Oceanographic Magazine / Issue Sixteen

ISSUE

16

BIO-LOGGING BLUE SHARKS N O N - I N VA S I V E TA G T E C H N O L O G Y U S E D T O B E T T E R U N D E R S TA N D S H A R K S I N A Z O R E S

Conservation • Exploration • Adventure

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

Photography by @philipclydesmith

www.tidalrum.je

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WELCOME

Editor’s Letter There has not, i n l i v i n g m e m o r y, been a situation that has so c l e a r l y i l l u s t ra t e d the link between planetary health and human health as the one t h ro u g h w h i c h w e a re c u r re n t l y living.

Humans are capable of amazing things. This year has largely been one to forget, but out of the ravages of the pandemic comes hope: a vaccine, or rather vaccines. Human endeavour and ingenuity will enable the world (which still has a long northern hemisphere winter to contend with) to enter into 2021 will a sense of optimism.

Samuel Coe's article in this issue, 'Nature's resilience', the last article in this issue and therefore the last of the year, feels like a pertinent finale to 2020. He speaks of nature's ability to bounce back and reclaim land or ocean that was once 'taken from it' by human development. That sense of reclamation is what most people hope for in 2021, but roles reversed: humankind reclaiming its pre-pandemic existence from nature's Covid-19.

The reality, of course, is that humankind and nature are one and the same thing, inextricably intertwined - something too many are too quick to forget. The reclamation that Samuel talks about in his article is more about the ability of particular places to rebalance, rather than a tussle between our species and the world around it. And that's the opportunity we will be presented with next year: rebalance.

There has not, in living memory, been a situation that has so clearly illustrated the link between planetary health and human health as the one through which we are currently living. We treat this planet with contempt at our peril. Now is our chance to collectively find our place within it again.

Wishing you all a healthy and happy 2021, full of optimism, hugs with family and friends, plenty of time in the ocean and, of course, balance.

Will Harrison Editor @oceanographic_editor @og_editor Oceanographicmag

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Contents O N T H E C OV E R

FEATURE S

B L UE B IO - TAGS

A team of researchers in the Azores are using a non-invasive tagging technique to better understand and protect the local blue shark population.

A researcher places a bio-logging tag on a blue shark in the Azores.

Photograph by Nuno Vasco Rodrigues.

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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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.

AMAZON IAN ODE

A NTA R CT I C TA LES

T URT L E R A N G E R S

R E S IL IE N T S E A S

Along the Amazon's vast and beautiful Atlantic coastline, small-scale fisheries, local government and NGOs hope to build a more sustainable future through communitydriven conservation.

Underwater filmmaking for big budget series comes with challenges, none more so than in the freezing waters of Antarctica. While these expeditions are ultimately about entertaining and educating viewers at home, they also offer great ocean adventure for those behind the lens.

On a remote island in Indonesia, rangers are turning the tide on turtle egg poaching, safeguarding the future of an ancient population of greens and leatherbacks.

Manmade structures are often erected at the expense of nature. Given the opportunity, nature can be quick to bounce back and reclaim the territory once taken for human use.

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BEHIND TH E L E N S

C O LUMN S

THE SOCIAL ECOLOGIST

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

T HE MA R IN E B IO L O G IS T

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

Big wave surf champion, environmentalist and social change advocate Dr Easkey Britton reflects on the power of sea swimming for both physical and mental health, and the release it has provided people during the pandemic.

Environmental social scientist and PhD candidate at the Institute for Future Environments, Yolanda Waters, writes about her frustration that ocean advocates are shying away from talking about climate action.

Marine biologist, photographer and writer, Dr Lou Luddington, writes about an encounter with an angelshark in the Chinijo Archipelago Marine Reserve in the Canary Islands, while aboard her boat, Noctiluca.

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#OPA2020

Oceanographic Issue 16

Wilson Haynes United States “I have always been amazed by the natural beauty around us,” says Haynes. “I try to convey this feeling through my imagery, which I think I’ve achieved through this slow shutter pan of Jacksonville Beach, Florida.”

SPONSORED BY

#MYOCEAN

Andrey Shpatak Japan One of two species of cuttlefish found in the cold waters of the Sea of Japan. This species hunts at night, often amassing in large numbers of up to 20 individuals.

It is brighter and smaller than its tropical counterparts.

SPONSORED BY

#MYOCEAN

#MYOCEAN

Charlotte Sams Bahamas A shark scientist holds a lemon shark pup during the annual 'PIT' project at Bimini Biological Field Station Foundation. This is a longitudinal project that informs research on the behaviour and ecology of lemon sharks.

SPONSORED BY

Isabelle Dupre Tonga A humpback whale makes its way to the surface to breathe, momentarily turning to look at the photographer as it does so. “I like to enhance the white markings of the whale by a hard contrast with the black of the water,� says Dupre.

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BIO-LOGGING

blues

A team of researchers in the Azores are using a noninvasive tagging technique to better understand and protect the local blue shark population.

Wo rd s a n d p h o t o g ra p h s b y N u n o Va s c o R o d r i g u e s

Oceanographic Issue 16

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lue sharks are the most fished species of shark. This is one of the main conclusions of a recently published report by TRAFFIC, a non-governmental organisation working globally on the trade in wild animals and plants in the context of both biodiversity conservation and sustainable development. It is an assertion supported by numerous other studies. The blue's status as the most fished in the world translates, of course, to a dramatic decrease in population numbers globally. The species is now listed by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) as ‘Critically Endangered’ in the Mediterranean and ‘Near Threatened’ worldwide.

The blue shark is a wide-ranging species. It can be found in both tropical and temperate regions and is predominantly fished as bycatch (non-targeted) by longline and driftnet fisheries, which target tuna and swordfish, species that attain a much higher market value than blue sharks. The sharks are discarded immediately after being fished, often while still alive, but not before being finned – blue shark fins are amongst the most abundant in international trade – which prevents them from swimming, leading them to sink to the seafloor and die of suffocation or blood loss.

Slow growth rate, delayed maturation and small number of descendants are some of the inherent conditions of blue sharks’ biology (along with many other

“The sharks are discarded after being fished, often while still alive, but not before being finned – blue shark fins are amongst the most abundant in international trade – which prevents them from swimming, leading them to sink to the seafloor and die.” species of sharks), that make them extremely vulnerable to human exploitation.

As apex predators, sitting at the top of the food chain, these animals play a critical role in ecosystem balance.

As such, there is an urgency in the need to implement efficient conservation strategies that promote the species’ protection and population recovery. The starting point for those strategies is a comprehensive knowledge and understanding of the shark’s functional ecology.

An innovative research approach is being developed in the Azores, where these animals are seen regularly.

The ECODIVE-AZ Project, led by marine biologist researcher Jorge Fontes, from the OKEANOS group PREVIOUS PAGE: Blue sharks get their name from the deep blue colour that covers the top of their countershaded bodies.

THIS PAGE: At maturity, blues can reach lengths of approximately three metres - males a little under, females a little over.

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of the University of the Azores, is targeting a better understanding of the behaviour and ecology of blue sharks in Azorean waters.

“The blue sharks in the Azores, although sharing most of the same threats as the rest of the North Atlantic population, benefit from longline fishing protection inside the first 100 miles of the Economic Exclusive Zone,” explains Fontes. Additionally, these animals play an already significant, and increasingly important, role in ecotourism. Local dive centres rely heavily on sightings of these charismatic creatures for their world-renowned shark diving experiences.

The Azorean population of blues is an excellent example of how, with the right supporting framework, sharks can be of enormous economic value to coastal communities, provided they are protected and the local population allowed to thrive. The vibrancy of the ocean ecotourism sector will certainly add weight to plans to protect one million km2 of ocean surrounding the Azores – a move that would turn the region into a shark sanctuary, setting an example to the rest of the world.

Spatial ecology and essential fish habitats (waters and substrate necessary for fish to spawn, breed, feed or grow to maturity), as well as the dynamics and ecology of horizontal and vertical movements, are just some of the priority themes being studied. Additionally, examining how these elements overlap with human activities such as fishing, tourism, marine traffic and pollution could provide important data for future conservation and management plans. In essence, it is vital to know where these animals are, what they do and how they associate with the surrounding environment.

Since monitoring them 24/7 is nearly impossible both physically and financially, the ECODIVE-AZ team relies on bio-logging. This entails the use of miniaturised animal-attached tags for logging and relaying data about an animal's whereabouts, behaviour, physiology and or

“Traditional tagging methods often mean catching and restraining the shark while inserting the tag into its body through minor surgery. The shark is then re-caught and a followup surgery is performed to recover the tag and associated data. The new method developed by the ECODIVE-AZ team is much less invasive.”

