Future Sea: How to Rescue and Protect the World’s Oceans

Future Sea

FUTURE SEA

How to Rescue and Protect the World’s Oceans

Deborah Rowan Wright

The University of Chicago Press

Chicago and London

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637

The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London

© 2020 by Deborah Rowan Wright

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact the University of Chicago Press, 1427 E. 60th St., Chicago, IL 60637.

Published 2020

Printed in the United States of America

29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20    1 2 3 4 5

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-54267-6 (cloth)

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-54270-6 (e-book)

DOI: https://doi.org/10.7208/chicago/9780226542706.001.0001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Wright, Deborah Rowan, author.

Title: Future sea : how to rescue and protect the world’s oceans / Deborah Rowan Wright.

Description: Chicago : The University of Chicago Press, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020024360 | ISBN 9780226542676 (cloth) | ISBN 9780226542706 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Marine ecosystem health. | Marine habitat conservation—Government policy. | Marine habitat conservation—Law and legislation.

Classification: LCC QH541.5.S3 W75 2020 | DDC 577.7—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020024360

This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

For Ellie, Lydia, and Betty

Contents

Introduction

1.   Back-to-Front World

2.   The Laws of Life

3.   Teeming Seas

4.   The Free Sea

5.   Theory to Reality

6.   Counteroffensive

7.   Worrying about the Wrong Stuff

8.   The Silver Bullet?

9.   The Power of Many Small Changes

10.   Finding Like Minds

Acknowledgments

Notes

Index

Introduction

Steep green slopes of red cedar and Douglas fir tumble down to Johnstone Strait, a stretch of the Pacific separating Vancouver Island from mainland Canada. This place is a gift for the eyes and the heart: an unruly expanse of forest cradling a flickering sea, with a sweet, clean chill in the air. The water is deep, and I am perched precariously upon it in a small boat, setting out on a whale-watching trip with my two daughters and my niece. We are heading south from Telegraph Cove, leaving the pale peaks of the Pacific Ranges melting into the distance beyond Blackfish Sound.

I stand swaying on the deck, feeling inconsequential in the hugeness of this land, this sea, and this sky. Wayward strands of wet hair cling to my cold face. Against the headwind we look over the bow and down into the shifting darkness below, wondering. Today we hope for a lot. They say there’s no better place in the world to see the magnificent orcas.

Our fellow passengers stay in the cabin, sheltering from the drizzle and the wind. Up in the wheelhouse, Captain Wayne is at the helm and biologist Kyle is at the microphone, talking about waterproof trousers, hot coffee, and salmon runs. His voice is snatched away by the bluster outside and I catch only bits, so I listen harder. He’s listing the wildlife we’re likely to see. I hear bald eagles, humpback whales, dolphins, sea lions and, last, orcas—otherwise called killer whales. Kyle explains that orcas aren’t whales at all, but the largest species of dolphin. They live in complex matriarchal family groups, with up to four generations in a single pod. There are two distinct types in this part of British Columbia: the transient Bigg’s orcas that roam widely along the Pacific coast, feeding on marine mammals such as dolphins and seals, and the resident orcas with an entirely different diet, primarily Chinook salmon. My mind drifts to what could be swimming under us. Will the fabled strait deliver?

A flurry of Bonaparte’s gulls gather above, on the lookout for lunch, as we make for the Michael Bigg Ecological Reserve along the coast at Robson Bight. This is a small chunk of protected land and sea that is off-limits to the public. It includes a swath of water and foreshore where orcas have come for generations to socialize and rub their bodies on the pebbles to scrape off barnacles. We’re told there’s a good chance of seeing them here. Suddenly the three girls squeal, bouncing and pointing like maniacs. They’ve spotted a surge of Pacific white-sided dolphins ahead, weaving through the water in unison, arching and diving in a lather of speed. We jump up, beckoning the others to leave the cabin, but within a few moments the dolphins are gone, leaving behind only trails of white water.

