management.”

Davidson was part of a research team who assessed indigenous peoples' perceptions of the conditions that enable their ability to adapt to sea otter recovery. The results, published in People and Nature in May 2020 revealed that for opinions to change, the coastal communities need a voice in how the marine spaces are managed. “If only we could have a little bit of control, a little bit of say in how we live with the sea otters in our front yard,” noted Naasqwa (Daisy Hanson), a language and cultural worker of the Kyuquot/ Cheklesaht Nation.

There continues to be a genuine risk that as policymakers and fisheries managers oversee the reemergence of sea otter populations that the many benefits of sea otter conservation, such as increased finfish populations and increased tourism, will not flow through to the local First Nations communities who are most adversely affected by these conservation policies. “I believe we can come up with a plan that will sustain our people and our oceans,” said Hiisiiqwth (Natalie Jack), an education administrator of the Kyuquot/ Cheklesaht Nation. She added that First Nations communities need to make use of traditional information passed down by their elders and effectively communicate that to policymakers in order to come up with a plan that is sustainable. To strike the right long-term balance would mean a sustainable and healthy marine environment: a balance between otters and shellfish, and access to nutritious seafood for First Nations peoples along the coast. Finding that balance will require continued scientific investigation, reporting of otter, kelp, and shellfish health, economic policies, local initiatives and government support.

It will also require the re-building of trust by federal managers with local communities. As Dr Gregr notes, “When presenting our results to the Hesquiat community on the West Coast, an elder explained to me that ‘these Alaskan otters are an invasive species. They’re not our otters… they were brought by the government to starve us out’. This animosity towards resource managers is common in our coastal communities.” Gregr suggests that with a growing acknowledgement of the rights of indigenous people and a federal government that has claimed to desire reconciliation, the timing is right to establish an equitable management plan to ensure sustainable long-term benefits for humans and sea otters alike.

Dr Chan hopes the economic research will guide the federal and provincial government to correct policies to be more inclusive of coastal communities.

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By Hanli Prinsloo

Column

The ocean activist HERITAGE

“T

his last week we celebrated Heritage Day in South Africa. We have 11 official languages and at the best of times refer to ourselves as the Rainbow Nation. But with a history of colonialism and institutionalised racism, as well as persistent and rampant inequality, the rainbow doesn’t always glow very brightly. The day before Heritage Day I took Zandi, a visiting freediver, for a dive in our local kelp forest. I’m white and she’s black and our shared love of the ocean brought us together first on social media then in real life, greeting each other as old friends would. While kitting up we chatted about our shared passion of sharing our oceans with as many South Africans as possible. About our own personal stories of finding freediving (me in Sweden, her in Bali), about coming home to South Africa and our two oceans and what deep freediving means to us. We have a shared language as we refer to the ocean as her / she. A close friend we have in common.

As we walk down to the water’s edge we pass one of the many shell middens along our coastline. Layers of harvested shells are visible in the eroded sand, holding the secret to a heritage beyond both my and my dive buddy’s roots. The middens speak of the very first people who lived on this southern tip of Africa, nomads living off the land and the sea.

Humankind as we know it is believed to have originated in Southern Africa and these coastal foragers are likely to be ancestors to us all. Holding my carbon fibre fins clutched to my chest, sun block coating my white sunburn-prone face I stand and stare at these shell middens, considering my place on this tip of a beloved continent I call home. I feel both deeply connected and desperately removed from these first peoples. We turn our backs on the midden and continue the sandy path down to the crystal cold water waiting for us.

We wade in slowly, marvelling at the turquoise colour and sandy bottom, ‘almost like Thailand’ we joke as the 15 degrees Celsius water takes our breath away. Once we leave the shallows and get deeper into the kelp forest all thoughts of tropical beaches are swept away.

This place is deeply African. This forest has something ancient and gritty that no tropical sea has ever shown me. The dark golden brown trunks beckon down to a reef strewn with a galaxy of pink, purple, orange urchins. Starfish the size of dinner plates striding along hunting for prey. Small, medium and large sharks flit in and out of the kelp and undulating octopus call this home. It is a whole world adjacent to the world we know.