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Two blue sharks in the deep Atlantic Ocean, off the Azores.

environment to better understand their movements and life strategies.

The team has been working on a prototype tag that is able to record high resolution data (such as location, acceleration, velocity, course, depth, temperature and video) for a couple of days before the device detaches from the shark and ascends to the surface, where it can be recovered via a combination of radio and satellite signals.

Shark bio-logging is a relatively common practice worldwide, used on many different species, and has helped researchers to better understand these animals’ ecology and behaviour. Traditional tagging methods often mean catching and restraining the shark while inserting the tag into its body through minor surgery.

The shark is then re-caught and a follow-up surgery is performed to recover the tag and associated data.

Alternatively, and especially in large animals, the tag can be drilled into the shark’s dorsal fin, which also necessitates catching the animal and restraining it. The new method developed by the ECODIVE-AZ team is much less invasive. The shark is not caught or fished, and no surgery of any kind is required.

The tagging process usually takes place in the waters surrounding the Condor Bank, one of the many seamounts found in this volcanic archipelago. It is a place where blue sharks are regularly spotted by fishers and diving companies. In fact, Jorge’s team often joins these companies, courtesy of an ongoing partnership that optimises resources that are too scarce in science and provides a generally welcome scientific touch to touristic adventures. There is great joy to be found in witnessing field science first-hand while on holiday.

The process starts by attracting blue sharks using chum (usually chopped sardines and tuna heads). This box is placed in the water approximately 10 to 15 metres below the surface, while still connected to the boat. Then the waiting game begins. Sometimes sharks show up in just a few minutes, sometimes they take hours, and occasionally, though not often, they don’t show up at all.

Once the sharks appear, the team enters the water.

They freedive, giving them more mobility in the water compared to if they were using more cumbersome scubadiving equipment, making the tagging process faster and easier. After analysing the sharks’ behaviour for a few

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A researcher freedives to place a tag harness around a blue shark.

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TOP: A researcher assesses a blue shark for bio-logging.

BOTTOM: A blue shark takes a close pass.

minutes, the team assesses the size of each individual present – if the shark is too small, the tag might impact its normal swimming pattern, which would influence the data collected. After some time studying this variable, the team has concluded that 1.2 metres is the minimum length required for effective tagging. Measurements are taken using a laser photogrammetry system with a camera – an extremely precise and non-invasive method.

After all measurements are made and individuals selected, it’s tagging time.

The sharks’ curiosity usually increases during the time shared underwater and they start swimming closer to the divers. As such, the opportunity to place a tag eventually arises organically. One of the animals might choose to inspect a diver more closely, giving that person the opportunity to smoothly pass a circular harness around the shark’s head and slide it up until it rests against the animal’s pectoral fins. The sharks typically react to the harness placement by accelerating away from the diver, but most individuals appear to then dismiss the procedure and get back to “sniffing” the chum box and inspecting the team members in the water.

A small, red rocket-like object sits at the top of the harness, attached by a thin wire – the tag. Both harness and tag will remain in place to record data until the whole unit breaks away and floats to the surface for collection and data download. This detachment occurs thanks to the Galvanic Time Release (GTR) ring, one of the most important components of the equipment. This metallic ring starts corroding once in contact with saltwater. After a pre-defined period, usually 24 to 48 hours, the whole device releases itself from the shark, allowing the shark to swim away, unencumbered and unaffected.

“The tags are also reusable and the batteries rechargeable,” says Fontes, visibly proud. “We’re working to improve and increase the batteries’ lifetime, particularly for the video. This will allow us to increase the quantity and quality of information collected on each tag, optimising our resources.” He adds that the focus isn’t just on battery life and data: the longer the tag is active, the further the shark might travel, making it more difficult and expensive to recover the tag.

Fontes and his team are optimistic about their innovative methodology. They hope to generate a large amount of detailed data that will enable them to

“Fontes and his team are optimistic about their innovative methodology.

They hope to generate a large amount of detailed data that will enable them to characterise local population behavioural trends, enabling better insights into the species’ ecology.”

characterise local population behavioural trends, enabling better insights into the species’ ecology and needs.

But it does not end there. Recently, the team had the opportunity to try the methodology and equipment on the fastest of all sharks, the mako – a species occasionally sighted on shark dives in the Azores, but one that does not typically stay around for long, unlike blue sharks.

According to Sílvio Ferreira, a researcher from the ECODIVE-AZ team, a mako came to investigate the chum box and was “unusually calm” during a recent expedition. The shark stayed with the researchers for more than 30 minutes. When the right moment came, Ferreira passed the harness over the mako’s snout and slid it all the way up to its pectoral fins. The shark disappeared shortly after, the tag recording. This isn’t a system engineered solely for blues.

In the future, the team hopes to work on the miniaturisation of the equipment so they can be used on juveniles and smaller species, but also on the inclusion of additional tag sensors, namely for measuring dissolved oxygen in seawater, which can provide additional information about deep dive dynamics and predation behaviour in reduced oxygen level zones.

A broader objective is to make the technology available for researchers around the world who are facing similar challenges, to work with them, to create an international network of biologists contributing to an interconnected dataset that pushed forward this area of research.

The goal is simple: Harness data to answer tough questions and take the critical steps needed to create a better future for sharks, starting with the blue sharks of the Azores.

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Column

By Dr Easkey Britton

The social ecologist LIVING BY THE TIDE

“A recent national study on nature connection for health and wellbeing found sea swimming to be one of the most effective outdoor activities for significantly enhancing this sense of connectedness.�

Photo by Victoria May Harrison

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Oceanographic Issue 16

@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.

D

uring the pandemic the sea has been a place of constancy for me. I’ve never been more grateful for its ability to soothe, hold, listen and restore, for the privilege of having the wild North Atlantic Ocean on my doorstep. And I am not the only one. This year has seen a huge surge in the numbers of people going to the coast and wanting to be in the sea. Yes, we are an island nation, but this desire for year-round immersion in the frigid waters off Ireland (where water temperatures are 8 to 10 degrees for most of the year) was mainly considered the reserve of a few mad eejits, until now. Sea swimming in particular has become so popular that every outdoor clothing store or surf shop is sold out of robies (those towel-like waterproof ponchos that have become de rigueur for cold water swimming).

Perhaps unsurprisingly for those of us drawn to the sea, evidence shows how blue spaces, outdoor bodies of water, are associated with lower risk of depression, anxiety and other mental health disorders, as well as greater relaxation in adults and improved behavioural development and social connection in children.

During the summer, with pools closed, parents returned to swimming in the sea with their kids, rediscovering how much they needed it. Caitriona Lynch, founder of Ebb and Flow, a swim programme that introduces adults to sea swimming in Galway on the west coast of Ireland, told me she’d never seen so many people in the sea, “It’s powerful. People really needed the sea – the water and that sense of community, doing something together, it gave them so much.”

But with the huge influx and a lack of support or initiatives educating people who were new to the sea, who had yet to learn how to read the sea or how to be in the sea safely, there were a lot of risky things happening. “It’s really important to educate people. It’s not just about your personal experience, it’s about the environment you’re in, knowing the tides, winds and geography of a place,” Caitriona explains. “For me, what’s really important is helping people appreciate that it’s bigger than them and their experience. You’re part of this amazing place.

Protect it and mind it for yourself and other people.”

A sense of belonging does not always have to come from social connection with other humans.

For some, we need to be alone in order to reconnect

with ourselves. For Caitriona, swimming alone offered a reprieve. “Me, alone with the sea. It felt like this is actually my home, right here.”

Water facilitates a full-bodied sense of connectedness with life. A recent national study on nature connection for health and wellbeing found sea swimming to be one of the most effective outdoor activities for significantly enhancing this sense of connectedness. This may be linked to it being a highly immersive and multi-sensory stimulating activity – taking in all the movement, colour, sounds, sensations and textures.

One woman in the study explained how when she felt like her world was falling apart the sea kept her together. This intense experience of being in the world, being present, taking away any need for striving, as this swimmer explained to me: “I'm not interested in being competitive, sometimes I just go out and roll on to my back and look up at the sky and I feel the release.” Being in, on, or near water has real potential to help buffer the psychological effects of this pandemic and successive lockdowns on mental health.