As our boat nears the reserve Captain Wayne cuts the engine so as not to disturb the animals, and we rock to the rhythm of the waves. Everyone is out on deck now, all eyes fixed on a stretch of water where the ridge falls into the bight, many with binoculars pressed to their faces. We wait and wait, watching expectantly. The rain lets up and clouds dissolve to reveal a backcloth of blue sky, but the orcas don’t come. Rumbling disappointment is quickly dispelled, though. Kyle announces that the captain of another whale-watching boat has alerted him to a pod of orcas foraging for fish in the riptide about a mile farther south. We set off immediately.

Within a few minutes we see a strip of troubled water ahead, effervescent with currents clashing below. A great number of noisy birds dive to pick off fish caught in the fighting tides: rhinoceros auklets, common guillemots, and a variety of gulls. The boat’s engine goes quiet and we stop, bobbing on the swell. The first sign that orcas aren’t far away is a tall column of water vapor shooting up near the shore. Soon after, much closer to us, a glossy dorsal fin pierces the surface to yelps of joy on deck. Then, without warning, another orca emerges right next to the boat with a roaring swoosh as he breathes out, sending up a salvo of spray that makes us all gasp. It’s a large male with a dorsal fin five or six feet tall. He glides past effortlessly on the port side and slips back down—six tons of bone, brains, and blubber wrapped in a mighty black submarine body.

By the time people move across the deck to watch, more orcas appear on the other side—a group of four, including a mother and calf. They are leaving the riptide banquet in a playful mood, circling each other, scribbling patterns in the water. They slap their tails down hard, making a distinct crack as the flukes hit the sea. The big male joins them and rolls on his side, lifting a pectoral fin as if to greet his family with a high five. We cheer and clap. Three more orcas rise together, their fins slicing the waves like knives cutting through rippling silk. People hardly know where to stand, afraid of missing something. The dolphins are back. They move toward us at a frantic pace, some leaping clear of the water, churning the surface into a froth as they swerve around the orcas. But now the orcas begin to head off, and the spectacle is coming to an end—not before an encore, though. The last to go is a large female. Suddenly she rises upright to get a good look at us, with a third of her body clear of the water. After a few moments her curiosity is satisfied. Obviously we aren’t all that interesting. She sinks back down and is gone, leaving us jumping, laughing, and clapping like excited children.

A posse of boisterous Dall’s porpoises escorts us back to Telegraph Cove. They are surfing in the wake of the bow with frenzied energy, so close to the keel that when I lean over the side I can almost touch them. A bald eagle breezes overhead as we approach the harbor. It’s the end of the trip. I gaze wistfully along the strait, then smile as I decide to do it all again the next day.

This region is rich in marine life. The inlets and coves, channels and deep fjords provide unique habitats and diverse ecosystems for a wide range of species: plants, fish and crustaceans, birds and mammals. A combination of ocean currents, eddies, and upwellings makes the waters very productive, and so much food brings in a host of hungry predators. But despite the high probability of seeing orcas in Johnstone Strait, the northern resident population is quite small—roughly three hundred individuals—and there are only about seventy southern resident orcas, which live in the Salish Sea about two hundred miles farther south. Scientists are unclear on why the number of orcas remains low, and various explanations have been put forward. During the 1960s and 1970s many orcas were captured and taken to zoos and marine parks like SeaWorld. They are long-lived animals and slow to reproduce, and it takes many years for their numbers to recover. Thankfully Vancouver Island’s orcas are protected by Canada’s Species at Risk legislation and can no longer be whisked away into captivity, but there are other threats to their long-term well-being. Waterborne and airborne pollutants from agriculture and industry known as persistent organic pollutants reach the sea and contaminate the fish that orcas and other marine mammals eat, undermining the animals’ health and strength. The concentration of these toxins in the body increases at every stage of the food chain, so top predators like orcas have the highest levels.

