Oceanographic Magazine / Issue Eighteen

ISSUE

18

Conservation • Exploration • Adventure

END OF THE LINE REJECTING THE FIN INDUSTRY & R E B A L A N C I N G N AT U R E

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©Photograph: Laurent Ballesta/Gombessa Project

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Editor’s Letter Rafid Shidqi of Thresher Shark Indonesia is standing up against the onslaught. Others a re s t a n d i n g with him.

Passion fuels change. All five features in this issue have a passionate person or community at the centre of their story.

That passion has driven – or is currently driving – change.

Our lead story focusses on work being done in Alor, Indonesia, to reclaim local waters from the shark-finning industry, a business that has both undermined the local community’s ocean heritage and had a devastating impact on local marine life. Rafid Shidqi of Thresher Shark Indonesia is standing up against the onslaught. Others are standing with him.

In the remote Kuril Islands, a haven for Stellar sea lions and fur seals, Russian scientist Vladimir Burkanov has dedicated decades to uncovering the truth behind the significant and continued population declines experienced by both species.

On the shores of Loch Craignish, community volunteers have started a new programme to return native oysters to the loch.

It is a locally-driven campaign (that could, all being well, be used as a blueprint in further locations) created by people committed to returning the loch to a cleaner, more vibrant version of its former self.

Tubbataha, a marine park in the Philippines and a “shining beacon” of what a well-managed Marine Protected Area can achieve, has achieved its success through decades of commitment and passion from the many people involved in its running, from those in policy and governance, to the park rangers policing the waters with pride.

Will Harrison Editor

Finally, we hear from Jack Plant, a Great Bear Rainforest guide, who shares some of the experiences and joys he has had in those bountiful and beautiful places where land meets sea: estuaries. His is a passion for place, and it is both infectious and inspiring.

@oceanographic_editor @og_editor Oceanographicmag

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Contents O N T H E C OV E R

FEATURE S

SAVING THRESHERS

Shark fin traders are corrupting small communities across Indonesia. For the people of Alor, the insidious practice contrasts starkly with a heritage of deep ocean connection. What does the future hold?

A thresher shark hangs beneath a boat on the end of a fishing line.

Photograph by Shawn Heinrichs.

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

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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. © 2021 CXD MEDIA Ltd. All rights reserved. Nothing in whole or in part may be reproduced without written permission from the publisher.

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.

ISSN: 2516-5941

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TH E KURI LS

NAT I VE OY ST ER S

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.

T UB B ATA HA

F E RT IL E R E A L M

On a volcanic speck of land in the Sea of Okhotsk, Steller sea lions and fur seals reign.

However, their numbers have been in decline since the 1950s. After decades of research, experts still aren't sure why.

The UK’s first community-led native oyster restoration project is up and running in Loch Craignish, Argyll, Scotland. After an encouraging start, what does the future hold for the programme?

The Tubbataha Reefs Natural Park is the pride and joy of the Philippines, a remote haven saved from the brink of destruction. It is a story of conservation action, grass roots pride, and effective and long-lasting ocean governance.

In the great circle of life, estuaries represent the point at which the circle closes, where land meets sea and this planet's interconnectedness completes. Fertile realms bursting with life.

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B E H IN D TH E L E N S

C O LUMN S

THE SOCIAL ECOLOGIST

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

Each issue, we chat with one of the world’s leading ocean photographers and showcase a selection of their work. In this edition, we meet 2020 Ocean Photographer of the Year, Nadia Aly.

Big wave surf champion, environmentalist and social change advocate Dr Easkey Britton shares an excerpt from her book "50 Things to do by the Sea".

Marine biologist, photographer and writer, Dr Lou Luddington, writes about an encounter with short-finned pilot whales in the Canary Islands, while aboard her boat, Noctiluca.

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NADIA ALY

Oceanographic Issue 18

Todd Thimios Maldives "An abundance of zooplankton on the right moon cycle drives a frenzy like no other," says Thimios. "Here, a migration of mantas sets upon a plankton-rich hot spot in the Indian Ocean and become lost in the clouds of schooling herring."

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Andrew Semark Australia “West Australia has some of the most vast and dynamic ocean landscapes in the world," says Semark. "From the red dirt in the north to where the forest meets the sea in the south, you can always find an isolated ocean setup.”

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Magnus Lundborg Azores "Fifty nautical miles southwest of the Azores there is an underwater seamount exposed to the wild Atlantic," says Lundborg. "It is home to several pelagic species, including these Chilean devil rays."

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Phillip Boyd Wales "I caught up with this compass jellyfish whilst paddle-boarding," says Boyd. "They’re so graceful to watch beneath the surface. I shot this one in the bay off Abersoch, with the St Tudwals islands in the background. I love how vast the ocean looks in this image."

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Saving THRESHERS Shark fin traders are corrupting small communities across Indonesia.

For the people of Alor, the insidious practice contrasts starkly with a heritage of deep ocean connection.

What does the future hold?

Wo rd s b y B e t h F i n n e y P h o t o g ra p h s b y S h a w n H e i n r i c h s

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“T

he first time I saw a live thresher shark was in Nusa Penida, off Bali. We were filming oceanic sunfish and it just appeared. It was beautiful – iridescent silver skin, massive deep dark eyes and a tail that propelled it forward, beating a rhythm like a ribbon in water. It looked so innocent and gentle – there was nothing that indicated aggression. I was captivated by it.”

Shy and elusive, little is known about the behaviours and needs of the thresher shark compared to other pelagic species. Highly migratory, thresher sharks can be found in both tropical and temperate deep waters around the world. Despite their wary nature, they haven’t escaped the threats plaguing all shark species in today’s world. The commercial shark fin industry has become so adept at reaching even the most rural coastal communities, and as a result, their numbers are in steady decline. The thresher shark population of Indonesia, for example, has declined by 80.2% in the past 13 years.

While thresher sharks were officially protected under CITES in 2016, and are also protected under the Indian Ocean Tuna Commission, this is only in terms of trade.

Technically shark fins shouldn’t be traded, but these measures can’t prevent artisanal fishing. Currently, we don’t yet have comprehensive enough measures for protections of ocean species in the same way we do for terrestrial species. It’s a loophole that leads to the exploitation of highly threatened species. A report from the Indonesian Ministry of Marine Affairs and Fisheries indicated that juvenile threshers are often caught in the Indian Ocean, either by hand line or in the tuna fisheries’ drift gillnets, resulting in population depletion over the past decades.

In 2013, some years after his first and, at that time, only encounter with a thresher shark, SeaLegacy co-founder Shawn Heinrichs travelled to Alor, Indonesia, to find out how a once minimal impact shark-fishing practice had taken such a drastic turn for the worse.

“I was a guest with those fishers, and we went puttering out into a channel of deep water with raging currents,” Heinrichs explains. “The fishermen dropped handlines into the water with these elaborate lures at the end that are designed to look like schools of juvenile anchovy – thresher sharks stun them by whipping their tails while hunting. The lines went down and down, to around 200 metres. The line went taught and I watched as these guys hauled it up with their bare hands, pull by pull, as if it weighed nothing. Eventually, a beautiful three-metre thresher shark emerges from the water, the lure wrapped around it’s long tail.”

After arriving back at the beach and watching more boats loaded with sharks arrive, Heinrichs had to take a moment to reset and remember that this was a fishing community – this was their livelihood. But when he saw

PREVIOUS: Children try to revive a thresher shark pup and return it to the ocean, shortly after it being removed from its dead mother.

THIS PAGE: A fisherman removes a fin from an adult thresher shark.

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a man with a machete moving along the row of carcases removing the fins, he knew something was wrong.

Heinrichs later met with the village elders who acknowledged that catch success had declined in recent years, which had pushed them to targeting thresher sharks. A fin trader had come to Alor and told the elders he would pay them for shark fins, and so began the commercial sale of fins. It is a story that repeats itself around the world. Local communities that go from having a small group of hunters who occasionally catch a shark to a targeted operation where hundreds of sharks are landed each season.

It can be easy to vilify artisanal fishermen – theirs are the faces we see pulling these beautiful sharks out of the water. However, it’s important to remember that these are communities who survive off natural resources.

They are people who have lived with the ocean every day for generations. It is likely that as other viable fish species dwindled in numbers, perhaps due to commercial overfishing and even climate change, they were forced to choose between their integrity as nature-conscious fishermen and the need to feed their families and support their communities.

Out of sight, out of mind, are the faceless individuals benefiting from the shark fin trade – a few people in each community who make the majority of the money.

The rest of the community receives minimal benefits from the sale of fins. “In these instances, social pressure from within the community is key,” says Heinrichs. “The enemies of conservation are ignorance, apathy and greed, and the shark fin trade relies heavily on the latter. Often there are kingpins in these areas working purely from greed, who are fully aware of what’s happening because they watch the fins get smaller and fewer. That’s where regulations and community management really come into play.”

Back on the beach, Heinrichs watched as the thresher sharks were sliced open. He estimates that around 70% were pregnant. “Two beautiful little baby thresher shark pups would pop out, tiny pink or silver bodies with these huge dark orbital eyes,” he recalls. “One by one, I witnessed these sharks cut open and these babies drop onto the stone beach. It broke my heart; I realised, they

OUT OF SIGHT, OUT OF MIND, ARE THE FACELESS INDIVIDUALS BENEFITING FROM THE SHARK FIN TRADE ... THE REST OF THE COMMUNITY RECEIVES MINIMAL BENEFITS FROM THE SALE OF FINS.

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weren’t just catching one shark, they were catching three sharks for each one hauled ashore. Those pups were meant to be the next generation, so an entire generation was just being eviscerated in this one moment. The finality of what was happening really hit me. There was no way you could keep hammering such an important breeding population.”

Then he noticed the village children. They would pick up the lifeless shark pups and strike them, pulling their fingers up their tails in a zipping motion. “Initially, I was upset,” says Heinrichs of what he saw. “Not only were they wiping out a generation of sharks, but they were also being deeply disrespectful.”

The children proceeded to hold the shark pups in the water, still continually ‘zipping’ their tails between their fingers. After some time, a pup wiggled, rolled onto its side, and swam away. The children cheered as it disappeared into the ocean. They were instinctually trying to save the pups.