Someone whose life is lived by the tide is Anne Byrne, a senior lecturer in sociology and a lifelong swimmer since her grandmother taught her when she was a child. Now in her 60s, swimming in the sea has become her place of belonging and solace, where she immerses herself to feel “completely energised”, “recalibrated’ and “balanced.” The mental health benefits are profound. “If I couldn’t swim during lockdown, well, I would be very difficult to live with. My nervous and parasympathetic nervous systems would be on high-wire alert at all times and, ironically, I would be subdued.” Anne describes the sea as a place we can go to safely and freely release whatever it is we are feeling, without judgement.

“We can’t be angry in the water... it’s impossible to feel ‘negative’, anxious or irritated while in the water... water offers respite from ourselves and our thoughts. My grandmother said, ‘you’ll never regret a swim’, and she’s right!”

The sea is more than metaphor. In the roar of the sea I can roar myself, releasing tense shoulder blades or a knotted stomach. I can cry freely too, my salty tears indistinguishable from the rest of the saltwater.

It also gives me permission to feel joy. The simple joy of being, in every cell of my body. EB

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BEHIND THE LENS

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O D E TO T H E

Amazon Along the Amazon's vast and beautiful Atlantic coastline, small-scale fisheries, local government and NGOs hope to build a more sustainable future through community-driven conservation.

Wo rd s a n d p h o t o g ra p h s b y E n r i c o M a ro n e

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ABOVE: Bragança's fishing port, Pará, plays a significant role in the regional economy.

LEFT: Sea catfish landed by a member of the Guajerutiua community at RESEX Cururupu, Maranhão.

PREVIOUS PAGE: An aerial view of the Cajú-Una estuary and the mangroves of Marajó island at RESEX Soure, Pará.

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razil has a vast and diverse coastline that stretches for more than 8,400km. Along the northern stretch of this coast is an extensively preserved mangrove ecosystem, including the peculiar geography of frontal mangrove re-entrances in Maranhão and Pará states, part of the largest mangrove continuum in the world. The region sustains enormous biodiversity, on which thousands of families depend. Traditional fishing forms the foundation of their livelihoods.

Seen from above through satellite images, the uniqueness of this coastline is evident: an indented coastline full of bays, rivers and small channels that flow through the mangrove forests, creating a mosaic of different environments.

While the population density in the Amazon is an average of five inhabitants per square kilometre, the coastal region of Pará has four times more people.

Centuries of occupation and economic development have shaped an anthropised landscape, which has been altered by the timber, livestock, and agricultural industries since the Amazon rubber industry boom. However, the establishment of protected areas created by the social demand of traditional communities has ensured the conservation of ecosystems, creating preserved patches of mangrove forest surrounded by impacted areas along the Atlantic Amazon coast.

Encompassing more than 140,000 square kilometres, this enormous mangrove area is larger than the territory of England. Brazil is home to eight percent of all mangrove forests on Earth, playing a key role in the context of the global climate crises – its forests store up

to four times more carbon than other tropical forests. In the Amazon, each hectare of mangrove contains twice as much carbon as the same area in the forest. The ability of mangroves to store carbon is partly due to the soil rich in organic material. After the United Nations Climate Change Conference in 2017, Amazon estuaries and mangroves were designated as Wetlands of International Importance under the Ramsar Convention.

Eduardo Tavares Paes, oceanographer at the Rural Amazonian Federal University and researcher of ecology and fisheries, explains that "the drainage from the Amazon River into the sea is responsible for 17% of all silica in the ocean, which is used for the construction of the phytoplankton exoskeleton and very important in the carbon-absorbing process. Climate change [is affecting] the balance of this complex system that integrates the Green Amazon and the Blue Amazon". This is a globally significant ecosystem.

The Amazon coast has the largest biological fishery production in Brazil due to the supply of nutrients from three watersheds: the Amazon, Tocantins-Araguaia and West basins. According to Professor Paes "the North Brazilian Current – one of the strongest in the world – creates a hydrodynamically semi-closed Amazonian sea, with its own characteristics for the reproduction of juveniles and spawning grounds of countless marine species". This productive shore provides the ideal condition for a prosperous fishery.

In these rich environments, fishing carried out by the industrial fleet and outside fishermen has been compromising local sustainable fisheries. To tackle

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“Fishing in the mangroves and living in remote areas with a low level of governance, these people face the challenge of balancing subsistence, economic development and the conservation of these territories.”

A fisherman repairs his net in São Pedro, RESEX Arapiranga-Tromaí, Maranhão.

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overfishing, Marine Protected Areas, known as Marine Extractive Reserves (RESEX), have been created, the first incarnations of these protected areas formed in the 1990s.

In this managed access system, fishers and beneficiaries have a voice and deliberative power within decisionmaking councils – natural resources regulated through community management.

For Sandra Regina, representative of the National Commission for the Strengthening of Marine and Coastal Extractive Reserves (CONFREM), the participatory management model is crucial for engaging fishers. "Both the territory and the tidescape are good for us because it's where we get our livelihood from. Today we know that it can end, but if we work seriously on preserving the environment, we know that it won't end soon."

Around 80,000 people, or 19% of the coastal population of Pará, live in these tidal areas. Fishers maintain an ancestral knowledge that has allowed for the survival of their culture and their families. These people live in the 12 RESEX that protect 56% of mangroves in Pará.

This state has the largest number of artisanal fishers, an estimated of 25% of the fishers in the country.

Small-scale fishers guarantee their livelihood from species such as shrimps, mangrove crabs and acoupa weakfish, among others. Most fisheries depend directly or indirectly on the mangrove areas that are nurseries for coastal marine life. The ‘tidal people’ are at the frontier of sustainability discussions. Fishing in the mangroves and living in remote areas with a low level of governance, these people face the challenge of balancing subsistence, economic development and the conservation of these territories. The communities’ local leaders and fishers will play a key role in ensuring the conservation of these pristine ecosystems.

As a consequence of their remoteness, these tidal communities have been left behind socially, with no access to public health or education policies. They are invisible to the system and have historically been forgotten by society. But their profession is an ancient and important one, and it needs to be recognised, as they do.

These fishers should feel proud of the traditional trade they ply and of the high-quality product they supply to market. Sandra believes it "is important to create autonomy for these people to say: ‘I’m a fisher, I’m part of the environment, and also part of the association and the Brazilian state, in a way that now we can be seen’”.

In Brazil, at least half of national landings come from small-scale fisheries. Partnerships between fishers, NGOs, government and universities have been promoting fisheries management and monitoring efforts, such as spatial planning and the establishment of no-take zones where certain areas are protected or are under a rotative system for the recovery of fish stocks.

Josenilde Ferreira, a leader of fishers at RESEX Cururupu in Maranhão state, remembers: “It wasn’t easy to work with fishers. We had to [engage with] fishers and their families through our responsible fishing awareness campaign". Josenilde promoted this approach of fishery

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MAIN IMAGE: Amazonian mangroves on Marajó island, RESEX Soure.

TOP: Reginaldo Silva, a traditional crab fisherman from the Tamatateua community, in RESEX Caeté-Taperaçu.

MIDDLE: Inaldo Ribeiro cooks 'avoado' fish in RESEX Caeté-Taperaçu.

BOTTOM: Juraci Nascimento, a crab fisherman from the Treme community, harvests crabs in Caeté-Taperaçu.

“Respecting fisheries agreements established by community members, they defined areas where the fish are left to recover and spill over to surrounding areas – a system that has become a model for other Marine Protected Areas in Brazil.”

Aloizio Blanco and his son, members of the Pacamorema community, fish for seabob shrimp with an artisanal net in RESEX Mãe Grande de Curuçá, Pará. In order to conserve the fish stock, and guarantee long-term production, fishermen have been using nets with minimum mesh sizes of 10mm.

A traditional fishing corral at low tide in RESEX Caeté-Taperaçu, Pará.

“There is still a long way to go before these best practices are commonplace and sustainable fisheries are adopted on a broad scale along the Amazon’s Atlantic coast – the shoreline is so vast and enforcement capabilities still too small.”

BEHIND THE LENS

“João de Lima Coelho started fishing at the age of 10 and today, at 57, he is proud to say he raised his family with crab fishing. Throughout his years of daily contact with the mangrove, João understood that in taking care of nature one takes care of their own future.”

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Small-scale fishery practices are passed down through generations in the village of Soure, on Marajรณ island.

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TOP: Daily life at Guajerutiua community, RESEX Cururupuru, Maranhão.