Underwater noise from ships and submarines and the use of sonar interfere with the orcas’ ability to use echolocation to navigate, hunt, and communicate with one another. Whales, dolphins, and orcas become distressed, show signs of pain, and may become stranded on the shore. This happens frequently when naval exercises are underway in the vicinity. The greatest problem they face, however, is simply a shortage of food. Although orcas may be protected, sadly their food is not. Chinook salmon stocks have been shrinking for years, and again the reason is open to question. Marine biologists argue that large-scale commercial fishing takes too many of the fish the orcas and so many other species depend on. Poor logging management and dam building along the region’s rivers have destroyed critical salmon spawning areas, significantly reducing their reproduction rates. In 2019 the government department Fisheries and Oceans Canada introduced tougher restrictions on chinook fishing in British Columbian waters, closing some recreational and commercial fishing areas in the region to try to get the fish back. Southern resident orcas in the Salish Sea have been particularly affected. By 2018, no successful births had been recorded during the previous three years, so it was a relief to many when in the summer of 2019 two newborn calves were spotted swimming alongside their mothers off the coast of Vancouver Island.

Seldom is it possible to be certain why a wild species is in decline, and such declines are generally due to a complex mix of several factors. What we know about life under the waves is outweighed by what we don’t know—the certainty of uncertainty. Recognizing this should be at the heart of our relationship with the ocean and the way we use the sea’s resources. Such an approach provides a safety net for misjudgment when science and policy have insufficient knowledge or when they are mistaken. This safety measure thinking—known as the precautionary approach—is an essential element of the possible future for the oceans that I describe in the chapters to come.

All my expectations of seeing orcas in Johnstone Strait were easily surpassed. I’ll never forget those two sublime days of adventure on the water. Being so close to animals in the wild is an exhilarating experience, and for most of us it is an uncommon one. We have become detached from the wild places we inhabited long ago and the from the wild creatures living around us. We typically find ourselves enclosed in static environments of concrete and glass laced by roads, not rivers, and dodging cars and trucks rather than fleeing wolves or tigers. For some, a connection with nature is limited to a walk in the park and watching the occasional wildlife documentary on television. Often we suffer from an overload of bad news about what’s happening to the natural world, and we switch off or turn the page when the latest crisis is reported. Thinking there is little or nothing we can do, we hope someone else will deal with it or decide it’s not our problem anyway. In fact, there are constructive things that anyone can do to offset the gloom, and there are plenty of reasons to feel optimistic. This book brings good news and lays out solutions that everyone can be a part of. It is a proposal for a radical course of action to bring back fish-filled seas, to clean polluted waters, protect underwater habitats, and safeguard the oceans’ astonishing wildlife for good.

1: Back-to-Front World

In the deepest, darkest waters of the world’s oceans, life moves along at a leisurely pace. Here many fish species grow slowly and mature late. They produce relatively few offspring and live to a great age if they’re not eaten by predators or caught in a deep-sea trawl net. Take the slimehead, which doesn’t reach reproductive age until it is 30 to 40 years old and can live 150 years or possibly more. Using radiometric dating of trace isotopes from the ear bone, one individual was found to be 149 years old.¹ The fishing industry had overlooked slimeheads as having no commercial value, which meant they were still plentiful around many undersea mountains and valleys. But as shallow-water fish stocks have become exhausted, vessels head farther out to sea, fishing in deeper waters and targeting species that previously were safe from overfishing. In 1979 Russian trawlers chanced upon large populations of slimeheads in deep seas to the east of New Zealand.