There is a great groundswell to see these kelp forests appreciated and protected for what and who they are. The term ‘The Great African Sea Forest’ is gaining traction and films like My Octopus Teacher is capturing the imagination of a human species too long removed from its roots. If this terrible year has given us one gift it would be our renewed appreciation of nature, in particular the natural spaces close to us. Whether that be houseplants, vegetable gardens, local parks, beaches or mountains, we have been universally reminded of just how much we all need nature to thrive.

Taking a big breath I dive down into my second home, a forest as familiar to me as the street where I live. Turning onto my back I look at Zandi above me, a dive buddy guardian angel following my path through the forest. Her braids float out around her head like a halo. Feeling my body in water, my mammalian dive response even older than that of the first peoples who hunted shells where I am now – I feel at home. Heritage. HP

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

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@hanliprinsloo

@hanliprinsloo

@hanliprinsloofreediver

“Taking a deep breath I dive down into my second home, a forest as familiar to me as the street where I live.�

Freedivers explore a South African kelp forest.

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BEHIND THE LENS

F O L L OW I N G

the flow of fish

Along South Africa's Wild Coast, at a place where river meets sea, there is a great coming together of species – as well as a confluence of tourism and science.

Wo rd s a n d p h o t o g ra p h s b y E l i s e K i r s t e n

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was about to enter the fray where oceanic predators like bull, ragged-tooth and great white sharks, as well as super pods of common dolphins, gorge themselves on baitfish off South Africa’s Wild Coast. This pelagic banquet is a result of one of the world’s largest annual migrations of fish, known as the Sardine Run. The spectacle of marine creatures is not limited to the piscivorous – humpback and Bryde’s whales also join the feast as they migrate north to warmer breeding grounds.

I adjusted my mask and snorkel, tilted my head back and stepped off the edge of the inflatable craft. Seawater rushed into my wetsuit as I dipped below the surface of the Indian Ocean. I heard the excited clicks and whistles of common dolphins and fin hard through the ocean chop to get closer, following closely behind my guide.

The dolphins spin and zig-zag in an artful manner around and beneath me as they corral the fish, preventing their escape. The silvery sardines try to evade them but the attack isn’t limited to the sea, as Cape gannets – large pelagic seabirds endemic to South Africa and Namibia – dive bomb from heights of up to 30m above the surface.

They torpedo the water with whetted beaks and wings tucked tightly against their bodies, entering the ocean with a rush of bubbles. Despite these relentless assaults, the shoals are so vast that enough sardines make it to their northern spawning grounds for the process to be repeated each year.

I’d come to the tiny town of Port St Johns in South Africa’s rural Eastern Cape Province, during the winter migration. The town lies on the banks of the Umzimvubu River that spills into the Indian Ocean and provides an ideal base from which to encounter a host of oceanic fauna. From Mbotyi to Port St Johns the continental shelf hugs the land forming a deep-water channel that funnels cold water, which is being driven north by winter storms, along with enormous shoals of sardines within spitting distance of the shore. The sardines follow the currents from Agulhas Bank, on the southern part of South Africa’s coast, to breeding grounds further north near Durban, in KwaZulu-Natal province.

Expert skipper Rob Nettleton had taken our group into the ocean via a tricky launch, timing his acceleration into the surf perfectly to avoid getting stranded on a sandbank. Rob, together with Debbie Smith, runs Offshore Africa, a specialist sardine run operator based in Port St Johns. Aided by a spotter plane, the pair are accustomed to ferrying international journalists, underwater photographers and film crews to points within the Pondoland Marine Reserve that are frothing with ocean life.

It's not only during the sardine run that this area abounds with sea life. Despite being picturesquely situated between Mount Thiesger and Mount Sullivan,

PREVIOUS: Offshore Africa's RIBS, ready for a day at sea.