MIDDLE: Small-scale fishers land their catch of coco sea catfish, in Caeté-Taperaçu, Pará.

BOTTOM: Mangrove crab, one of the most targeted species on the Amazon coast.

recovery zones for the acoupa weakfish, one the most important target species in Brazil. Respecting fisheries agreements established by community members, they defined areas where the fish stocks are left to recover and spill over to surrounding areas – a system that has become a model for other Marine Protected Areas throughout Brazil.

Acoupa weakfish is the species with the greatest economic, social, and cultural value for fishers’ families, though questions remain about parts of its distribution chain – its swimming bladder has a high value at market, currently costing up to US$400/kg when sold dry, is rich in collagen and used in the production of glue, gelatine, clarifiers in the wine industry, and also sold as food in China and other Asian countries.

Legislative control of this product is currently weak, another example of Amazonian resources – in this case a globally-used biotech product – left open to abuse.

A partnership between Rare NGO and researchers from Pernambuco University under the scope of the Repensapesca program, is working to provide scientific data to help local initiatives implement solutions to counter the problem. According to Beatrice Padovani, representative of the Society for Fisheries Spawning Aggregations and an IUCN Red List specialist group member, "the study of the acoupa weakfish’s ecology, combined with local ecological knowledge are fundamental for the success of protection of special environments like the nursery and spawning grounds found at the Cururupu Extractive Reserve”. It is hoped that the study of the weakfish in Josenilde’s Resex will create a community-supported conservation model that could then be adopted on a national scale.

Another important fishery product in the region is the mangrove crab. João de Lima Coelho started fishing at the age of 10 and today, at 57, he is proud to say he raised his family with crab fishing. Throughout his years of daily contact with the mangrove, João understood that in taking care of nature one takes care of their own future. He ponders: "The mangrove is our bank and our supermarket. A conscious fisher has to be aware of respecting the season and correct size of the crabs.”

Regulations for the capture of mangrove crabs establish a minimum carapace size of 7cm, forbid the catching of females, and impose a closed season – from January to April. The species takes in average of ten years to mature to commercial size, so these kinds of measures are critical in conserving the long-term viability of the population.

As of 2013, new legislation demanded fishers use baskets to transport crabs, a legislative decision that saw in-transit crab mortality drop from 50% to less than 1.8%. As a leader among fishers, João teaches his knowledge of the baskets to his colleagues through a training course. "Everyone wins using the basket: the mangrove, the fishers and the consumer. By choosing the proper crabs and reducing loss during transportation, fishers can harvest less crabs from the mangrove and be better paid, with a better-quality product,” he says.

There is still a long way to go before these best practices are commonplace and sustainable fisheries are adopted on a broad scale along the Amazon’s Atlantic coast – the shoreline is so vast and enforcement capabilities still too small. For now, the challenge of conservation in this huge territory is largely faced by a few key organisations and local governments, which carry out focussed initiatives in a bid to provide a better quality of life for coastal communities. One of these initiatives is the Fish Forever programme, an initiative which facilitates the biological and ecological monitoring of crabs and other species in some RESEX in Pará. It also analyses the self-monitored data generated by fishermen themselves. The model seeks to reestablish the outdated Brazilian fisheries statistics system, last carried out in 2011. “Through collaborative networks with various stakeholders, we are promoting the sustainable management of small-scale fisheries in the RESEX from Pará, which could be replicated to other areas along the Brazilian coast to leverage the biodiversity’s conservation and enhance fishers’ livelihoods," explains Monique Galvão, representative of Rare in Brazil.

The magnitude of this tidescape is hard to comprehend, as is its importance to the global ecosystem. What isn’t so hard to understand is how critical it is to the livelihoods and identities of the communities who call it home. The story of these invisible people, living in a territory where the world’s largest tropical forest encounters the ocean, is one of natural beauty and resource, of culture and connection with nature, and now of empowerment and the potential for community-driven conservation to reach beyond local borders.

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Column

By Yolanda Waters

The guest columnist WE NEED TO DISCUSS CLIMATE ACTION

D

ear fellow ocean advocates, we need to discuss climate action. Now. A few months ago, I set out on a frustrating journey to speak with diving organisations about the need to include climate action when advocating the protection of our beloved ocean. Four months, several email exchanges and zero meaningful replies later, I am still where I started. No one wants to talk climate.

The most devastating part of this is that I’m not surprised. The avoidance of climate conversations in the marine space is not unusual. Let's face it, climate change doesn't fit the “vibe”. But why is this so? What is so scary about promoting climate action for the sake our ocean?

Firstly, why promote climate action for the ocean? The answer is simple: climate change poses the largest threat to our ocean. Not only does it heat and acidify waters around the globe, but it exacerbates the effects of other marine threats and makes them harder to address. For example, how can we address over-fishing if the coral reefs that support 25% of all marine life no longer exist?

How can we fight plastic pollution if fossil fuel-based production companies are not held accountable for their endless and wasteful production? We simply cannot.

For ocean conservation to be effective, climate action is critical. Without it, many of our efforts to protect the ocean will be futile. Yes, we must continue promoting sustainable fishing, minimising plastic use, and protecting marine species, but we also need to be fighting for a low-carbon future. Climate change cannot be an afterthought in the fight for a healthy ocean.

However, while organisations and campaigns that push for climate action in the marine space do exist, a quick glimpse into the ocean conservation movement will tell you that these are not the norm. Despite the significant threat posed by climate change, many businesses, organisations and individuals advocating for the ocean tend to favour the promotion of other marinefriendly behaviours, with some avoiding climate action entirely. We need to understand why this is the case and what should be done about it, because avoidance is clearly not an option.

Something I read recently has really stuck with me – we are an ocean illiterate society who value and care for the ocean. Research shows that public knowledge about ocean-related issues is generally low. On the other hand, concern and passion for the ocean is high. It is possible that somewhere in this gap between knowledge and concern, we let climate action slip by.

It’s hard to find someone who isn’t eager to help

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protect the ocean. But, with an overwhelming amount of information out there, eagerness can be a dangerous thing. For example, what happens when this information makes little mention of climate change and no one questions why? When the choice to fight other battles such as plastic pollution is continuously accepted without challenge? We become a concerned society racing in another direction – following each other on a climate-less path. But as ocean advocates, we simply cannot allow this to continue. We need to start making the link between climate action and ocean conservation loud and clear.

The marine conservation space is full of tempting distractions – “buy a Keep Cup, save a turtle, adopt a coral!”. Simple lifestyle swaps and hands-on experiences offer attractive promises for ocean protection. This is tough competition for a complex, abstract problem such as climate change.

But why call these distractions if they too contribute to a healthier ocean? Environmental psychology tells us to be weary of actions that are well-intended, but do not require any radical, systemic change. These actions can distract us from doing more and demanding the deeprooted change necessary. For example, throughout the past decade, the use of plastic alternatives has become synonymous with saving our seas but, we must question what progress has really been made as a result.

While plastic pollution is the main culprit of such distraction, others are on the rise. And while many involved in such projects agree that they should not detract from the need to mitigate climate change, this is easier said than done – we are easily distracted.

Then there is the fear of "getting political". There is no way around it: climate action is political. Mitigating climate change will require significant changes in politics and society. This seems to be one of climate actions biggest deterrents. With phrases like ‘climate change’ and ‘global warming’ being so politically divisive, the idea of being involved in such a discussion can be unpopular, especially for those striving to remain politically neutral.

Taking a stand for the ocean and its people shouldn’t be divisive, it should be uniting. We are all fighting for a healthier, cleaner ocean and at some point, we have to get political. I acknowledge that some organisations can’t go as far as endorsing political candidates, but there are ways that we can all support policies that enable a renewable future and fight against those that do not.

And we must do so urgently, because we are running out of time. YW

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www.luigiography.com

“Environmental psychology tells us to be weary of actions that are well-intended, but do not require any radical, systemic change. These actions can distract us from doing more and from demanding the deep-rooted change necessary.”

About Yolanda Yolanda Waters is an environmental social scientist and PhD candidate at the Institute for Future Environments, Australia. She is a certified PADI dive instructor, environmental educator and an ocean advocate. Photo by Luigi Cristofori.

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IMMERSE YOURSELF...

Visit oceanphotographyawards.com @ocean_photography_awards

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

20 20 THE WINNERS Behind the Lens places a spotlight on the world’s foremost ocean conservation photographers.

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

BEHIND THE LENS

Ocean Photographer of the Year N A D I A A LY M EXI CO An aggregation of mobula rays in clear waters off Baja California Sur, Mexico.