Unfortunately for slimeheads, their flesh is firm and white, with a mild and unchallenging flavor that most people apparently prefer. So with these two winning characteristics—blandness and abundance—they were deemed ideal for the consumer and ripe for exploitation. With rapid and easy profits to be made, fisheries marketers aimed to get them onto restaurant tables and into supermarkets around the world. Their promotion plans met a minor stumbling block, though. Whole-roasted slimehead with lemon dressing would hardly be a restaurant’s most popular dish. The answer was a simple rebranding, and the fish were given the more appealing name orange roughy, after their fiery color. And so began the scramble for roughy—an underwater gold rush that lasted throughout the 1980s and into the 1990s, mainly in seas around Australia and New Zealand. The bonanza peaked in 1990 when the global catch of orange roughy topped 91,000 tons.² Their combination of a long life and late maturity makes this species acutely vulnerable to excessive fishing. Roughy could not reproduce fast enough to keep pace with the huge numbers being taken, and before long catches nose-dived. Within twenty years some populations were estimated to be only 3 to 10 percent of their previous size. Once breeding fish are gone the stock cannot rebuild for decades, if at all. Fisheries managers had used guesswork instead of facts to set catch quotas. They took what they knew about similar-sized species living in shallow seas and applied it to the orange roughy, whose life cycle is up to ten times longer and slower. The damage was made worse by the use of weighted nets that destroy slow-growing corals and sponges found in areas where the fish gather to feed and spawn.

The orange roughy’s story is not just another case of greedy boom-and-bust fishing. It shows how devastating it can be when management decisions are based on patchy knowledge or mistaken assumptions. It reveals why understanding, caution, and moderation should underpin everything we do in the sea. If fisheries management of orange roughy had been led from the outset by the precautionary approach, there would still be great clouds of them swimming over undamaged ancient corals in the deep seas of the southwest Pacific. Because we choose not to take the precautionary route, other species are suffering a similar demise today.

California sea lions live along the Pacific coast from Vancouver to Mexico. They are inquisitive, playful, and sociable animals, and people love to watch them racing and twisting through the water or just relaxing in groups on the rocks and the foreshore. But in recent years large numbers of pups have been washed up on West Coast beaches, starving and dying. Sardines and anchovies are a key part of the sea lions’ diet, and as stocks have declined mothers have to go farther and farther in search of food for their young. Figures from America’s National Marine Fisheries Service indicate a 98 percent collapse of the Pacific sardine population since 2006, which means that pups starve or drown when they take to the sea before they are mature enough to survive. Sardines are a crucial forage food for many other species such as dolphins, whales, brown pelicans, marlins, and tuna. Scientists, conservationists, and those in the fishing industry disagree about why stocks collapsed. Some say warming seas are sending the fish north to cooler waters, while others put it down to poor fisheries management that has set catch quotas too high for too long and allowed commercial fishing to continue beyond biologically safe limits.

The plight of British Columbia’s orcas, of orange roughy, and of California’s sea lions illustrates the difficulties facing wildlife in many places: seas emptied of fish, underwater habitats flattened, waters polluted and progressively altered by climate change. But I don’t intend to dwell on the many threats to the oceans—I intend to set out a way to eliminate them. Fortunately there are hundreds of counteractive strategies and initiatives already protecting marine environments, and many are very successful. Simply managing fisheries wisely makes a massive difference. This might be done on a national scale, exemplified by countries such as Norway and New Zealand, or it can occur on a smaller scale, with community-led conservation projects safeguarding marine resources in coastal waters. However, the strategy widely regarded as most successful is to create marine protected areas (MPAs) and marine reserves, like the Michael Bigg reserve in Johnstone Strait where we went whale watching. In these designated areas fishing, dumping, mining, dredging, and coastal development are prohibited or restricted. Marine reserves are areas with the highest level of protection, where habitats particularly rich in biodiversity are kept intact. When left undisturbed by humans, damaged habitats regenerate, and depleted populations of wildlife bounce back. As well as the ecological benefits, marine reserves bring considerable economic and social advantages for nearby communities. Older, larger fish tend to produce far more eggs than smaller, younger ones. Providing a safe haven where females can live well past maturity allows stocks to replenish. An upsurge of sea life spilling over the boundaries boosts the catches of local fisheries in adjacent waters. In time, everything and everybody wins.

There are thousands of protected areas of ocean around the world, offering some degree of sanctuary for marine life, and a number of very large MPAs are being designated, but many protected areas are too small or too detached to be very effective, or they may have only seasonal closures during spawning times to help a dwindling population rebuild. Some are protected areas in name only and provide