THIS PAGE: Snorkellers engage with a humpback whale, as seen from a gyrocopter.

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The sardines follow the currents from Agulhas Bank, on the southern part of South Africa’s coast, to breeding grounds further north near Durban.

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ATAP’s large-scale network is made up of approximately 120 acoustic receivers spanning 2,000km of coastline.

The Umzimvubu River meets the Indian Ocean.

the Umzimvubu River is a breeding ground for bull sharks (Carcharhinus leucas), also known as Zambezi sharks in South Africa. Females give live birth in the river mouth and the juveniles spend at least three years in the estuary, becoming familiar with the ocean and moving back and forth between the fresh water and salt water. Rob tags young bull sharks in the estuary and both he and Debbie – the first woman in Africa to be inducted into the Women’s Diving Hall of Fame – are actively involved in supporting Professor Paul Cowley’s work at the South African Institute for Aquatic Biodiversity (SAIAB).

Professor Cowley, who describes the sea around Port St Johns as “a super hotspot” of marine activity, is a research scientist at SAIAB who is using an acoustic telemetry platform known as the Acoustic Tracking Array Platform (ATAP) to monitor the movements and migrations of inshore marine animals off South Africa’s coast.

ATAP’s large-scale network is made up of approximately 120 acoustic receivers spanning 2,000km of coastline. Port St Johns is one of the strategic node sites that hosts several acoustic receivers, with others moored along the ocean floor from Cape Point to as far north as Ponto do Ouro, in Mozambique. Receivers have also been placed in selected estuaries to help study habitat connectivity of fish that use estuarine environments as nurseries.

The network monitors the movements of more than 650 tagged animals made up of 33 species, which include sharks, rays and other fish like dusky cob, giant trevally

F E AT U R E

TOP: The busyness of life below the waterline during the Sardine Run is not mirrored on land.

BOTTOM: A humpback whale breaches.

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Our documenting transboundary movements emphasises the importance of countries working together to manage shared marine stocks. and garrick. A group of about 30 researchers from 14 institutions around South Africa share information gathered from the ATAP, which also forms part of the Canadian-based global Ocean Tracking Network.

As part of a newly funded project, SAIAB and the Oceanographic Research Institute (based in Durban) will collaborate with researchers at Marine Megafauna Foundation (MMF) in Mozambique to study transboundary movements. MMF already has some of its own acoustic receivers in the ocean and has been monitoring local species. This collaboration will expand the ATAP network from South Africa’s coastline to Benguerra Island, the second largest island in the Bazaruto Archipelago. Different fisheries and different nations have varying laws regarding fishing rights and the protection of species. “Sharks are heavily exploited in Mozambique because of the export market to China for their fins. Our documenting transboundary movements emphasises the importance of countries working together to manage shared marine stocks,” says Professor Cowley.

Bull sharks, which have been tagged in a number of South Africa’s estuaries, have been detected along Mozambique’s shoreline as far north as the central part of the country’s coast. One bull shark that was tagged in 2019 in the Breede River Estuary – about 130km northeast of Africa’s southernmost tip at Cape Agulhas – did a 6,000km round trip. It swam up the coast to Mozambique and back within a year. The shark was tracked using a pop-up satellite archival tag (PSAT) as well as an acoustic transmitter. As it swam past the acoustic receivers its position was recorded, while the satellite tag measured temperature, depth and light-based location. The two sets of data could then be matched, giving Professor Cowley and his collaborators a much more accurate plot of where the shark had been over the past year.

Besides tracking the movement of sharks, ATAP research has revealed how dependent fish like the dusky cob and white steenbras are on estuaries. These fish spawn at sea and the juveniles then move into nearby river mouths where they remain resident for the first two or three years of their lives, seldom leaving during this nursery phase. Unfortunately, the data shows that these

populations are being heavily overexploited. With little law enforcement, the young fish are being caught illegally while they are below the regulatory size limit. Currently, the adult stocks of dusky cob and white steenbras are down to five percent of the pristine level needed to propagate. Dr Cowley feels that there is an urgent need to have estuaries designated as protected areas, in the same manner as marine protected areas (MPAs), in order to prevent further damage to these and other estuary dependent species, even if these areas are only given seasonal protection.