Conservation Photographer of the Year MATT SHARP MAL DIV E S A hermit crab crawls atop a pile of plastic in a shell made from manmade waste in the Maldives.

Exploration Photographer of the Year B EN CR A NKE A NTA R CTICA Penguins march through heavy snowfall and strong winds in St Andrews Bay, South Georgia.

Adventure Photographer of the Year JA S O N G ULLEY MEXICO A freediving instructor waits for their student to return from a dive below Cenote Angelita’s microbial cloud. Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico.

Young Ocean Photographer of the Year CR U Z E R D M A N N M A LD I V E S The silky tentacles of a brightly coloured Magnificent Anemone sway in surging water, exposing Maldivian anemone fish. Laamu Atoll, South Maldives.

Community Choice Award (public vote) TOBIAS BAUMGAERTNER AUSTRALIA Two penguins look out across the water, Melbourne’s lights in the distance. St Kilda, Australia.

Collective Portfolio Award (series of images, following) NA DIA A LY PA L AU A jellyfish eclipses the sun at Jellyfish Lake, Palau. "Seeing millions of these stingless jellyfish was an honour,” says photographer Nadia Aly.

Collective Portfolio INDO NES IA A peacock mantis shrimp holds its eggs. “Both the male and female share egg holding responsibility, and it’s amazing to see,” says Aly.

Collective Portfolio SOUTH AFRICA Sharks feed on a bait ball during the Sardine Run, one of the ocean’s great annual events.

“Moving up and down the coast of Port Saint Johns is one of the most extraordinary things one can do,” says Aly.

Collective Portfolio INDONE SIA A tiny commensal shrimp, photographed off Komodo. “I find these shrimps fascinating," says Aly. "It's amazing to be able to see right through them."

Collective Portfolio AUSTRALIA Male giant cuttlefish surround a female off the coast of Whyalla, South Australia, as they aggressively compete to mate. The males, their tentacles extended, fight over a small female, pictured in the front centre.

Collective Portfolio TONGA Humpback whale heat run. Aly notes: “This was one of the most incredible experiences I have ever had in the ocean.”

Collective Portfolio INDONESIA A hairy frogfish, photographed in Lembeh. “I spent some time with this fish," says Aly. "Not happy with my results, I went back and this frame was my last shot.”

Collective Portfolio SOU TH AF RIC A 'Flight of the Humpback Whales' – a mother humpback whale with her young calf, banks and charges as an aggressive male escort chases her in the clear waters of the South Pacific.

Collective Portfolio INDO NES IA “I wanted to back light this seahorse, but didn’t have the proper equipment at the time," explains Aly. "But I got the shot, which I feel shows the beauty of this animal.”

Behind the lens This issue's Behind the lens showcases 15 images from this year's Ocean Photography Awards. If you would like to see all 100 finalist images in beautiful print, you can!

The 'Ocean Photography Awards: Volume I, 2020' limited edition hardback is out now, available on the Oceanographic Magazine website.

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“A stunning collection of ocean photography.”

SHAW N HE IN RIC HS

Visit oceanphotographyawards.com @ocean_photography_awards

Oceanographic Issue 16

BEHIND THE LENS

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RAFTS IN

fizzing water Underwater filmmaking for big budget series comes with challenges, none more so than in the freezing waters of Antarctica. While these expeditions are ultimately about entertaining and educating viewers at home, they are also a great ocean adventure for those behind the lens.

Wo rd s b y O l l y S c h o l e y P h o t o g ra p h s b y O l l y S c h o l e y a n d A l e x Vo y e r

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F E AT U R E

N

ot many journeys to the Antarctic start in an English quarry, but through a series of unusual circumstances, ours did. I sat on the quayside on a cold November morning with photographer Alex Voyer, both preparing for our individual challenges, both puzzling over a £50,000 underwater housing for a cinema camera neither of us had ever used. Alex, a talented underwater photographer, had so impressed my producer, Sophie Lanfear, with his underwater images of the freezing waters of the Southern Ocean around Antarctica that she asked him to join our Silverback Films team on one of the biggest filming expeditions for Netflix’s Our Planet series. There were, however, two small details that needed addressing: Alex had never used a video camera before and I, after a seven-year career in wildlife filmmaking, had never dived in anything less than 20 degrees Celsius water, and I was about to take on the Antarctic as Alex’s safety diver, in a wetsuit. So that is why we were training in a flooded quarry, hoping that practice with the giant camera in cold water might in some way prepare us for filming in the world’s most challenging marine environment.

Fast-forward a few months, the long arduous journey to the Antarctic was over, and Alex and I were aboard the legendary Hans Hansson, as part of a huge filming effort for the Frozen Worlds episode of Our Planet. The aim was to capture the story of the Antarctic ecosystem, by filming the interconnected relationships between all of the Antarctic Peninsula’s wildlife, from Antarctic krill through to penguins, humpback whales and pods of orca.

This involved not only filming with cameras on land, but also from zodiacs using gyrostabilized camera systems, and using drones to follow wildlife from the sky. For Alex and me, the mission was simple: Get what we could of all this action from underwater, with an aspirational goal of securing the first underwater footage ever of huge flocks of foraging gentoo penguins. We were effectively given free rein to freedive at any location where the Hans Hansson was moored, to try and capture images from under the sea which would complement what the rest of the crew were filming. It was a wonderfully creative challenge and thankfully the expectation on us was very low, so we could take on this massive undertaking with little pressure. We were in an icy heaven.

The first steps were obvious to both of us, we had to fill in the gaps in our skillsets quickly – unsurprisingly, despite our extensive training in a quarry, a few holes remained. Throughout the first week, Alex worked tirelessly so that using the huge, underwater housing became second nature. I was accelerated up the learning curve of freediving in a wetsuit in the painful cold of minus one degrees Celsius water, learning a huge number of techniques from Alex about how to deal with the cold – almost all of which involved the easily mastered skill PREVIOUS: Gentoo penguins 'flock' together underwater, like birds of the sky.

RIGHT: Olly Scholey and the Hans Hansson.

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“Watching 'TV' underwater in a thick fog, knowing there is a 40-tonne leviathan somewhere next to you, is not conducive to controlled breathing and freediving.

It was nerve-wracking. ” of eating a lot of chocolate before you start. Alex’s skill as a photographer transferred almost immediately into video, and my fears of the cold were, in fact, quite unfounded – it turns out when you’re swimming in the most extraordinary ocean on the planet, you couldn’t care less how cold you are.

Now the real challenge lay ahead of us – how to capture world class underwater footage of wildlife in one of the world’s most challenging marine habitats. Dozens of film crews have gone to this region of Antarctica before, and despite the amazing amount of top quality sequences filmed there, very few feature underwater footage – and for good reason. The freezing cold water is just the start of the issues you face. The in-water visibility off the Peninsula is notoriously bad, rarely exceeding five metres, and often significantly less. Weeks can go by when there is constant cloud cover, so you rarely have enough light to compensate for the poor visibility. The animals themselves are also hard to see, let alone to get close enough to film underwater – even leopard seals, famous for their inquisitive nature, will more often than not completely avoid divers – and penguins, our main target, are perhaps hardest of all. Anything in the water that vaguely resembles a seal is bad news for penguins, given how often leopard seals predate them. Two divers in black wetsuits therefore created something of a hurdle for approaching these birds underwater. That said, the black wetsuits were in fact, our secret weapon. Unsurprisingly, very few people have spent significant time freediving in the Southern Ocean, with most preferring to use far warmer drysuits and scuba diving equipment. Alex was one of the first to spend a significant amount of time freediving in Antarctica, and his photographs from previous expeditions were good evidence that freediving could be used as an effective method for getting close to skittish wildlife.

Once we were both up to speed, it was time to put our wetsuit theory to the test. Our early attempts were comically unsuccessful, most notably when we found a sleeping humpback whale in Wilhelmina Bay. The whale was logging on the surface, and the water appeared to be quite clear and blue. Everything looked perfect. As we

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slid into the sea and started swimming toward the whale, we soon realised that the ‘blue’ water was completely saturated with glacial run-off and we were about to try and film an 11-metre animal with less than two metres of visibility. Naïve ambition pushed us past this reality, and soon we were next to this huge animal, peering up above us to see its blowhole as it broke the surface to take a breath, then peering below the water to see virtually nothing. Less than three metres away from this giant, my heart was pounding so loudly it felt as though my ears would burst, and I foolishly took comfort from being behind Alex, believing he would act as a human shield should the 40-tonne whale come bursting out of the gloom towards us. Alex’s comfort came in much the same way, as he took the liberty of pushing the huge metal lump of £50,000 underwater housing as far in front of him as he could. This did have the benefit of Alex being able to see the whale through the monitor on the camera, as the outstretched housing was about a metre closer to the whale than he was; but watching 'TV' underwater in a thick fog, knowing there is a 40-tonne leviathan somewhere next to you, is not conducive to controlled breathing and freediving. It was nerve-wracking. The last thing we saw from this encounter was a huge white pectoral fin looming out of the gloom before the whale slowly dived into the depths. Needless to say, not a single frame of footage made the cut for David Attenborough’s newest series.