Communities in Indonesia's eastern region have depended on threshers for approximately 50 years, but there now seems to be a willingness to shift away from fishing endangered sharks. However, the opportunities to do so are limited, both in terms of the skills to fish other species and the absence of market and infrastructure.

In 2018, Rafid Shidqi and Dewi Ratna Sari co-founded Thresher Shark Indonesia, initially to learn more about the local thresher shark fishing practices, unravel the communities’ dependency toward the fisheries and find the potential conservation interventions that could protect the species.

“After several years working in the field, I started to understand that the value of working in conservation is more on strengthening the relationship with the communities,” explains Shidqi. “[You need to] listen with empathy, set aside bias and judgment about how we value animals and nature. For Alor communities, respecting nature is part of their identity; they have protected wildlife through local wisdom – capturing the marine life needed on that day, rather than focusing on the species they wanted. They value the thresher shark as [much as] other fishes, such as tuna and red snapper.”

Through acoustic tagging conducted in 2020, Shidqi and the team have discovered that there are two locations being regularly frequented by thresher sharks. These sites could be cleaning stations, potentially providing a compelling commercial case for keeping the sharks alive – a thriving cleaning station could bring in dive tourism.

The two locations are close to fishing grounds regularly frequented by shark fishers, increasing the urgency to protect the area as a critical habitat for thresher sharks.

Children stand over the body of a thresher shark recently hauled to shore.

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MAIN IMAGE: A vibrant and colourful Indonesian reef.

TOP to BOTTOM: The children in the coastal communities of Indonesia retain an innate connection to nature and a desire to protect it.

NEXT TWO PAGES: A thresher shark is pulled onto a boat by shark fishermen.

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THE REGULATION AIMS TO DIVERSIFY LIVELIHOODS AND PROVIDE ACCESS TO CAPITAL AND MARKETS IN ORDER TO REDUCE THE DEPENDENCY OF COMMUNITIES TOWARDS ENDANGERED MARINE ANIMALS, INCLUDING THRESHER SHARKS.

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These recent surveys have recorded predominantly pregnant females in the area, indicating that thresher sharks may be utilising the Bay of Kalabahi - the main fishing ground of shark fishers - as a birthing ground.

Though there is not yet enough data to draw a definitive conclusion, continuous fishing pressure on pregnant females will, in all likelihood, undermine the viability of affected thresher populations.

Heinrichs is deft at combining storytelling, grass roots communication and policy when catalysing local conservation projects such as Thresher Shark Indonesia.

He highlights that conservation has to work like a natural ecosystem – if you don’t take a systematic and integrated approach, every piece of the puzzle you missed or ignored could cause the entire mission to fail.

“For the most part, conservation isn’t about nature, it’s about people,” he says. “It’s about understanding and connecting with people and the way they are interacting with nature. It’s important to understand both the positive and the negative aspects of their actions and their reasons, and to approach it all from an empathetic foundation. Until you really understand what is driving people, you can’t change them.”

For many of the projects he contributes his energies to, it’s about ‘rewriting the narrative’. In this case, commercial exploitation from external powers and a disconnect from nature has usurped Alor’s ancient narrative of sustainability and connection to the environment.

“It’s inspiring to see the advancement of science and conservation being led by young and passionate conservation leaders like Rafid,” Heinrichs says. “With powerful imagery and storytelling, I can simply add some horsepower to the work that the Indonesian people own. It’s an inspiration to me, and I think it should act as inspiration to a lot of young people around the world to really stand up for their country.”

As a result of this holistic approach, the work of Thresher Shark Indonesia has reached more than 700 communities, important government bodies and the general public through local media and radio campaigns.

In 2020, the project established the first local regulation that focuses on protecting the rights of small-scale fishermen who are dependant on endangered marine animals. The regulation aims to diversify livelihoods and provide access to capital and markets in order to reduce the dependency of communities towards endangered marine animals, including thresher sharks.

The project has provided initial data for thresher sharks in Indonesian waters for the government, which is now beginning to value them as a regional asset and future tourism opportunity.

A fisherman displays fins from the day's catch – the profits from which he will see just a small share.

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ANY COMMUNITY CAN BE DESTROYED

BY THE IMPACTS OF EXPLOITATION, BUT WITH THE RIGHT TOOLS, AWARENESS AND DETERMINATION, THEY CAN ALSO BE A BEACON OF HOPE FOR THE FUTURE.

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TOP: A fisherman pulls in a hand line.

BOTTOM: Community members sift through a fresh catch.

“Local communities have always understood the need to protect thresher sharks,” says Shidqi.

“Right now, our focus is to assist the communities in embracing new livelihoods, through providing them market access and facilities for tuna, as well as starting land-based business that would reduce their dependency on shark fishing.”

It takes a detailed web of elements to interrupt the illicit fin industry. Thresher Shark Indonesia’s plan includes policy changes, incomes and alternative livelihoods, but also factors in the needs of the communities on the frontline defending threatened species from external exploiters. “It’s a fully integrated system,” adds Heinrichs, “to pretend otherwise is to look at nature as a singular moment and not as an intricately woven fabric – if you alter one thread, the whole fabric is impacted.”

The remote coastal communities of Indonesia, while connected to the outside world, are traditionally quite insular. Because there are few official enforcement mechanisms in place, integrating community values and traditions into conservation efforts is vital. “Social pressure is probably the greatest mechanism because you can’t rely on someone policing all these communities,” Heinrichs says. “The ocean is huge; coastlines are vast. It really comes down to them making it their responsibility to become custodians and not exploiters of these diminishing resources.”

Creating alternative incomes to shark fishing is a tricky business. While it does require communities to embrace change, sweeping in with grand terrestrial projects isn’t viable. These are people who have been fishing for generations, whose day-to-day rhythm beats in time with the ocean.

Shidqi's initial plan is to assess the possibility of fishing alternatives and to set up supply chains to support the fishing of more abundant and fast-growing species. In the long-term, the team will try to figure out what alternatives might be viable, such as agriculture, eco-tourism or even science-based opportunities – businesses, education and projects that the people living here can take ownership of and continue to pass down generation by generation. “Pressure needs to be removed from the fishing industry,” says Heinrichs, “so while some members of the community should retain that tradition, creating some alternatives that are higher paying, more sustainable and serve the community in other ways would be beneficial.”

Thresher sharks in Indonesia are still extremely understudied. Data from 2002-2014 has shown significant population decline, yet conservation intervention has not been initiated anywhere in the country. Developing conservation measures is challenging due to the species' elusive and migratory nature. “Migration is nature’s way of spreading the gene pool and ensuring a species survival and, in the old ocean, that worked beautifully,” Heinrichs explains. “But in the modern ocean, it’s just another opportunity for those animals to be exploited.”

This is why collecting and processing more data to understand the needs of thresher sharks is so vital. In Alor, pregnant sharks are present within the Pantar Strait Marine Protected Area. Confirming critical nursery habitats in Indonesian waters could contribute to policy changes at the national level and increase the urgency of protecting them.

While our global population grows, our natural resources remain finite. Through commercialisation, we have disrupted effective traditional practices, set up unsustainable networks of exploitation and pushed these resources to the brink. It's having a devastating impact on both endangered marine species and coastal livelihoods.

Now, they’re the final gatekeepers, the guardians of the last great ecosystems, the last strongholds for vulnerable species. Not only do we need to help restore in them that sense of pride, responsibility and custodianship for the ocean, we need to restore that notion in ourselves too. We all have a role to play in safeguarding incredible ecosystems and species for the future, whether you’re a fisherman in Alor or a CEO in New York. Any community can be destroyed by the impacts of exploitation, but with the right tools, awareness and determination, they can also be a beacon of hope for the future.

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By Dr Easkey Britton

Column

The social ecologist READING THE SEA

I

n my new book, 50 Things to do by the Sea, I share some activities and practices we can learn in order to ‘read’ and connect more deeply with the sea. In this issue of Oceanographic I’ll share just a few of my favourite ways to creatively explore our ocean connection. By learning to read the sea, we can better understand and respect its power, which allows us to enjoy it safely. This includes spending time watching the sea and noticing its changing moods, energy and patterns, such as the movement of tides and different types of waves. Each part of the coast and every beach has its own unique characteristics – and sometimes hidden dangers. By spending time getting to know the ocean, we can appreciate more deeply all it has to offer.

It’s perhaps little wonder that some of the greatest artists and writers throughout human history have been drawn to the sea for inspiration. The sea is visually stimulating with a thousand shades of constantly moving blue.

The famous early 20th century writer Virginia Woolf wrote, ‘each wave of the sea has a different light, just as the beauty of who we love.' Modern advances in psychology and neuroscience have caught up with what Woolf perceptively captured in her writing: how simply looking at the sea has an impact on our wellbeing. The colour blue is associated with feelings of calm and creativity.

According to clinical psychologist Richard Shuster, watching the sea alters the frequency of our brain waves – putting us in a more meditative state. This is an important and beneficial effect at a time when increased stress and anxiety threaten to overwhelm us.

Next time you go to the coast, why not explore how many shades of blue can you see by taking a sketchbook and colouring pencils or paints with you. Take a moment to look at the sea as a colour palette, drinking in all the shades of blue can you see. Notice how these colours might shift, change or blend into each other depending on the weather. Paint a colour chart in your sketchbook of all the shades of blue you can see. Repeat this exercise on different days and seasons and compare. You may wish to note the weather conditions each day too. You might begin to notice patterns of colour and maybe even seasonal differences that reflect the different ‘moods’ of the sea.

The sea is not only visually stimulating. Listening to it can be an antidote to the daily noises and stressors we experience in more urban areas and cities.

It’s the constant fullness and richness of sea sounds, like the rhythmic pulse of breaking waves, that has a soothing effect on our brain. Washing over us like a sound bath, sea sounds have the opposite effect to the shrill, unexpected staccato of traffic and other artificial street sounds that can create stress in the body. The sounds of the sea have a measurable effect on human health and wellbeing, bringing a sense of calm and reducing stress. EB Adapted excerpt from ‘50 Things to do by the Sea’ (out May 13th and available now to pre-order).