Another discovery from data captured by ATAP along the eastern continental coast of southern Africa shows that giant trevally (also known as giant kingfish) migrate 600km up the coast, from as far south as Port St Johns to a spawning aggregation site near Ponta do Ouro. Studies elsewhere in the world indicate that these predators are a fairly resident species, however, researchers tagged fish in both KwaZulu-Natal province as well as the Eastern Cape and it appears that most, if not all of South Africa’s giant trevally migrate to spawn in Mozambique. There is concern among researchers that if this aggregation site becomes known to illegal fishers they could wipe out the entire South African stock of adult kingfish.

Those working with ATAP hope the data that they provide will lead to improved management of overexploited fishery species, a better understanding of shared fishery stocks, as well as a better understanding of movements of whale sharks and manta rays (tourism species) between South Africa and Mozambique.

As I sit on the side of the inflatable boat with the twin Yamaha 85hp motors powering us back to the Umzimvubu Estuary, a super pod of dolphins dips below the surface and back up in a rhythmic arch. This scene plays out against a backdrop of the typically rounded, yet rugged hills that tumble into the ocean along the Wild Coast. I reflect on the past few days and my encounters swimming with humpback whales and watching them breach from the boat repeatedly – seemingly competing to make the biggest splash. I didn’t spot the sharks, although they had been beneath us on a couple of occasions, with sightings confirmed by the pilot above us and our freediving guide, who’d slipped further into the deep than I had. I felt privileged to have experienced this natural phenomenon from in the water and from above in a gyrocopter, where I spotted a Bryde's whale with a white-tipped nose and a young humpback interacting with the rest of our group, who were in the water that day.

Researchers and conservationists highlight the dire need to protect and manage marine ecosystems like this one. Along with efforts to combat climate change, changes in the management of marine resources are critical for a healthy, biodiverse ocean, which is in turn critical for all life on Earth. Hopefully governments will heed the warnings and pay attention to the data before it’s too late.

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THE OCEAN FOREST

of Sussex

Just a few decades ago, an abundant kelp forest swayed off the Sussex coastline in the English Channel. Today, it has almost entirely disappeared.

Can the forest be saved?

Wo rd s b y C h r i s Ye s s o n P h o t o g ra p h s b y Ja c k A t k i n s o n a n d D a n S m a l e

Oceanographic Issue 15

“The loss of Sussex's extensive kelp forest... has happened as a result of both nature and a lack of nurture.�

A member of the HOK team handles some turfing red seaweed brought up as ROV 'bycatch'.

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he kelp forest off England’s southern Sussex coastline was once so abundant that fishermen had to pass through it using nothing more than muscle and oar, the density of fronds and their propensity to entangle making the use of propellers foolhardy.

Today, no fisher need worry about having to sweat their way out to waters beyond the forest’s outer edge, for no such forest remains.

The loss of Sussex’s extensive kelp forest, which once stretched along a roughly 40km length of coastline from Shoreham-by-Sea to Pagham, has happened as a result of both nature and a lack of nurture. Swathes of the forest’s standing stock were destroyed during the Great Storm of 1987. Then, in the ensuing years, opportunistic trawlermen made the most of being able to fish a previously inaccessible area of the English Channel.

It is believed that regular fishing activity has kept the ecosystem from bouncing back by removing or damaging juvenile kelp and dispersing the larger rocks kelp requires to anchor. The forest declined, then largely disappeared.

The impact of the forest’s disappearance has not, over the years, been of huge bother for many onshore.