Our shoot progressed with more success, but never without this theme of fear in each adventure. On our first attempted freedive with a leopard seal, my mind was filled with Paul Nicklen’s tales of getting in the water with the species. As I squinted from our dingy through a blizzard to see a gigantic seal shredding a penguin, almost exactly as Paul had described, the last thing I wanted to do was get in the water. The seal repeatedly moved from its penguin prize, to our boat, and back to the remnants of the penguin. On each sortie, I felt my heart sink even further. This animal was enormous – it’s body was nearly the length of our little dinghy, but what I remember most vividly was its huge head, thicker than my whole body and framing a giant mouth decorated with colourful

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TOP: Alex Voyer and his ÂŁ50,000 camera housing - equipment he had little experience of prior to filming for the Netflix documentary.

BOTTOM: Scholey and Voyer aboard their zodiac, between dives.

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A leopard seal.

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“This animal was enormous – it’s body was nearly the length of our little dinghy, but what I remember most vividly was its huge head, thicker than my whole body.”

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Gentoo penguins move underwater with such speed, the ocean 'boils' around them.

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“As we got closer to where they had last dived, it was like the ocean had started to boil, the water around us a huge mass of bubbles.

Amongst the bubbles we started to see little feathered rockets flying through the fizzing sea.”

pieces of penguin guts. Climbing into the water with this animal was not an inviting prospect. At that moment it was hard to imagine why diving with leopard seals had ever been one of my lifelong dreams. Alex’s calm demeanour was a privilege to follow into the sea. He simply said: “This might be a bit scary, but don’t worry.”

He then got straight into the water. As I slowly followed, my fears subsided almost instantly. The seal bobbed at the surface almost motionless, staring directly at Alex and me. It then slowly started to swim around and under us, moving with unimaginable grace. Alex seemed to have no issue with remaining completely calm, breathing up, and performing two minute breath-holds while his new friend swam in tighter and tighter circles around him, seemingly fascinated by this visitor to the underwater realm. The hour spent in the water with that seal remains one of the most extraordinary experiences of my life.

Alex captured some beautiful shots of the seal, but this wasn’t our main goal, and time was running out. We wanted to break new ground and capture something that had not been filmed before, and to do this we had to find the penguin show. Our luck finally turned when, through binoculars, we saw a huge flock of gentoo penguins, all resting on the surface, right in the middle of a gorgeous bay. This ‘rafting’ behaviour was exactly what Alex had photographed in the past, and it was our moment to try and film the spectacle. We raced over in our zodiac and as we got in the water, we knew luck was on our side – there was more than ten metres of visibility, and a couple of gentoos started swimming around us. Working with our boat crew, we tried to predict where the penguins would surface next, getting in and out of the water repeatedly to put ourselves in the best possible position. Most of our dives were unsuccessful – either because the penguins would move off in pursuit of food, or we were simply not in precisely the right place. On just a handful of occasions, however, everything clicked, and it was pure magic. As we got closer to where they had last dived, it was like the ocean had started to boil, the water around us a huge mass of bubbles. Amongst the bubbles we started to see little feathered rockets flying through the fizzing sea. Quickly we plunged down into the cold, heavy water, to be met by dozens of these super-charged creatures.

These normally timid animals took to ‘mobbing’ Alex, getting into a tight flock and swimming behind him.

Taking it in turns to dive down with the penguins, they became more and more inquisitive with every approach we made. The energy of these animals was extraordinary, their speed and agility couldn’t be further removed from their clumsy demeanour on land. Alex had half a dozen moments were he framed up and nearly 100 penguins flew towards him, in a perfect flock formation.

Silently holding our breath whilst all of these tiny little characters circled around us in a dazzling display of bubbles encapsulated the privilege of underwater wildlife filmmaking. The imagery Alex captured, which was included in the Our Planet series, speaks for itself.

Mission accomplished.

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By Dr Lou Luddington

Column

The marine biologist TALES FROM MARINE PROTECTED AREAS

“S

canning the seabed beneath me I spotted the unmistakable side-to-side swish and glide of a shark. This one was flat and the colour of speckled sand: an angelshark. Wonder flushed through me. The shark slinked along, the sinuous rhythm of muscles carving a path through the water. When the sway halted, it dropped gently to the sand. Inhaling deeply I hinged into a duckdive and sank to some boulders a few metres behind it. Inching closer I marvelled at its perfection of design and colouration. Casting my eyes along its tail I noticed the set of claspers; only male sharks are endowed with these appendages, a modified portion of the pelvic fins used to deliver sperm to the female during mating. With its highly tuned senses of hearing, sight and electromagnetism I wondered what he made of me. Whatever the sensation he decided to move along and lifted off from the sand. My brief encounter was deeply affecting and left me eager to learn more about this peculiar shark.

The angelshark is listed as 'Critically Endangered' on the IUCN Red List of Threatened Species. It was once widespread throughout the eastern Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea but populations have declined by more than 80% in the last 50 years. With greater numbers than anywhere else in its range, the Canary Islands are a unique stronghold for the species.

Here, they are protected by the Spanish Endangered Species List for Canary Island waters, legislation that makes it illegal to disturb, capture or kill the sharks or damage their habitat. My sighting was from a blissful week or so freediving from the sailing boat that my husband Tom and I now call home, anchored on the east coast of La Graciosa. This island lies in the north of the Canary Islands and is part of the Chinijo Archipelago Marine Reserve, one of Europe's largest Marine Protected Areas (MPA) covering an area of 70,700 hectares. Within this area is a small no-take zone of about 12 square kilometres where only research with special permits is allowed; in the rest of the MPA hook and line fishing, tuna-bait seining, recreational fishing and scuba diving are permitted. La Graciosa is home to a traditional fishing community and is the only inhabited island within the MPA. Since the late 1990s small-scale tourism has blossomed and lowered the importance of fishing to the local economy.

Our observations certainly made us curious about how the MPA was being managed.

Everyday we saw recreational boats and scores of tourists on the shore fishing with rods and lines. In places underwater there were many long-spined sea urchins, munching away, collectively denuding the rocks of life with their self-sharpening teeth. High numbers are a sign of imbalance in the seabed communities; removal of the larger, predatory fish species desirable to sport and commercial fishers allow their numbers to skyrocket. The result is barren rock scraped bare of seaweeds and encrusting animals. When we called at the marina for water and asked the young marinero about fishing he said “you must have a licence,” and then with a knowing wink, “...or you go at night to avoid the police.”

Sculpted by ancient volcanic activity the underwater scenery within the MPA is spectacular.

Great swathes of rock drawn up into plateaus and walls and carved into tubes and archways.

Swirling through this scene were huge shoals of white sea bream, salema and barracuda, while tucked into crevices we found octopus, moray eels and starfish. Several species of stingray flapped over the seabed and of course critically endangered angelsharks concealed themselves beneath the sand, coolly slinking off to the depths when we swam down to see them. LL About Lou Dr Lou Luddington is a marine biologist, nature photographer and writer living aboard a sailboat, Noctiluca, on the move and travelling from MPA to MPA. www.louluddington.com

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@louluddington

www.louluddington.com

“Critically endangered angelsharks concealed themselves beneath the sand, coolly slinking off to the depths when we swam down to see them.�

Dr Luddington freedives in the Chinijo Archipelago Marine Reserve.

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BEHIND THE LENS

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DEFENDING

Bangkaru

On a remote island in Indonesia, rangers are turning the tide on turtle egg poaching, safeguarding the future of an ancient population of greens and leatherbacks.

Wo rd s b y Ja n e D u n l o p a n d To m A m e y P h o t o g ra p h s b y Pa u l H i l t o n a n d A l e x We s t o ve r

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W

e set off from the ranger camp after eating dinner. Although it was well into the night, the walk through Bangkaru’s forest is a sweaty business. During the day, the trees provide welcome shade, but at night they seem to breathe out warm moist air. This humid tropic climate and pristine primary forest means Bangkaru is home to an abundance of frogs and insects that, when night comes, produce a cacophony of orchestral proportion.