About Easkey Dr Easkey Britton, surfer and founder of Like Water, is a marine social scientist and honorary research fellow at the European Centre for Environment and Human Health. 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.

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@easkeysurf

@easkeysurf

www.easkeybritton.com

“Virginia Woolf wrote, 'each wave of the sea has a different light, just as the beauty of who we love.'”

Photograph by Chris McClean

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M Y S T E RY I N T H E

Kurils

On a volcanic speck of land in the Sea of Okhotsk, Steller sea lions and fur seal reign. However, their numbers have been in decline since the 1950s. Even after decades of research, experts still aren't sure why.

Wo rd s b y S t e p h a n B o i s s o n n e a u l t P h o t o g ra p h s b y R e n a n O z t u r k a n d Tay l o r R e e s

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“In the 1950s, there were 20,000 sea lions in the Kurils. Now the number is closer to 8,000.”

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ABOVE: Raykoke Island, previously green and full of life, approximately three weeks after a volcanic eruption turned it to ash.

LEFT: The huge Steller sea lion and fur seal colony on Tyuleniy Island.

PREVIOUS PAGE: Aerial footage from a small rookery in the north of the Kuril Islands.

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damaged, bygone Soviet-era building looms over a rock-covered island. Every year, Vladimir Burkanov spends time here, surrounded by the pungent aroma of decomposing fish and a cacophony of barks, belches, and roars cutting out the sounds of the sea. The culprits of the smell and noises are thousands of Steller sea lions and northern fur seals. Inside the building, young Russian scientists spend their days staring at computer screens filled with aerial imagery of the marine creatures.

The scientists are students of Burkanov, a 63-year-old Russian marine biologist who has dedicated half of his life to studying the ecology of the sea lions and seals that visit the aptly named Tyuleniy island (Tyuleniy is Russian for 'seal' ) in the Sea of Okhotsk, a speck of land 250 nautical miles from a mysterious and remote volcanic archipelago known as the Kuril Islands, a chain of 56 islands that separate Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula from Japan’s Hokkaido Island.

The Kurils are an ancestral breeding ground for both Steller sea lions and fur seals. However, over the past 50 years, their populations have been in decline – in part because of changing ocean conditions, though this is debated, and also due to changes to Russia's environmental protections for the region.

“The sea lion and fur seal rookeries are getting smaller and some of the species are disappearing,” Burkanov says. “In the 1950s, there were 20,000 sea lions in the Kurils. Now the number is closer to 8,000.”

Burkanov believes this could be partly chalked up to the dismantling of environmental protection policies in Russian waters. The Soviet government established a protection zone in 1958 as an act of international northern fur seal conservation. “I think it may have been one of the first marine protected areas in the world,” Burkanov says. “I had to get a special permit or research permit every year to go to the rookery because it was illegal to enter.” Now, however, the policy has been altered. Fishing is still not permitted, but the 'no entry' and 'no fuelling' statuses were both recently removed, in June 2020.

Burkanov spends half a year living and working in Russia and the other half across the ocean, in Seattle.

He wears many hats, as the lead researcher at both the Kamchatka branch of the Pacific Institute of Geography of the Russian Academy of Sciences and the National Marine Mammal Laboratory of the Alaska Fisheries Science Center in the US. Regardless of which hat he is wearing at any given time, one thing remains consistent: his adamance that the Kuril Islands form an important ocean ecosystem.

In the spring, male sea lions settle down on the Kuril rookeries and wait for females to emerge from the ocean. The females eventually give birth to pups, which Burkanov counts annually. In 2000, Burkanov and his students observed the mammals with binoculars – a 24/7 job for two long months during the breeding season. Today, however, they use a drone to survey the land, taking thousands of photographs of the rookeries to get a sense of the populations that return to the island. Within the last few years, his students Oceanographic Issue 18

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“The team can now count Steller sea lions and northern fur seals by age and sex, and estimate body size. Behavioural data is also captured, such as how much territory males and females dominate. They can even track specific individuals, identified by branding or injuries."

Fur seals on Lovushki Island.

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“The Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations recently reported that as of 2017, a third of the world’s marine fish stock is overfished.”

and colleagues have developed an advanced neural artificial intelligence network, U-Net, that is programmed to count and relay specific data sets of the sea lions and fur seals from these photographs. The team can now count Steller sea lions and northern fur seals by age and sex, and estimate body size. Behavioural data is also captured, such as how much territory males and females dominate. They can even track specific individuals, identified by branding or injuries.

Most notably, this network cuts the count time dramatically. A survey that used to take days to process now takes six hours. Less time, better data: the team are able to get a better, more real-time sense of the sea lion’s decline in the region.

Though new technology has helped Burkanov gain a clearer sense of the extent of population decline, he’s spent most of his life searching for the 'smoking gun' that would answer why the decline happened in the first place.

He began studying Steller sea lions in the late 1980s, around the same time biologists in Alaska discovered that the populations on the American coast and Aleutian Islands were rapidly decreasing. Alaskan scientists hypothesised that the sea lions had migrated to Russian waters, but they needed proof. During a 1988 US-USSR bilateral workshop in Tallinn, Estonia, US scientists called on the aid of Soviet biologists, tasking Burkanov with monitoring the presumed migration in Far East Russia.

However, after 15 years of research, Burkanov came up with negative results. Even though sea lions do move back and forth across the US-Russia border, there was no mass migration of the sea lions to Russian waters.

There were other theories, however. The consensus from the 1990s to early 2000s was that pods of killer whales were simply consuming too many of the animals. In 1992, researchers found flipper tags from 14 Steller sea lions in the stomach of a single dead killer whale, suggesting this was a possible driver of sea lion population decline in western Alaska. But in 2003, follow-up research from Dr Paul Wade of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) concluded that “predation by killer whales is an unlikely explanation for the reported declines."

According to Burkanov, killer whales are likely only a part of the problem. For one, there is evidence that pacific sleeper sharks could also have preyed on large numbers of the animals. Then comes the other piece of the puzzle – human intervention, and more specifically, overfishing.

The Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations recently reported that as of 2017, a third of the world’s marine fish stock is overfished.

NOAA states that from 1945 to 1970, advancements in technology began to allow powerful fishing vessels to track down and catch more fish. The fishing industry boomed, unsustainably – a path down which it has continued. The largest fisheries that were built up in

Gray whales feeding in front of Atlasov Island.

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TOP: Onekotan Island with its stunning caldera lake and volcano inside.

MIDDLE: Tyuleniy Island's rookery and dilapidated research station.

BOTTOM: A Steller Sea Lion bull near Atlasov Island.

the 1970s during this expansion were cod and walleye pollock – the last being a crucial part of the sea lion and fur seal diets. Data shows that the boom in the fishing industry corresponds with the initial drop in sea lion and fur seal populations.

In the 1990s, Andrew W. Trites, a professor with the University of British Columbia’s Institute for the Oceans and Fisheries and director of the Marine Mammal Research Unit, believed that the expansion of fisheries was the reason for the decline of Steller sea lions and fur seals in the Gulf of Alaska and the Aleutian Islands – the sister archipelago of the Kurils. That is, until he started looking at the data.

“You don't need any science to know that if there's a big fishery that wasn't there before, and the populations declined, and were fine before, it had to be the fishery,” he says. “The trouble was in the very first analysis I did – and this would have been in the early 1990s – I didn't find any results that made any sense.”

Trites tried to find a link between sea lion and seal population declines and fisheries, but despite several studies, he found nothing. From there, he turned to the junk-food hypothesis, or as Trites prefers to call it, the “Nutralite hypothesis”. This theory states that marine mammals – or birds, as it was originally applied to – feeding on low-energy, low-nutrient prey have reduced reproductive success. So perhaps the problem is not a lack of walleye pollock, but too many.

“Say I send you out into a field of celery and there's a lot of celery there, but I guarantee that if you keep eating it you're going to lose weight. That’s not because of a shortage of celery, but because it doesn't have enough calories in it,” Trites says. Similarly, walleye pollock are low in fat and low in nutrients, meaning a young sea lion or seal is not going to grow properly on a diet consisting largely of said pollock. It needs more fat.

Burkanov though, isn't convinced. He points to a study he was part of at the Alaska Sealife Center from 1999 to 2002 that showed juvenile sea lions did gain weight on a diet of pollock.

Trites says that, historically, walleye pollock were not part of sea lion or fur seal diets. Though there are no conclusive records of their past feeding behaviour, Trites knows that prior to the point of these population declines there was a higher number of herring, sand lance, and smelt – all higher fat fish – in the areas now seeing a dip.

Additionally, today’s growing population of sea lions in Southeast Alaska are consuming a diverse, energy-rich diet dominated by cod, forage fish and salmon – a diet, says Trites, that appears to be "closer to what was once consumed by sea lions in the Gulf of Alaska prior to the population decline."

The question, then, is: why did this change in diet occur? Trites and other marine biologists from the US and Canada believe it is because of an oceanic regime shift – a mysterious phenomena that signals a persistent change in the structure and function of an ecosystem – in 1975 or 1976. In this case, the change was in the ocean’s temperature and it favoured the low energy fish, driving up their populations as higher energy fish struggled.

“Data shows that there was a huge shift in conditions in 1975 or 1976. There are others that occurred in the late 1800s and in the 1940s,” Trites adds.

Are the combined junk-food and regime shift hypotheses Burkanov’s smoking gun? Trites thinks so, but Burkanov is not so sure.

“It's something that a lot of biologists working with mammals have a hard time accepting," says Trites. He suggests this is because many have a belief that there can only be one possible root cause for such a change: humans. “I was at a meeting with Vladimir [Burkanov] in December and he has always maintained that fishing was the cause.”

Burkanov does believe there was a regime shift, but he isn’t convinced the resulting change in sea lions diet is the direct cause of the decline in Russia. In his eyes, the amount of available food is a key issue, but further research is required – such as more comprehensive and extensive studies of wild sea lion feeding behaviour and energetics involving instruments such as animalborne video recorders, 3D accelerometers and satellite tags: “Scientists still do not have enough knowledge on sea lion feeding behaviour to properly interpret diet information,” he says.