One local council had, at one point during the forest’s healthier years, been so concerned with the amount of kelp washing up on Sussex beaches after storms that they commissioned a report entitled The problem of kelp, where a variety of kelp eradication measures were considered, including the use of explosives. Mercifully, attitudes have changed in recent years. The problem of kelp has turned into Help Our Kelp (HOK). The HOK initiative – a campaign group made up of a number of organisations including the Sussex Wildlife Trust, Blue Marine Foundation, Marine Conservation Society, Big Wave TV, Brighton University, Portsmouth University and ZSL London Zoo – has a singular objective: to return Sussex’s kelp forest back to its former bountiful glory.

In the summer of 2019, I joined the Sussex Inshore Fisheries & Conservation Authority (IFCA) aboard their patrol vessel Watchful for a day at sea. Using a towed camera to survey the seabed, we examined the full length of the forest’s historical habitat. Our propeller remained untangled throughout; we saw no kelp at all. The survey laid bare the extent of kelp loss in the area – practically an entire ecosystem lost in just a few decades.

Despite seeing no kelp throughout the day, I harboured a lingering doubt. Our towed camera was limited to areas of flat seabed and I couldn’t help but wonder if kelp might be present in the more inaccessible areas that our camera couldn’t reach. Dr Raymond Ward of Brighton University has been leading groups of volunteer divers for the last few years, to identify the location and extent of kelp along the Sussex coast. He says that in good years, sugar kelp, oarweed and tangle weed has been found to sprout on exposed reefs and artificial structures along the Sussex coastline but these haven’t developed into stable formations, most likely as a result of constant anthropogenic disturbance. It was more than a year before I was able to return to see for myself.

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“We deployed the ROV and, encouragingly, soon encountered plenty of long, stringy brown seaweed.”

TOP: The ROV ready for deployment.

MIDDLE: The ROV, pre-dive, under the watchful eyes of the team.

BOTTOM: A member of the HOK team manages the ROV's cable to ensure it doesn't get tangled under the boat.

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During that time HOK’s onshore work has continued, and with encouraging success. If kelp is to return to Sussex’s waters in any meaningful way, it will need the time and space to do so. Stopping trawling in the area would be a massive boost to potential recovery. To that end Sussex IFCA has proposed a new byelaw to prohibit trawling up to 4km from the coastline, covering the area of the former kelp habitat. It is hoped that this trawling ban will remove one of the main impacts on the seabed and permit kelp habitat restoration. Jen Lewis, Senior Research Officer of Sussex IFCA, says: “Our proposed ecosystem-based management measures would prevent damage to essential fish habitats, hopefully creating the necessary environment for kelp to re-establish itself in the area and to support local fish populations.”

After a consultation period with interest groups the byelaw has been approved at local level. It now requires approval from central government before trawlers will be legally obliged to refrain from fishing in the area. Despite the obvious Brexit and Covid-19 resource-sapping hurdles in getting the byelaw ratified, members of HOK are hopeful it can be signed off and implemented in 2021.

Peter Jones, board member of Sussex IFCA and an expert researcher in marine governance at University College London, has been following the progress of the byelaw closely. He says: “Consultations around big changes to fishing practices can be long and difficult processes. I was delighted when the proposed trawling prohibition finally made it through local committee approval. We still have to wait for the government’s decision, including addressing further objections and challenges, but I am hopeful we will get final approval next year.”

While the passing of the byelaw and the associated cessation of trawling in the area are pivotal to the prospective return of Sussex’s kelp forest, there is no guarantee that a ban would instigate the forest’s return.

We can nurture the habitat, but nature still has to do the rest. With that in mind, I remained keen to get back out to sea to see if kelp was anchoring in the rocky areas we had yet to assess. Was nature doing its bit where it could?

On a warm morning in early September, I arrived at Itchenor Harbour, a small marina in the Chichester Channel. Now a tranquil area pockmarked with small harbours popular with leisure sailors, Chichester Channel once thronged with commercial activity as one of the most important anchorages in early Roman Britain – a time when kelp forests doubtless thrived off Provincia Britannia’s southern coastline, and when the power of muscle and oar to navigate such forests sufficed just fine.