After a 30-minute torchlit trek, we stepped out from the forest onto the beach. Lightning flashed over the sea in front and over the mountains behind, illuminating rock formations and trees, and casting dramatic flashing shadows over the pure white moonlit sand.

The ranger patrols are a serious business. We were given a briefing from the lead ranger: “I will go ahead and scope the beach, stay at least 50 metres behind me. If I see something, I will give you the flash signal with my red light. Stop and wait for a second flash and approach slowly with the rangers. There is to be no use of phones or lights except your red head torch.” Turtles are very sensitive to light and may choose not to approach the beach if they see any lights. Red light isn’t visible to them and is therefore used to minimise disturbance.

Huddling together we waited for the ranger to make his way up the beach. After being given the all clear, we followed. Stomping along the shore, electric blue specks in the sand danced and shimmered as our feet disturbed bioluminescent plankton. The flashing lightning above and the twinkling sand below was quite a spectacle.

All of a sudden, a red light bobbed up and down some way ahead. A mother turtle had been spotted. She had just excavated her hole and was beginning the process of laying. In the water turtles are graceful and seem to glide effortlessly. On land it is another story. The whole process is clearly an exhausting experience of heaving, hauling, digging and flapping, and can take up to three hours from exiting to re-entering the sea.

In this instance the species was a green turtle, the most commonly found species on Bangkaru. Around a metre in length and weighing between 110–190kg, green turtles are impressive creatures. But leatherbacks – the other species that nest on Bangkaru – are real prehistoric beasts. Leatherbacks are the only remaining species of their kind and have remained relatively unchanged since sea turtles evolved more than 110 million years ago.

Around two metres long and up to 700kg in weight, they really do resemble living dinosaurs.

Leatherbacks nest on the beach for approximately 40 nights a year, between October and April. Green turtles nest every night of the year. A single night can result in five to 20 nests, sometimes more. An average of 200 turtles visit the beach a month.

PREVIOUS: An adult green turtle in the shallows of Bangkaru Island.

THIS PAGE: Hatchlings make their way to the open ocean.

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“A chain of pristine deepsea islands, Simeulue and Bangkaru offer one of the last refuges and nesting sites for critically endangered turtles as well as several bird species.”

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“Bangkaru’s beaches are home to the largest nesting site for green sea turtles in Western Indonesia, along with being an important nesting site for leatherback turtles.�

Bangkaru's pristine beauty, as seen from above.

A chain of pristine deep-sea islands, Simeulue and Bangkaru offer one of the last refuges and nesting sites for critically endangered turtles as well as several bird species.

The EcosystemImpact Foundation is working to keep these islands wild through a sustainable approach where business, people and nature are given the tools to thrive alongside each other, providing immediate solutions to urgent problems of biodiversity and habitat loss through ranger programmes, breeding programmes and habitat protection and restoration. This is all alongside long-term solutions focussing on sustainable business, sustainable financing streams and education.

To get to Bangkaru, one must travel from Medan on mainland Sumatra – already quite remote – to Simeulue Island via a small island-hopping plane. From Simeulue it is then an eight-hour boat ride. There are very few places left in the world as unaltered by humans as the Simeulue and Bangkaru Islands. Bangkaru’s beaches are home to the largest nesting site for green sea turtles in Western Indonesia, along with being an important nesting site for leatherback turtles. However, just because Bangkaru and Simeulue are remote, does not mean that the wildlife there is safe. Before the foundation started supporting the Bangkaru Ranger Programme, poachers were taking as many as 1,500 eggs a night, threatening the existence of the local sea turtle populations.

“I have been with the programme for 13 years and before that, I was a fisher,” said Uzhar, who travels from Haloban to Bangkaru for his work. “I feel like my heart called me to get involved in protecting wildlife. However, at the start I felt like I didn’t know anything about conservation activities. The more experience I had the deeper I fell in love with this work and the more I realised that our lives are interdependent with nature.

“On one occasion, 25 poachers were on the shore and two people chased us with machetes. We almost retreated but decided to stand our ground, also holding machetes.

They saw that their machetes were smaller than ours and retreated. The next day when we returned to the beach, all the turtle eggs were gone. Not one was left on the beach.

We had this experience every day for four years.”

EcosystemImpact became involved in the Bangkaru Ranger Programme, which was originally launched by sea turtle conservation NGO Yayasan Pulau Banyak, after Luke Swainson, one of EcosystemImpact’s founders, took a trip to the island and witnessed it's vibrancy, as well as the sheer number of turtles nesting on its beaches.

A team of six rangers now provide constant protection on Bangkaru, under the leadership and direction of Indonesia’s wildlife protection agency, BKSDA. Since their involvement began in 2016, BKSDA, EcosystemImpact and partners have reduced poaching cases to zero. Ranger programmes work because of the ranger’s presence and their ability to enforce the law.

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TOP: Bangkaru's rangers head off on patrol.

MIDDLE: A hatchling emerges from its egg.

BOTTOM: A green turtle atop a seabed of sand and seagrass.

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“At first the rangers were met with hostility. They posed a threat to the food or income source for many locals.

The turtles are hunted for their meat and shells, and the eggs are often poached to then be sold to those who eat them as a delicacy.”

At first the rangers were met with hostility. They posed a threat to the food or income source for many locals. The turtles are hunted for their meat and shells, and the eggs are often poached to then be sold to those who eat them as a delicacy. Conservation complexities around issues such as poaching can be hard to untangle – communities need to be connected with, their needs understood. People need food and money. They do care about the environment but food and money are more critical. Once those needs are met, or at least recognised and acknowledged, conservation activities can flow more easily. The Bangkaru Ranger Programme has been set up to support the local communities and provide other sources of income and education, including employment as rangers and caretakers of the ranger camp.

“People hated us – the new rangers,” said Uzhar.

“Every night we met poachers on the beach. And every night as soon as we left, the turtle eggs would be taken.

We received a lot of hate when we went back to the community. But every time we went back home, we would report the poaching information back to BKSDA and the police. In the end, in 2016 BKSDA and the police arrested the poachers. This was not easy for BKSDA and the police, and we congratulate them for it. Since then, our work has been so much easier.”

The Pulau Banyak (Many Islands) region where Bangkaru is located, remains sparsely populated and undeveloped. Although Bangkaru is uninhabited, there are two island communities that live on adjacent islands. It is these populaces that EcosystemImpact and its partners have worked with to secure Bangkaru’s turtle populations. All rangers are members of these communities, and are now respected.

An element of the programme believed to have been integral to its success is the community member rangers project. Each 15 days a different person from the local community joins the Bangkaru Rangers on the island.

They participate in ranger activities and learn from the team. They also earn a salary. It has proven an effective means of community engagement and environmental

education, with resounding community support.

As part of its environmental education initiatives, EcosystemImpact runs a Sekolah Alam (Nature School) with the local residents. Sekolah Alam sessions teach children basic English whilst concentrating on conservation themes, so as to increase awareness around environmental issues. The community has also asked for support alongside the conservation work, including on education, waste management and a soccer field.

However, the programme has never had sufficient funding to fully cover the conservation work needed, and thus, has not yet been able to do much for broader community development issues.

It is always surprising that even in the middle of nowhere, huge amounts of plastic waste wash ashore. Each day the rangers collect sacks of rubbish from Bangkaru’s beaches. As well as being harmful to adult turtles if eaten, plastic waste can also trap turtle hatchlings on their way to the ocean. Currently, this plastic waste is shipped to the mainland and recycled where possible. To help solve this problem, EcosystemImpact is working on a plan to recycle the rubbish collected from Bangkaru into clothing.

EcosystemImpact, alongside a small collective of organisations and partners, seek to address the social, environmental and economic aspects of conservation at ground level on Simeulue and Bangkaru. The vision is to finance businesses that create jobs and green growth, as well as to promote local support for a more sustainable development path. Providing sustainable financial support for traditional conservation and community development initiatives is also key to protecting the future of these islands and their inhabitants. A healthy economy goes hand in hand with a healthy planet.

Bangkaru is wild. It is only after visiting such remote and wild places, that one appreciates how significant an impact humanity is having on this planet. Many places around the world have been so altered it would be hard to find something we would consider ‘natural’ within them. But human influence is everywhere, even beyond those urbanised areas. From poaching to plastic, and the burning of fossil fuels, humans are changing remote landscapes such as the Bangkaru and Simeulue Islands.