Unfortunately, Burkanov’s funding is shrinking and the Tyuleniy Research Station – something of a relic, with no heating, kitchen, or source of freshwater – is in a state of ruin. Supplies are limited – like the two tons of freshwater for the whole season – and have to be boated in, usually by Burkanov. The research team is small, and due to a lack of funding, smaller every year, much like the populations they are studying.

Getting to the Kurils is also no easy feat. Only eight of the 56 islands are inhabited by people and tourism is scarce, meaning the only way to get to this somewhat unknown part of the world is by ship. For the past two years, Burkanov has hitch-hiked on any vessel going. His main mode of transport is charter tourist or fishing boats, so he has befriended many fishermen and captains on the way to his beloved islands. “Once the Soviet Union collapsed it became almost impossible to get a boat for this kind of work,” Burkanov says.

If he does get funding it goes towards transport, technology, and if there is anything left, paying his students. In past years he has even split his salary in three so that he can employ his talented graduated students to his Kamchatka’s Russian Academy of Sciences research institution. But since the Soviet Union dissolved 30 years ago, his institution has only had one government-funded position open up for marine mammal research.

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Ushishir Island, the 'jewel of the Kurils.'

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It wasn’t always like this. During the 1980s, the Soviet Union funded marine biology research programs that allowed Burkanov to conduct wide-range surveys of seals, sea otters and sea lions in the entire Russian Far East. He would go by plane or helicopter and some years he would spend 600 hours in the air.

The Tyuleniy Research Station was created during this time to be an international base for meetings on conservation and diplomacy. Much has changed since.

During the years of the Russian Empire, advancement of marine biology was part of government strategy (Burkanov has actually written about this in a soonto-be-published manuscript Marine Mammal Science in Russia: Past, Present and Future). It started in the early 18th century, with population expansion and economic growth in the far reaches of Russia, leading to skyrocketing demand for the pelts of marine mammals. This demand incentivised research on seal and sea otter distribution, as well as their conservation in the interest of sustaining supply of a valuable resource. The Russian Empire also played a role in the successful negotiation of the first international treaty to address wildlife conservation, the North Pacific Fur Seal Convention of 1911.

After World War I, however, Russia was in a state of disarray, wrought with food shortages and hunger across the nation. A new socialist state – the USSR – was created, along with a plan to achieve prosperity based on natural resources. In the mid-1920s to early 1930s, the government organised scientific expeditions in search of undiscovered fish stocks. Young biologists headed to remote and little-studied regions of the USSR with a special State task to conduct year-round observations of fish and marine mammal distribution and migrations, as well as ways to hunt and process these resources.

In contrast, there seems to be few signs of the modern Russian government funding marine biology research such as Burkanov's any time soon. As such, he is concerned about the longterm viability of his work – research that only becomes more important as populations continue to fall. "The Russian government has to pay attention,” he says.

In recent months, a documentary titled 'From Kurils With Love' has spawned a GoFundMe for Burkanov’s research. He believes the film doubles up as a homage to his treasured islands, a place still largely unknown to the world: beautiful, remote and important.

Despite the challenges that lie ahead for Burkanov, nothing can change what lies behind: decades of scientific endeavour, data collection and personal connection.

"Even if I don’t get funding," the biologist insists, "I will go back to the Kurils every year until I am physically unable.”

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A dive camera with a mission The Paralenz Vaquita underwater camera Records in 4K 60fps with auto record function Automatic depth-controlled color correction 350m depth rating and extra light-sensitive lens Logs depth, temperature, conductivity, and location data for your Ocean impact Explore differently Learn more at paralenz.com

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

NADIA ALY 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

Q&A NADIA ALY Award-winning wildlife photographer, tour guide and founder of Scuba Diver Life, and Ocean Photographer of the Year 2020.

Nadia Aly is a renowned photographer, tour leader and storyteller who has spent recent years shining a light on marine species in desperate need of protection. Her work has been recognised on a number of occasions, including being honoured in the Underwater Photographer of the Year competition and the Sony World Photo Awards.

OC EA NO G R A PH IC M AGAZ I N E (OM ): W H E N D I D YOU FIRST CONNECT WITH TH E OCEAN? NADIA ALY (NA): I started diving when I was 12 years old, so that was when I really felt that initial connection. When I was younger my parents would ask other families to take me snorkelling on vacations, because they don’t actually swim. I didn’t really get into scuba diving until 2010, and that was when I went on a diving trip to Fiji through the tourism board. I started Scuba Diver Life immediately after I came home. I thought, this is amazing, the ocean is amazing.

OM : H OW D ID YOU C ON N E C T T H E D OT S BE T WEEN YOUR PASSION FOR P H OTOGRAP H Y AND YO U R PA S S I O N F O R T H E O C E A N ?

NA: My interest in photography started very young, when I was perhaps seven or eight years old.

When I was in high school I got really into digital media, then I went to University in Victoria and I did my undergrad in Photography, so I was in the dark room a lot developing photos. After I did my Masters in Digital Media, I went and worked for Microsoft, Google, and then at Padi headquarters, so I was more into the digital space. It was really after I started Scuba Diver Life that I realised I just needed to make some really great content.

I bought an underwater camera and I sucked at it for a long time. I started with a proper set up in 2012, before that I was using point-and-shoots and Go Pros. I bought my first real rig at the end of 2011. I spent all my money – seriously, all the money I had. It must have been $18,000 at the time. I had no idea what I was doing and my on first trip to Bonaire, all my photos were literally black, I was so frustrated. I was on a trip with Backscatter and they were so good at helping me but I just couldn’t figure it out for the first five days. But then it just started coming together. I then went on a ten month extended trip around the world and I just kept at it.

OM : DO YO U F EEL A RE S P ON S I BI L I T Y TO S H ARE YOUR EARLY STAGES OF LEARNING WITH TH E UND ERWAT ER PH OTOGRAP H Y C OM M U N I T Y AND TH OSE STARTING OUT? NA: I want to help. People ask me every day about the camera and equipment I use. Since the COVID-19 pandemic has cancelled a lot of tourism and expeditions, I’ve take the time to put together some training videos. I would love to help more underwater photographers. I think the more photographers there are underwater, the more stories will be told, so that’s going to be better for the ocean.

OM : W H AT R O LE D O YOU T H I N K P H OTOGRAP H Y AND UNDERWATER FILM ARE P LAYING IN TH E C O NVER S AT IO N A ROU N D GL OBAL WARM I N G AND H OW TH AT’S IMPACTING TH E OCEAN? NA: It’s important to have ocean storytellers because the ocean is such an out of sight, out of mind mentality for 90% of the global population. It’s important to use tools to bring these stories back into people’s minds and to show them what goes on beneath the surface. Like, this is a hairy frogfish, this is a creature that exists in our world. A lot of people know about gorillas and

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elephants and giraffes, and I feel like marine animals don’t have as well-circulated a story. So, the more people that can capture them and share their stories, then more people will start to care for the ocean. We bring back this huge form of education and awareness to people that they didn’t have before.

O M: YO U ’ V E D E S C RI BE D YOU RS E L F A S A WH ALE ADDICT IN TH E PAST – IS TH ERE SOMETH ING PA RT I C U L A R LY A D D I C T I V E A B O U T C O N N E C T I N G W I T H M A R I N E L I F E O N E - O N - O N E ?

NA: Connecting with any type of marine life is really special. It’s almost like being on another planet; you’re in their world, underwater with a limited air supply, trying to interact with these animals. Whales are so aware and it's so clear that there is some sort of intelligence there. It’s not like when a seal lion is playing with you. When you’re into your second hour of an encounter with a humpback whale that is dancing around you, looking you in the eye and being gentle, it almost leaves you speechless because you’re just blown away by the special moment you are having with a 40 tonne animal.

O M: H OW D O YOU F E E L W H E N YOU ’ RE SH OOTING UNDERWATER? NA: I can’t be underwater without a camera because I need to have that distraction. But I feel very relaxed, almost in a meditative state. I’m in my element, in this state of mind where I’m living my passion, where I am feeding the fuel to my passion and my life’s purpose. What I love most about it is problem solving. I think that’s why I love photography so much. A great example was when there was this turtle inside a wreck in the Bahamas, and they let me go inside first. The light was terrible and I had to figure out how to get the shot before the two turtles left the wreck. I really like that aspect of problem solving in an effort to try and capture that moment in the best way that I can. When you’re underwater, time is really of the essence.

O M: YO U ’ V E BE E N S H OOT I N G T H E U N DERWATER WORLD FOR OVER A DECADE NOW, H OW H AS T H E O CE AN E N V I RON M E N T C H AN GE D FOR YOU P ERSONALLY? NA: There are different areas of the world that I see destroyed. For instance I was in Cairns in Australia doing a tourism shoot and I had to tell the tourism board that we couldn’t do anything on the reef because it was just rubble. I said: “This is not something you can promote, people should not be coming here.” It looked like the whole entire reef had been bombed. I do see dead reefs around the world, I do experience an increase in ocean temperature. I spend a lot of time in Tonga and I see that when the temperature increases even slightly, maybe half a degree centigrade, it brings in a lot more jellyfish. It really disturbs the water and makes it hard for people to swim. And so that’s concerning to me – just that slight shift in ocean temperature can bring in a whole different sleuth of marine life and potential problems. Obviously when I’m in Asia, it’s very rare to see a shark. There are things like that where I see the depletion of the reefs, I see the effect on ocean temperatures, I see different marine life.

There’s also the other side of that where people are planting corals and restoring reefs, sharks are being protected – slowly but surely. But there are still things that bother me. For example, here in the Bahamas the hammerhead population is less than 30. There’s a whole tourism industry run off 28 sharks. But if you go over to Florida and New York, they fish out the sharks. The same sharks that are here, when they leave here, they go to Florida, they go to New York, and it’s legal to shark fish there. It’s so messed up.

O M : D O YO U T H I N K P E O P L E A R E D I SCONNECTED FROM NATURE AND THE WAY MIGRATORY S PECIES W ORK ?

NA: There are so many people who love the outdoors, who love exploring and who love travel.