I was met at the harbour by ZSL colleague Steve Long, who had with him the Trident ROV that would allow us to investigate the rockier areas of seabed to which we had previously been blind. With Arksen Foundation providing a RIB for the day – and Foundation director Olly Hicks at the helm – we set off for Selsey Bill.

In 2016, a survey at Selsey Bill had found kelp. We deployed the ROV and, encouragingly, soon encountered plenty of long, stringy, brown seaweed known as dead

man’s rope. This was seen regularly, often entangling the ROV’s propeller. We also found a few pieces of sugar kelp, identifiable by its wavy edges and long, broad frond.

Sugar kelp derives its name from the sweet white residue that appears when it is dried – sugars that make it a valuable crop and therefore popular choice in seaweed farms. The sightings were encouraging, but worked more as supporting evidence to 2016’s survey than fresh data.

Moving on to one of the day’s primary target sites, the concrete remains of the World War II Mulberry Harbour platform, we redeployed the undersea drone. This site is made up of large slabs of broken concrete and rock – potentially excellent attachment points for kelp. Not only this, but the hazardous nature of the area should have kept trawlers at bay. Observing good kelp growth here would be a strong indicator that natural restoration could be achieved in the area at large. We saw plenty of dead man’s rope but no sugar kelp, though our disappointment was allayed by the amount of fish we saw, evidently benefitting from the protection of the concrete reef.

As dark clouds began to roll and waves began to swell, we moved on to Bognor Rocks. The conditions became challenging, quickly. Topside we were buffeted by strong winds and driving rain, while below the waterline the sea began to churn and the visibility deteriorate. Unable to clearly see the ROV screen, we were largely flying blind.

We continued to record though, content to watch the video back in the office, even if we couldn’t watch it live.

Despite having further test sites on our plan, we headed back to harbour as the conditions worsened around us.

From the evidence collected to date, we remain unsure whether a ban on trawling will be enough to ensure a kelp forest recovery, but we do know it is a necessary first step. There are several factors that we need to consider to better understand recovery potential, such as whether there are sufficient source populations nearby to seed a recovery, and whether there are sufficient large and stable rocks for kelp to anchor.

The HOK partnership is investigating methods for speeding up restoration. One intervention could be ‘seeding’ bare rocks in the area, giving new kelp better places to take hold, though our survey suggests this may not be enough. Another, novel and innovative solution would be the use of ‘green gravel’, the growing of kelp on small rocks in culture facilities, which are then planted at sea. Using the green gravel technique could potentially solve both the source population and rock problems, though care would need to be taken to not introduce new organisms into the area. Special permissions would also have to be sought, as would funding.

Regardless of the restoration road down which we choose to travel, it will doubtless be a long one – this is a conservation project very much in its infancy. I for one am in it for the long haul, as are all the HOK partners.

I hope to watch as the kelp forest grows, to witness fish stocks boom and snorkel tourism thrive, and to hear of fishermen enjoying bolstered catches as stock spills from an ocean forest brought back to life.

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Image By Alfred Minnaar

Grown, not made.

A great wetsuit that keeps you warm can make or break your time in the water and neoprene has long been the material of choice for producing thermal protection. However, with our increasing focus on environmental awareness, we needed to take a closer look at our friend the wetsuit and see if it truly is the paragon we always thought.

Petroleum-based wetsuits rely on oil exploration and drilling, neither of which are good for our planet. The high levels of energy required to produce petroleum neoprene contribute towards climate change, releasing toxic gasses emitted in the chemical processing plants.

Surface, a suit designed for freediving, snorkelling, diving and surface compromising on strength and performance, it uses completely natural rubber that comes from a sustainable source using earthgentle processes. The lining fabrics of the Surface suit are created from ocean-bound plastic bottles, recycled and spun into polyester yarn.

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You can read more at fourthelement.com/grown-not-made

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©Photograph: Laurent Ballesta/Gombessa Project

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