Each and every action we take – wherever we are on the planet – has an impact and we must be conscious of these impacts. But these impacts can, of course, be good, even great. Conservation can work for both biodiversity and for people.

“Sea turtles are our ancient inheritance,” said Uzhar.

"They are protected by Indonesian and international law.

Turtles balance out the health of our marine ecosystem through the consumption of algae, jellyfish and seagrass.

We hope that community members who are capturing turtles for food or for souvenirs stop these activities and switch to other livelihoods so that animals from this ancient heritage will not become fables of our future.”

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resilience Manmade structures are often erected at the expense of nature. Given the opportunity, nature can be quick to bounce back.

Wo rd s a n d p h o t o g ra p h s b y S a m u e l C o e

Oceanographic Issue 16

PREVIOUS: Scalloped hammerheads.

THIS PAGE: Wildlife abounds around a decommissioned oil rig.

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T

he remarkable adaptiveness of nature is evident wherever you look, whether it be the frustrating success of invasive species such as rats, pigeons, gulls, and macaques, or the resourcefulness of urban foxes in Europe and leopards roaming the streets of Mumbai. The overriding theme of the 1989 American film Field of Dreams rings true in so many cases within the natural world: “If you build it, he will come”.

When I was young and growing up on a Scottish five-acre hobby farm with a handful of sheep, a couple of dairy cows, ducks, chickens and geese, I’d spend hours walking through the fields with my dogs. I’d be keenly on the lookout for rabbits and hares, hedgehogs, squirrels, weasels, stoats, frogs and toads, foxes, badgers, pheasants, deer, and various insects, arachnids, and myriapods, not to mention birds. There were streams, ponds and woodlands to explore on our own land but also throughout the surrounding countryside, which was dominated by fields of sheep and cattle, all lined with beech trees.

In amongst the woods and fields was an old farm cottage, reduced to ruins, surrounded by towering beech trees and Scots pines. The building was no longer roofed, but the basic stone foundations stood firm with great sandstone lintels above the doorways as I’d scramble from room to room. This once human abode was now my favourite haunt to find wildlife, as it reclaimed the land that was once taken from it.

I’d find rabbits sheltering here and feeding on the rich green grass that shot up where there was once a floor, and grey squirrels would run along the top of the walls before launching onto low beech branches and fleeing towards the crowns of the trees. Mosses and lichens now encrusted the lumps of stone and ferns took up residence in the gaps in the walls. Voles and shrews made homes in the crumbling piles of rubble and I’d often see stoats and weasels hunting for them in the spring and summer.

A pair of buzzards nested in one of a few dozen beech trees that made up the perimeter of the old garden and bluetits made use of holes in the walls to lay their eggs. The stone walls also provided great hibernating and nesting habitat for a plethora of insects, including a variety of bumblebees. The old cottage had become a haven for wildlife, and I lost count of the number of species that I encountered there. This cottage was one of my earliest seen examples of how adaptable and resourceful nature is and how, if given the chance and time, it can so effectively reclaim land that was once taken from it by humans.

Fast-forward 20 or so years and I encounter another wonderful example of nature’s ingenuity and resourcefulness, this time not in Scotland but in Australia. Not in amongst lush, green farmland but 25 miles offshore, in the deep blue Indian Ocean.

Preparing the old fibreglass boat the evening before, topping her up with fuel and oil, double checking safety equipment and throwing in a couple of fishing rods, we planned for an early start the following day. Sure enough,

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The remote rig is now a haven for sharks, and ocean lovers.

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“The ocean was now a shade of purple, such was the depth and clarity, and never-ending shards of light pierced the surface travelling down into the abyss.”

the next morning we arrived at the boat ramp just as the apricot sun began to peer over the eastern horizon, shedding light on the day.

The ocean, like a millpond, began to shimmer as golden light reflected off its surface and a small, gentle swell rolled in, softly kissing the shore with miniature waves. As we putted through the leads, the gargling of our two-stroke Yamaha outboard was the only sound save for the mewing of an osprey on its portside marker perch. Beyond the final pair of red and green buoys we accelerated, due north, the fibreglass hull skating on the plane, leaving behind a wake that was only interrupted when it made landfall.

Longtoms and flying fish made way for our flared bow, skipping to either side, the latter staying airborne for tens of metres before plunging back into the water where they’d have much more dangerous creatures to evade than me and my boat; dolphinfish are plentiful in these warm, deep seas. As we chased the northern horizon, mainland Australia became obscured by a heat haze and the cool ocean air was a comfort to us.

After the best part of two hours of cruising, our destination came into sight, a tall metal platform rising from more than 300 metres of water; a decommissioned oil rig standing in solitude. The ocean was now a shade of purple, such was the depth and clarity, and endless shards of light pierced the surface before travelling down into the abyss. Approaching the rig, the smell of guano assaulted the nostrils; the structure, caked in bird excrement, was almost entirely white with small patches of its original yellow paintjob barely visible. Terns, boobies, and shearwaters rested on the isolated metal island, catching their breath before taking flight and searching for sustenance.

Drawing nearer still, our vessel was greeted by inquisitive sharks, slender-bodied and with pointed snouts, excitedly examining the boat that was visiting their world. The tips of the dorsal, pectoral and caudal fins of some of the sharks shone silver, as if they had adorned themselves in fine jewellery. There were bony fish as well; bigeye trevally and rainbow runner were schooling in a vortex around the rig in their thousands.

The sun was beating down on our vessel and with no shade, we didn’t hesitate to don our rash vests, masks and fins and slip into the inviting water.

Beneath the surface, the number of sharks quadrupled from what we were seeing from the boat, mostly silky sharks with a handful of silvertips, which were initially the more cautious of the two species. We were swarmed

as if by bees, as sharks came in close before calmly turning away to ponder us from a safe distance. Many of them sported battle scars, bite marks and lesions caused by other sharks. One war veteran in particular caught my eye; she was missing her left pectoral fin, though she didn’t seem too troubled by her handicap. Wahoo, dolphinfish, barracuda, trevally, rainbow runner and yellowfin tuna swam nonchalantly through the water column, unperturbed by our and the sharks’ presence.

Underwater, each and every square inch of the rig itself was inhabited by barnacles, sponges and algae and there were even damsel fish and batfish hiding out amongst the pylons. It was an oasis in a vast desert of azure. In 200 fathoms, these plunging pillars are the only available structure for miles and a place where a plethora of marine life can take refuge from the perils of the open ocean.

But in shelter comes hazards, as larger fish and sharks who have stumbled across this artificial reef begin to congregate, seeing its worth not necessarily as a lodging, but as a hunting ground; patrolling the perimeter in wait before snatching any unwitting or feeble prey from the edge of the sanctuary. For hours we swam with and photographed the array of wildlife that had established as an ecosystem in this minute patch of sea, its own unique microbiome. Like the old stone cottage from my childhood in Scotland, I’d found a reserve, selfproclaimed by nature.

From the dark below us, another species of shark began to emerge, circling shallower and shallower and swimming in a rather unorthodox fashion on their sides, their sleek bodies reflecting light with a metallic sheen.

They were much more muscular than the other sharks we’d seen, with bulkier physiques and long protruding scythe-like caudal fins.

The newcomers were Critically Endangered scalloped hammerheads, gradually climbing the water column with interest to see what they were missing out on. Their bulbous eyes mounted on the sides of their unusual shaped heads ogled us as they drew nearer, moving effortlessly through the water thanks to the large fins of an oceanic predator. Each from foreign realms, but now merely feet apart, we examined one another with interest before the hammerheads retreated back to the deep and I, now exhausted, to my boat.

After seeing the masses of fish aggregating around the rig, I couldn’t resist but wet a line. A wahoo, or dolphinfish, of similar size to those that we’d seen in the water would feed us for a week, but our efforts were to no avail. Though we’d found a haven, we were reminded that the ocean remains a vast domain.

The environmental degradation caused by the active oil and gas industry is unquantifiable but, in its wake, the resilience of nature is evident. Once a conduit for the exploitation of the ocean’s resources, this decommissioned rig has been claimed by the sea and its inhabitants as a nursery, shelter and foraging habitat that, if left undisturbed, will continue to thrive as a place where opportunities abound.

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COLLECTION

©Photograph: Laurent Ballesta/Gombessa Project

Fifty Fathoms

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