I think there is a disconnect for sure. There are some very affluent people who love nature but also love sport fishing, and I just don’t understand it. They justify it with ‘catch and release’, but realistically that marlin, that shark is going to die. I was out in Baja California with Jay Clue and Shawn Heinrichs and there were just no marlins around because of all the trawlers. They had

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Q&A Continued...

trawled so much that there were dead turtles just floating in the water. Over the week I must have seen around 200. They get caught in the nets, and then they bring up these nets and then toss the turtles back off and then they inflate with gas. It was terrible to see. That’s also the first place I saw a dead blue on a shark line.

It is hard to generalise what people are because on one hand you have the extreme conservationists who don’t eat any animals at all, but at the other end of the chart, there are those who trophy hunt lions. There are just so many different types of mindset out there and I think that’s what’s scary is that there are not enough people that care. The last administration in the United States had a terrible outlook towards the environment and now the current government is trying to backtrack those changes. What are the impacts that have been made on our environment? How are we going to move forward? You’re dealing with different cultures; you’re dealing with different mindsets from around the world. China, for example, has made great steps towards improving it’s environment, but still heads out into global waters to decimate fish populations. Are there going to be enough people who care and want to make change? Where are we going to be in 20 years? Are we going to have any fish left in the ocean? Is the ocean going to be warmer? Are we going to be able to scuba dive in 20 years? Because there’s going to be so many jellyfish and sea lice in the ocean that it’s just going to be too cumbersome and painful to go in?

There are so many ifs. Are the shark populations going to be decimated? Are we going to have so many pelagic animals left in our oceans that they’re going to completely throw off the whole entire ecosystem of the oceans? It’s going to be too late, once we find out, it’s going to be too late to recover an ecosystem that’s been pushed towards this over 40 to 50 years.

OM : YO U W O N O U R 2 0 2 0 OC E AN P H OTOGRAPH ER OF TH E YEAR AWARD – CONGRATULATIONS! C A N YO U T ELL U S A L I T T L E M ORE ABOU T YO UR WINNING SH OT WITH TH E MOBULAS? NA: The shot with the mobulas was pretty awesome. I was with my friend Jay Clue and we were conducting some exploration to find a site that we wanted to run trips from. The first day was terrible, it was so cold. The second day we were on the boat by 6am – when the sun rises the mobulas, they start popping out of the ocean all over the place, and it sounds like popcorn when they land back in the water. All of a sudden the captain saw a little movement in the water. We jumped in are there were tens of thousands of them just below the surface. It was the craziest thing you could ever see because how many interactions in the world do you have with tens of thousands of the same animal? I didn’t get back into the boat for about four hours.

I’m very small, and I think the mobula knew that I wasn’t a predator and maybe they knew I was female, I don’t know. I started diving down – I’m a terrible freediver, but I started diving down, up and down, up and down because I could see that they were finally letting me into the school.

So that was really cool and that’s how I was trying to get different shots. I’m surprised I didn’t pass out because I have terrible breath hold. But it was really, probably one of the best ocean encounters I’ve ever had.

OM : H OW D O YO U C OP E W I T H H AV I N G TO T H INK ON YOUR FEET ALL TH E TIME WH EN C A PT U R ING MA RI N E L I F E AN D F I L M I N G? NA: I try to just let nature do its thing and then I’ll do my thing you know? One real challenge as an underwater photographer who is also a woman is when I have my period. I do find myself planning around my cycle a lot. Women get their period and they can’t go in the water for a few days, and they don’t want to be stuck on a boat for eight hours straight. I think that people don’t talk about that enough, and I think it’s something that people don’t even consider that it's we have to deal with. I think I make all the men feel uncomfortable when I talk about it. They’ll ask ‘why are you not coming out today?’ And I’ll just be straight and say, “I got my period, my flow is crazy right now.” And that just shuts them up.

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“It's important to have ocean storytellers because the ocean is such an out of sight, out of mind mentality for 90% of the global population. It's important to use tools to bring these stories back into people's minds and to show them what goes on beneath the surface.”

O M: D O YOU T H I N K T H AT ’ S S OM E T H ING TH AT H OLDS WOMEN BACK FROM GOING DOWN TH E PAT H O F U N D E RWAT E R P H OTO G R A P H Y ?

NA: I think that people misunderstand underwater photography. I think people in general assume that it’s something that you can make money from and have a good life with, but that's rarely true. I have five businesses that support me going into the ocean, and I’m working on starting two more. I'm constantly trying to figure out how to make money. You look at the people that are out there, and nearly all of them have other things that they do in order to support their art and their ability to travel and take photos. I think that’s why there’s so few of us. It does make me angry that if I asked someone in the industry to name five underwater male photographers, it would be easy.

But there are just so few people who could name five female underwater photographers off the top of their heads.

Women in this world need to be strongly independent. I’m 5ft tall, but I need to be okay with travelling the world by myself. I need to not be messed with. I need to have that courage and lack of fear. I think there’s probably lots of factors that play a role in whether women can become underwater photographers. That could be lack of interest, lack of funds, lack of ability to create funds, or other responsibilities, like being a mum or a carer. Women, in many cultures, are encouraged to go down a very specific path, and it comes across in the media too. Sony saw that there were pitifully few female photographers out there and that’s why they made the Sony Alpha Female Collective, through which they support women financially to get their creative work going. They saw this huge gap in the overall photography industry.

O M : I S T H AT A K E Y F O C U S F O R YO U AND YOUR WORK, CREATING VISIBILITY IN THE INDUSTRY F O R OT H E R W OM E N ?

NA: I really want to inspire women. I want women to be inspired, and I would love to see more women in the ocean space. I would even love men to be inspired by my work. I just want more storytellers for the ocean out there. I think the main thing I like to focus on with my work is capturing these animals and giving them a story. I have a very diverse portfolio compared to some other underwater photographers and that’s because I really love all kinds of different animals.

I love the mantis shrimp, I love the hairy frogfish, I love the little tiny seahorse and so I try, as best I can, to diversify my portfolio in terms of stories and captures so people realise it’s not just humpback whales and dolphins living in the ocean.

O M: COV I D -1 9 P E RM I T T I N G, W H AT ’ S NEXT ON YOUR AGENDA? NA: I’m just finishing off this photography course to help people improve their skills. I’m going to Alaska in a couple of weeks to see the bubble net feeding humpback whales. And then after that I’m going to be with Jay in Mexico for the mobula aggregation.

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Indonesia A portrait of a seahorse, taken in Lembeh. Nadia used a piece of equipment called a snoot to capture this image.

Australia Two male cuttlefish try to pull a female away for a chance to mate. Captured in Whyalla, South Australia.

South Africa A bait ball shrouds a colourful reef, free from predators in the waters off Port Elizabeth.

Indonesia A close up of a blue ring octopus, in Lembeh, Indonesia, highlighting the animal's intricate and beautiful details.

Indonesia A tropical bobtail squid photographed while seemingly playing in the sand.

Antarctica A Weddell seal relaxing and sunning itself, alone on a chunk of ice in Antarctica.

Sudan The wreck of the Umbria, off Port Sudan, is visible from the surface and is a "joy to explore".

Mexico The annual mobula ray aggregation off Baja, Mexico.

Nadia spent more than four hours with in excess of 10,000 rays circling slowly in the water.

Tonga This whale played with Nadia for most of the day - an experience she describes as "one of the most amazing whale encounters of my life".

Palau Nadia spent three months in Palau in 2013, including plenty of time at Jellyfish Lake. The lake 'died' in 2016, and it took more than two years for the resident population of jellyfish to recover.

South Africa A bait ball off the coast of Port Saint Johns, South Africa. On a calm, clear day Nadia was able to stay with the bait ball for an hour, as sharks and dolphins predated on it.

Australia A leafy sea dragon off the coast of Port Lincoln, South Australia.

Behind the lens NADIA ALY Dominica Zammie the sperm whale. Nadia spent several hours with the whale, who was playful and curious. Photograph taken on government permit.

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Nadia is an award-winning wildlife photographer who specialises in underwater marine life. Her work has been featured in National Geographic, Nature’s Best Photography and has won awards in the Underwater Photographer of the Year competition and the Sony World Photo Awards. She seeks to educate others using her photography, as well as by running tours to see the Sardine Run of South Africa and the humpback whales of Tonga through her company Scuba Diver Life Expeditions. In 2020, Nadia won both Ocean Photographer of the Year and The Collective Portfolio Award in the Ocean Photography Awards.

Indonesia Children in Alor, Indonesia, playing around in the water, showing off their freediving and hunting skills.

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Oceanographic Issue 18

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oysters

OF LOCH CRAIGNISH The UK’s first community-led native oyster restoration project is up and running in Loch Craignish, Argyll, Scotland. After an encouraging start, what does the future hold for the programme?

Wo rd s b y D a n n y R e n t o n P h o t o g ra p h s b y S e a w i l d i n g a n d L o c h Vi s i o n s

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“Native oysters once existed in abundance here. Walk along the shoreline and you can pick up colossal shells, some weighing up to 800 grammes.”

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ative oysters were once common around the British shoreline, so much so that in the 19th century, 30 million were harvested annually in the Firth of Forth outside Edinburgh, and the North Sea was reportedly blue instead of the pea-green we know now, on account of the vast oyster beds that filtrated and cleaned the water.

Now, 95% of Europe’s native oyster beds have disappeared, and in Scotland only a few relic populations, mainly at the head of remote sea lochs, remain. This is to the lasting detriment of coastal biodiversity because science now recognises that native oysters are 'ecosystem engineers.' They clean the water, sequester carbon and promote biodiversity by forming complex threedimensional beds that become fish spawning grounds and nurseries. Recent research suggests more than 90 species of marine life coexist with native oysters, and in places where they are present in significant numbers, there is a surge in life.

For these reasons native oyster restoration is a growing field of interest worldwide. In Scotland, the largest restoration effort, is a community-led project at Loch Craignish in Argyll, run by the charity Seawilding.

Why Loch Craignish? Like so many sea lochs, native oysters once existed in abundance here. Walk along the shoreline and you can pick up colossal shells, some weighing up to 800g. We don’t know how old these are, they may be centuries old, but it is proof positive that they were once here in numbers. Human predation is the most likely cause of their disappearance, although disease is also a possible factor. Recently, we discovered a fascinating account of the Loch from 1900, in the book Autumns in Argyleshire with Rod and Gun by the Hon. A.E Gaythorne Hardy. This snippet suggests how much has been lost: "…long lazy tangle waving its broad streamers over the dark rocks, the fish darting about among the undergrowth, the comical crabs parading, fighting, and gormandising at the bottom; and sea-urchins, from great red fellows as big as a good-sized melon, called seal's eggs by natives, to little ones no bigger than a walnut, which, in some places, literally pave the sand… Every pool left by the tide is full of corallines and beautiful anemones, and the shore hunter may gather a rich harvest by turning the stones, digging in the sand..."

The book goes on to describe oysters that were five times the normal size, and far more delicious. But, sadly, like so much of Scotland’s coastal waters, Loch Craignish is no longer the rich marine habitat described here. We have a popular yacht marina, and a sea trout farm, both of which are effluent producing, and scallop dredgers continue to plough up the centre of the Loch.

Fortunately, we also have sheltered lagoonal areas, which remain relatively untouched. Here, we have found relic populations of native oysters, numbering a few PREVIOUS: The Seawilding project team at work in the field.

THIS PAGE: Loch Craignish, looking north.

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“In 2020 we secured grants from the National Lottery and the Esmee Fairbairn Foundation for a fiveyear project to release one million native oysters into Loch Craignish to restore the relic beds.”

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MAIN & TOP: John Hamilton (Lochnell Oysters) and Danny Renton lay out the oyster nursery.

MIDDLE: The Seawilding project boat 'Tin Can'.

BOTTOM: Volunteer paddle-boarder Katherine Knight releases native oysters onto the Loch Craignish seabed.

NEXT PAGE: Danny Renton grades oysters.

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hundred, but these are too old and dispersed to be viable self-sustaining populations.

After a successful pilot study, in 2020 we secured grants from the National Lottery and the Esmee Fairbairn Foundation for a five-year project to release one million native oysters into Loch Craignish to restore the relic beds. Our partners are our local volunteer association, CROMACH, (Craignish Restoration of Marine and Coastal Habitats), the Ardfern Yacht Centre, the Institute of Aquaculture at Stirling University, the Scottish Association of Marine Sciences (SAMS) and Heart of Argyll Wildlife Organisation.

We use a floating nursery system, the first of its kind in the UK, to grow the juvenile native oysters – 'spat' – that come from Morecambe Bay hatchery. They arrive weighing around one gram each and, after three months of growth in the summer, weigh around 12g. At this stage, we put them on pre-surveyed seabed sites with the right substrate of pea gravel and shell. At a low spring tide, volunteers gather along the shoreline to broadcast them into the shallows, while others are distributed by kayak and paddle-board. So far, we’ve introduced 160,000 to the loch, and in 2021, we plan another 200,000. The survival rates, to date, are very encouraging.

Meanwhile, in partnership with Ardfern Yacht Centre, we are suspending 'oyster hoisters' under the pontoons, each holding between 30 and 100 native oysters. The oysters will clean the water – an oyster filters up to 200 litres in 24 hours – and release spat, complementing our wider restoration efforts. In conjunction with the Heart of Argyll Wildlife Organisation, pupils from seven local primary schools will be monitoring the oysters for growth, mortality and biodiversity, while providing vital data for our research programme.

Biosecurity and invasive species are an ever-present concern with the movement of shellfish, boats and climate change, and soon, funds permitting, we hope to start a programme of long-term environmental DNA testing. This will detect problems that may arise, such as the presence of invasive species like Didemnum vexillum or carpet sea squirt, and help us create a unique database about changes to the loch’s health over time.

In conjunction with the Institute of Aquaculture at Stirling University, we’re also planning a programme of genetic research to ensure our native oyster stock is resilient. By genotyping the extant local populations, and those we introduce from the hatchery, we can assess genetic variability and local adaptation as well as resistance to disease. This pioneering research will benefit native oyster restoration across Europe. In 2021, we’re also setting up a training programme for community groups in seabed surveying techniques and species identification. This allows us to ensure that our survey protocols and growing data sets conform to national environmental databases as well as academic standards.

Also, this year, we hope to pioneer Scotland’s first seagrass restoration project in Loch Craignish. Seagrass

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plays a vital role in the biodiversity of coastal waters. It captures carbon 35 times faster than tropical rainforests, and harbours 40 times more marine life than seabeds without it. Yet, 90% of seagrass has disappeared around the UK coastline. At Loch Craignish we have found ten small, isolated seagrass meadows. Working with Project Seagrass, we hope to enhance our degraded meadows by gathering seed by hand, and transplanting them onto the seabed in small hessian bags. It’s a methodology successfully pioneered by Seagrass Ocean Rescue in Wales. If we have success in Loch Craignish, we hope to then help other coastal communities do the same.

Our projects are gaining traction, and now we’re helping to set up two other native oyster restoration projects in Scotland, at Lochaline and Loch Melfort, and we’re getting constant enquiries from other groups from around Scotland’s vast coastline. I read this as a clear sign that coastal communities are fed up with the decadeslong mismanagement of our inshore waters, and want to affect change.

In 1984, after pressure from the fishing industry, Scotland’s Inshore Limit, a regulation that prevented destructive fishing such as bottom trawling and scallop dredging within three miles of the shoreline, was lifted. This short-sighted decision has had catastrophic consequences. In the subsequent decades, we’ve seen the destruction of fish spawning grounds and nurseries, the collapse of white fish stocks to the point of commercial extinction, and a widespread loss of biodiversity.

Many of Scotland’s rich inshore seabeds, which used to support corals, maerl beds, flame shell reefs and a myriad of unresearched Priority Marine Features, and whose fecundity was once compared to the Red Sea by divers, are now ploughed rubble and gravel. Despite 30% of Scotland’s seas being designated Marine Protected Areas, only 5% are protected against bottom-trawling for prawns and scallop dredging. Now, the main fishery is for shellfish, proof that we’re fishing at the bottom of the food chain.

So, quite apart from marine habitat restoration, our projects are helping empower coastal communities to kick back against the short-sighted, ill-informed and outdated fisheries policy. By resorting to practical action, we have 'skin in the game' and, rightfully, can demand to be heard by policy-makers. There is now a growing campaign by Our Seas Scotland to restore the Inshore Limit, as well as a clamour for better protection for Marine Protected Areas. So far, we have yet to see the Scottish government budge on the bigger issues, but we try to remain optimistic. People power, driven by science and passion, is an irresistible force, especially at election time.

In 2020, The Edinburgh Declaration called for “strong and bold actions to bring about transformative change... to halt biodiversity loss.” We believe Seawilding and our projects are doing just that. Now we need the Government to live up to its own declarations and to do the same.

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By Lou Luddington

The marine biologist HOPE About Lou Dr Lou Luddington is a marine biologist, nature photographer and writer living aboard a sailboat, the Noctiluca, on the move and travelling the ocean in search of stories and adventure.

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hales!’ Climbing the companion-way steps, tea in hand, three broad, black fins pierced the glassy ocean surface, 100 metres off our starboard. Swapping the muchanticipated cuppa for my camera and long lens, I scrambled on deck to find the best vantage point.

Unlike the dolphins we had grown accustomed to seeing on passage these were slow moving and lolled at the surface, breathing noisily. Great puffs of exhaled air rose as small clouds of spray from water cleared from the blowholes. As we drew closer we cut the engine and drifted on a smooth ocean, unruffled by wind. The only sounds were the occasional clack of the boom as we rolled in the swell and short-finned pilot whales blowing as they surfaced for air; a moment that seeped into my being and stirred an upwelling of love for the whales.

Journeying from south-west Tenerife to La Gomera, Canary Islands, Spain on our liveaboard sailing boat, we knew our crossing would take us through waters declared a Hope Spot by Mission Blue, one of many marine areas worldwide considered critical to the health of the ocean and targeted for enhanced marine protection.

This stretch of water supports an extraordinary collection of open-ocean species including a resident population of short-finned pilot whales (Globicephala macrorhynchus) and was also recently awarded the first Whale Heritage site in Europe in recognition of its outstanding whale and dolphin watching.

Although wind for sailing was lacking, this made for pristine wildlife spotting conditions, so we had high hopes of seeing whales. It turned out that they were easy to spot; their dark broad-based, sometimes hooked dorsal fin and their habit of resting almost stationary at the surface meant that they created a lingering silhouette on a smooth sea.

On more than one occasion during our journey we stopped to drift with them; for minutes at a time they floated at the surface, resting and breathing, sometimes swimming under the boat and then away again. These fellow air breathers are highly evolved masters of apnea and deep diving. Described as the cheetahs of the deep sea, the hunting strategy of the Tenerife pilot whale is to dive deep and fast in pursuit of giant squid to depths of 1,000 metres or more; a high-risk/high-gain approach that targets large, speedy prey. In freediving training, we are taught to moderate our speed to conserve oxygen during the breath hold. The same applies to other deep-diving mammals where swimming speeds are optimized to reduce oxygen consumption and maximize foraging time. Yet, in contrast with other apneists, these pilot whales sprint to the depths

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@louluddingtonphotography

“Their habit of resting almost stationary at the surface meant that they created a lingering silhouette on a smooth sea.” and back again. This may explain their mellow demeanour at the surface, where long, relaxed recovery breathing replenishes oxygen and rids their tissues of carbon dioxide.

After a short time, the whales cruised off towards the horizon and we continued on our journey east to La Gomera. As we pottered along we started noticing the shiny floats of Portuguese man o' war (Physalia physalis) bobbing past. Keen to get some photos and video footage at water level, we stopped the boat and took it in turns to swim over to get a closer look. Fully aware of their potent sting, we kept a close eye on their far-reaching tentacles.

Seeing them in their natural, deep-ocean habitat like this, as opposed to washed up on a beach in Wales, explained their intense blue and violet coloration. Here, they blended in with their cerulean surroundings, disguised in plain sight. Aptly named after a warship at full sail they travel by wind for thousands of miles, float trimmed and dragging behind stringy tentacles that deliver a venomous sting to prey and foe. Though most creatures suffer their fearsome sting, some predators are undeterred.

Both leatherback and loggerhead turtles happily include them on their menus. In fact not long after our dip, we spotted a loggerhead turtle resting at the surface, perhaps replete and digesting after a breakfast of slippery tentacles.

Our time with the whales was joyous and memorable, yet I feared for their safety. One very real threat we witnessed on our journey were the high-speed inter-island ferries. For a whale with a tendency to rest motionless at the surface they are a perilous force to be living with and one of several threats that are driving the campaign for better protection of this area. Securing their future felt imperative that day. Their magic and vulnerability was stark but I felt a swell of hope knowing that Mission Blue is working hard to protect the whales and their ocean habitat. LL

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Revered reefs The Tubbataha Reefs Natural Park is the pride and joy of the Philippines, a remote haven saved from the brink of destruction. It is a story of conservation action, grass roots pride, and effective and long-lasting ocean governance.

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

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ubbataha is famous for its coral reefs. In a country of 7,641 islands, at the heart of the Coral Triangle, Tubbataha Reefs Natural Park is to Filipinos what the Grand Canyon is to Americans. A national treasure and UNESCO World Heritage Site, the park's celebrity has even extended to the local currency, where it is featured on the 1,000 Philippine peso note, the highest denomination currently in circulation.

If your goal was to build an underwater Noah’s Ark for coral reefs, you’d be hard pressed to imagine a better location than Tubbataha. Situated in the centre of the Sulu Sea, more than 100km from the nearest landmass, Tubbataha is composed of two large atolls (named simply north and south) and a nearby coral structure, called the Jessie Beazley Reef. Its presence is nearly imperceptible from the surface, with just a few sand spits, rocky islets, a lighthouse and the upper sections of shipwrecks visible.

It is wrongly positioned on certain marine maps, and Jessie Beazley was in fact the name of a captain whose ship crashed into the reef system that now bears his name. Such accidents remain a relatively regular occurrence in Tubbataha, with high profile groundings such as Greenpeace’s Rainbow Warrior in 2005 and the USS Guardian minesweeper in 2013. A Chinese ship carrying 400 crates of frozen pangolins also ran aground in 2013, with strong suspicions that it was looking to add to its illegal haul.

As well as being remote, it is exposed to the elements, so even those who wish to access Tubbataha are generally limited to a window from March to June, when sea conditions are most likely to be favourable. The absence of freshwater on Tubbataha’s islets acts as yet another deterrent to human settlement.

If coral reefs are the rainforests of the seas, blessed with an unparalleled biodiversity, the Coral Triangle is the heart of that aquatic jungle. Stretching through the waters of Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, Papua New Guinea, Timor Leste and Solomon Islands, this area harbours more coral species (over 600) and reef fish species (over 2,000) than anywhere else in the world.

Tubbataha lies around the middle of this triangle, and so benefits not only from an isolated location, but waters bathed in an unusually rich abundance and variety of life. Finally, its impressive area, covering 97,030 hectares, allows highly mobile marine life, such as reef sharks, to thrive under its protective blanket without restriction.

We set sail from Puerto Princesa, the capital city of Palawan, making the 150km crossing overnight. The weather gods are kind to us and we awaken to the sight of a deep, blue and glassy sea. As we slip beneath the surface, the sun rays shine down on a shallow hard coral garden. The scale of coral cover hits me first, stretching further than the eye can see, even in stunning 30-metre visibility. Coral is not only beautiful, but complex. It is one part plant, one part animal and one part mineral.

PREVIOUS PAGE: Turtles are thriving in Tubbataha, the isolated sand banks a rare safe haven for them to lay eggs.

THIS PAGE: A shrimp cleans the nose of a lizardfish.

Polyps, which look like a tiny upturned jellyfish, are the animal part of the equation, and it takes millions of them, side-by-side, to create this underwater Eden. Each polyp secretes a calcium carbonate skeleton, and that provides the mineral structure for coral formations. Within its body, the polyp harbours a tiny single-celled algae, called zooxanthellae, and this plant delivers nutrients via photosynthesis, which is why we find the densest corals in shallow water, where there is the most sun exposure. It is the plant part of the coral that provides the colour, and is also the first to abandon ship when living conditions become too stressful. This results in the well-known phenomenon of coral bleaching – but a white coral is not dead, it is fighting to survive. With the zooxanthellae providing the majority of the nutrition, a coral has only a short time to live without it, but can still bounce back.

Most often bleaching will occur when water temperatures change, as corals will only thrive within a relatively small band. A change of one or two degrees Celsius doesn’t sound like much, but underwater, as on land, a sustained increase in temperature on even a small scale can wreak havoc. Occasional bleaching events are a normal part of coral existence, but a great concern today is that climate change has increased their occurrence, and decreased their interval, meaning corals are now in decline, with half of global corals lost in just the last 30 years.

This depressing backstory makes the scene before me all the more impressive. I am in awe of a coral reef as it should be: colourful, diverse, and filled with life. From the delicate butterflyfish couples who flit around corals, through to the menacing dogtooth tuna, patrolling in the blue, a full roll-call of reef inhabitants are here. A green turtle lounges lazily on finger corals, watching us as we swim by. Turtles are thriving here. The isolated sand banks of Tubbataha are a rare safe haven for them to lay eggs, returning to the beach upon which they were born to fulfil the life cycle. The avian community is another to benefit – Tubbataha is the most important seabird sanctuary in the Philippines.

Tubbataha’s isolation kept it safe for millennia. Nearby communities were aware of it, and would make the occasional fishing expedition, but for the most part, the natural processes at Tubbataha were left to their own devices. This changed in the 1980s, when the addition of motor engines to fishing ‘bangkas’ became prevalent, and Tubbataha’s marine riches became both more accessible, and harder to resist. It was far from sustainable, with both blast and cyanide fishing contributing to a destruction

“Tubbataha lies around the middle of this triangle, and so benefits not only from an isolated location, but waters bathed in an unusually rich abundance and variety of life.”

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A green turtle lounges lazily on the finger corals, its head propped up on another piece of stony coral.

“What the books cannot teach is how to cultivate a heart that truly cares for the job, how to turn the job into a mission and how to inspire others, on a personal level, to care too.”

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“Today, the marine rangers are drawn from the navy, coastguard, local government, and the TMO.”

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TOP: Hawkfish behave like their avian namesake but in reverse, dashing up from the reef to predate on other reef fish.

LEFT: A many-spotted sweetlips peers over an enormous hard coral.

RIGHT: The Tubbataha Ranger Station.

of the reef completely out of proportion to the resulting catch. This period coincided with the first visiting scuba divers. Both fishermen and divers were beguiled by Tubbataha’s wonders, for very different reasons.

As the decade progressed, divers witnessed first-hand the degradation of the reef, and their assessment was backed up by the local community from Cagayancillo.

After just a few years, a coral reef system built over thousands of years stood on the brink of devastation.

Scuba divers lobbied the government for protection and, in 1988, Tubbataha Reefs was declared a national park, with a no-take policy. Sadly, this declaration would not protect Tubbataha overnight, and a 1989 survey found a 52% decline in coral cover as destructive fishing continued in the face of inadequate enforcement.

Mismanagement of the marine park would continue to mar conservation efforts, although the establishment of a multi-sectoral Presidential Task Force in 1995 would prove to be a significant step forward in the eventual success of the park.

In 2001, the Tubbataha Management Office (TMO) was appointed to oversee the park. It has been under their watch that a successful formula for protection has been put into effect. The TMO is focussed on conservation through education, as well as enforcement.

In 2009, the Tubbataha Reefs Natural Park Act provided the legislation to back up that enforcement with fines and penalties. To Angelique M Songco, who heads the TMO as Protected Area Superintendent, their success is something that should be replicable in other areas: “We did not do anything out of the ordinary. We had the legal framework for protecting Tubbataha, we organised the management body, formulated a plan with various groups and agencies, implemented the plan, reviewed and modified it. It's in the textbooks. What the books cannot teach is how to cultivate a heart that truly cares for the job, how to turn the job into a mission and how to inspire others, on a personal level, to care too.”

The transformation of the law-enforcement team has been crucial. At first, the rangers were soldiers left alone with nothing more than a tent for shelter. They were poorly equipped and unmotivated. Today, the marine rangers are drawn from the navy, coastguard, local government, and the TMO. They receive specialised training and are based in a purpose-built concrete structure on stilts. They have three boats, radar, GPS and radios at their disposal. They work in two-month rotations and are proud of the work they do.

Even with the rangers on location year-round, the area of the park is so vast that they can't prevent all illegal incursions. Between 2006 and 2010, one of the

greatest problems they faced was poachers venturing onto the reefs at night to harvest topshells. Despite being a protected species, the shells are sold on to make buttons and jewellery. From 2006 to 2008, Tubbataha’s topshell population fell by 80%. This loss was all the more troubling as the shells play an important function on the reef, filtering water and maintaining its environment.

Park management moved swiftly, identifying the issue and then successfully prosecuting the poachers. As a result, topshell harvesting in Tubbataha has now ceased.

Back underwater, we watch as the smaller reef fish cower temporarily in the presence of passing sharks.

By day, the grey reef sharks act as the apex predator (although it is not unheard of seeing tiger sharks out here). By night, however, it is the white-tip reef sharks who reign, their flattened bodies perfectly equipped for rooting out sleeping prey. A 2018 elasmobranch assessment found that one of the greatest successes of Tubbataha, in comparison to other Marine Protected Areas, lies in its abundance of reef sharks, concluding that Tubbataha has three times as many reef sharks as no-take zones on the Great Barrier Reef. Dr Simon J Pierce, a marine conservation biologist and one of the authors of the study, says of the park: “Tubbataha Reefs Natural Park is my go-to example of a successful tropical Marine Protected Area. The high densities of reef sharks, in particular, show what a healthy ecosystem it is – and it's great to see so many young sharks among them too.

Diving around the reefs gets better every year. The world can learn a lot from the dedicated management team and rangers who have rebuilt the Tubbataha Reefs. It's an inspiration for what could be achieved elsewhere.”

With access to the park being limited to three months of the year, the respite from tourism accorded by the Covid-19 era has not been of great significance to the health of Tubbataha. With the rangers remaining in place, there was no rise in illegal fishing, and the annual studies of the park were delayed rather than cancelled.

Up until now, the TMO has relied on the income from tourism to fund their activities, and with the prospect of losing another dive season in 2021, Angelique M Songco’s usually optimistic tone shows concern: “We were doing okay all these years because tourism was bringing in the revenues. The absence of this income stream is eroding our confidence somewhat. So while we maintain the level of protection that made Tubbataha a model marine protected area, we also need to mobilise resources to keep doing it into the future.”

Tubbataha is a shining beacon within the often flawed world of Marine Protected Areas. It is a testament to what can happen when a nation sees the value in protecting nature, and puts the weight of legislature behind it. Even more importantly, it is evidence that if that framework is provided, a small group of passionate, well-organised people can make a world of difference. For all its success to date, the work of protecting Tubbataha’s reefs continues every day, with new challenges presenting themselves as others are surmounted.

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fertile realm In the great circle of life, estuaries represent the point at which the circle closes, where land meets sea and this planet's interconnectedness completes.

Fertile realms bursting with life.

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here is a vast temperate rainforest on the West Coast of British Columbia, Canada. Passages of Pacific Ocean score deep into the fjordlands, and clusters of volcanic islands peter off into the distance.

Grizzly bears roam the grasslands while pods of killer whales freely explore the channels. Trees of cedar, hemlock and Douglas fir stand tall, quietly proud that they were able to grow from such a small seed. Scattered throughout the 6.4-million-hectare Great Bear Rainforest, in the bays, are pockets of fertile marshes that make this entire ecosystem possible: estuaries. They take up a small fraction of British Columbia’s (BC) coastline, and less than 1% of the rainforest’s landscape. Yet, incredibly, these estuaries are used by 80% of all coastal wildlife species in BC. As a wildlife guide and photographer, I have spent many hours sitting and pondering these wonderful habitats. It doesn't take long to realise that it is here where we witness the relationship between ocean and land, a convention between fresh and salt water. The ocean life feeds the land, and the rivers cleanse the sea with fresh nutrients washed down from the forest. Clasp your hands together to get an idea of how multiple ecosystems meld to create one. As I observe, appreciating the unbridled life that surrounds me, it feels like I am quite literally watching the circle of life. A grizzly bear scoops a salmon from the river, eating only the tastiest bits and leaving the rest for scavengers to disperse further throughout the forest. Ravens, eagles and shorebirds sprinkle the nitrogen around the flora, nature’s greatest fertiliser. Next, spring arrives and I see the same grizzly bear, now a mother of three tiny cubs, hardly a day out of their winter den. They are feeding on Lyngby’s sedge, a long, grassy-looking plant that grows abundantly in these estuaries. Studies show that this important food source has an equal amount of protein value to that of a salmon. Not surprising when you realise it is the salmon that nourishes the sedge. The family’s diet will follow the seasons. Roots, berries and as much milk as the mother can provide. Then comes the great salmon migration.

Now, the circle continues. I feel such desperation, as I watch, to be a part of this circle, and to not be a part of what breaks it.

As well as the circle of life, we can witness a circle of protection. In some cases, an animal’s conservation status can lead to the protection of a variety of other species or a certain critical environment. They are known as an umbrella species. An example of an umbrella species is North America’s largest waterfowl, the trumpeter swan.

Many trumpeters overwinter in BC’s estuaries and in the late 1800s, populations drastically declined, mostly due to overharvesting. In order to save the population, large estuaries that the swans were known to inhabit were protected, passively creating a haven for many

PREVIOUS PAGE: Grizzly brothers take a drink from the brackish water of an estuary.

RIGHT: Gulls flock to the rainforest's estuaries to harvest salmon eggs and scavenge leftovers.

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“It is here where we witness the relationship between ocean and land, a convention between fresh and salt water.”

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LEFT: A bald eagle staring over a salmon bearing stream in British Columbia.

RIGHT: A mother grizzly bear with her cub.

BOTTOM: Black bears can catch an impressive amount of salmon, sometimes only eating the best and fattiest parts.

other species within. The swans' numbers have since bounced back and they remain protected. Even some red and yellow cedar trees have become an umbrella species, known as 'monumental trees'. If they are of a certain width and height, they can be claimed by Coastal First Nations as a traditional resource, thus protecting the cedar and its close-by neighbours from commercial logging. Thousands of insects reside within the tree’s bark and needles; insects that feed songbirds and bears.

Generations of eagles have trusted the ancient cedar’s strong limbs to support the two-metre-wide nests they build to nurture their young; the same eagles that have carried that special salmon nitrogen from the estuary into the forest, feeding the cedars and allowing them to become giants.

Most of my time spent sitting in estuaries is dedicated to watching the grizzly bears, the most prominent mammal to occupy these ecosystems. If a lion is the King of the Jungle, then a grizzly bear is surely the Emperor of the Estuary. Spring is mating season for the bears; huge male boars chase the sows, galloping through the wildflowers, hoping to pass down their powerful genes to the next generation. Sometimes, I am convinced that a mating pair are in love. They play, cuddle, and nuzzle.

How could they ever separate? But they do. It's ingrained into their genetics to be alone. Even a mother bear with a family of cubs will separate after two and a half years of togetherness without hesitation. The cubs, however, are not usually compliant. Siblings will often den together the year that they separate from their mother but by the following spring, they will slowly become solitary.

I love to watch as these tiny cubs grow into adults. I once had a mother grizzly leave her three cubs beside me while she fished in the river – this is a documented phenomenon where a sow learns that her cubs are safe around a human presence. An exhilarating feeling to gain the trust of a grizzly bear, it's about as close as you can get to an emotional connection with a wild animal.

Once she caught her salmon, she came back to land and a grunt told the cubs to run over to her and feed together.

It's fascinating to think that in less than three years these little bears, completely reliant on their mother’s protection, will have the necessary skills and tools to survive in the wilderness on their own. The average human can't even tie their own shoelace at that age, let alone catch a salmon with their bare hands. But the bears have so many biological tricks up their sleeve, making

them elite survivors. While grizzly bears are found all over North America, life is much easier for a bear that has access to estuaries, as they are provided with more than enough nourishment. In return, the bear acts as a wild gardener by providing fertiliser and churning the soil with its long claws. It is nature’s version of 'you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours'.

When you think of a rainforest, you might imagine the sounds of birds constantly singing or insects chirping all around you. But the Great Bear Rainforest is eerily quiet.

An irregular squawk from a raven, the trickling stream of fresh water or rain tumbling into the marsh are about the only sounds you will hear. I remember one beautiful moment: As I sat patiently, the unmistakable sound of a humpback whale’s blow echoed through the fjords and rebounded off the granite mountains. To remember having had both feet on land, surrounded by rainforest foliage and turning around to see a 50ft whale in the bay gives me goosebumps to this day. Encounters with whales always leave me with more questions than answers.

We know so little about these massive and mysterious animals. They practically live in a different world and yet, they breathe the same air as us. I watched as the whale circled the bay, sometimes swimming in just 8-10ft of water. Suddenly and slowly, the whale brought up its long pectoral fin out of the water as if to wave, and then threw it back down to the surface producing an enormous slap!

It repeated this motion, over and again. Then, it lifted its beautiful fluke out of the water and, once more, slammed it back down, smacking the water with a thunderous clap.

My senses wake up when I wander these realms – it is a place of such uncertainty. What will I see and how will it make me feel? Excited, or concerned? As the wind blows the smells in the air change. My brain is constantly alert to what is happening around me. I must keep an eye on the tide as it rises, I am responsible for the safety of the people who join me on these ventures. I can't imagine what it must feel like to have the heightened senses of a deer with its fawn, a wolf with its pup or even a porcupine with its porcupette.

Once the tide rises, sometimes a staggering 16ft, harbour seals and Steller sea lions that have been sunbathing in the bay glide into the brackish waters like torpedoes. Salmon, flounder and molluscs are abundant in these waters, and the pinnipeds have about four or five hours of gorging before the water becomes too shallow for them. They grunt and growl as they throw their food around like playful siblings. Hundreds of gulls swarm to scavenge on the scraps of floating meat on the water’s surface. I once had a seal throw a salmon carcass at me after it had spotted my kayak inching closer to get a photo. I took the message and backed off, eager for a shower. As the tide settles back down, the seals and sea lions go back to their favourite rocks to sunbathe, their blubbery bellies full of nourishing seafood. I find them so charismatic. They never cease to make me chuckle, especially when I see a seal that has chosen a rock to lay on at high tide and watch as the tide falls further,

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exposing more and more of the rock. For those with little knowledge of the tides, it must conjure up astonishing notions of how the seal climbed such a lofty peak.

The recurring tides play a crucial role in the relationship between ocean and land. They are the reason that we have intertidal zones, the area in-between high and low tide. These zones are the perfect habitat for crustaceans, shellfish and a wealth of colourful life. Purple sea urchins, mussels of deep blues and seaweeds of dark greens. The Coastal First Nations who have lived from the land for thousands of years have a saying: “When the tide is down, the table is set.”

This is not just true for the First Nations, but also for the thousands of other species that call the coast home. The movement of the tide creates currents that transport nutrients and water to the intertidal life. These currents also carry sediment washed from the constantly changing shoreline and cleans the estuary of debris. Rushing in and out, twice a day, the tide connects two different worlds, allowing both land- and waterdwelling animals to feed. Once again, we can see that circle of life in action as Mother Nature continues to work hard in the form of reoccurring natural events and a vast chain of species that are all, in one way or another, connected.

As I stand in one of my favourite wild places to photograph, I take a moment to appreciate where I am, filled with gratitude for the towering mountains above me and the gargantuan grizzly bear tracks beside my comparatively small feet. Estuaries are paramount to the health of the Great Bear Rainforest, and our planet in general. They are the gateway that allows the steady flow of life to continue, like the pulse that pushes blood through our bodies. Left undisturbed, these fertile environments remain well-balanced ecosystems bearing an array of organisms. Large or small, they are all a part of the extraordinary circle of life.

A harbour seal enjoying a rest as the tide falls.

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“As the tide settles back down, the seals and sea lions go back to their favourite rocks to sunbathe...

For those with little knowledge of the tides, in must conjure up astonishing notions of how the seal could climb to such a lofty peak.”

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“ TRAN Palawan, Philippines

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Photo: Amanpulo. Palawan

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PHOTO BY FABIAN JOHANN