The Ocean’s Moratorium
West Allis, WI
2020, Senior, Creative Writing
It is no question as to why we face such staggering issues concerning pollution and conservation in this era. Quite simply, humans have evolved in their capabilities; we are better and more efficient at producing output. Our newfound shift in technology and progress has been uninhibited, unbounded. The enthusiasm towards innovation, towards inevitably pushing forward, forward, and forward… has seldom been shaped with restrictions in mind. Thus, we have not contemplated what is environmentally feasible, but rather what is at the limits of possibility, and we have centered ourselves towards the latter. We have forgotten our role in the equilibrium of nature, and in doing so, we have usurped it.
In the early 1990s, the Canadian cod fishery collapsed, after decades of progressively dwindling populations. The moratorium declared was originally intended to be temporary—2 years—but it remains in effect to this day, nearly 30 years later. Nearly 37,000 Newfoundlanders lost their jobs from this decision and were forced to reintegrate into the workforce, all without utilizing the skillset that had been passed down from generation to generation over the last 500 years. In protest, some of the workers made “cod coffins” symbolizing the moratorium and sold them, though the trade was certainly not enough to undo the ban, nor sustain their lost income.
The dwindling populations of cod were the result of a series of mismanagement issues. Firstly, though the trawlers used were aimed towards catching cod, often they caught non-commercial fish in the process. Something commonplace enough, but the fish caught from that were ecologically vital—when one analyzed the balance of food chains and predator-prey relationships, these fish were central to maintaining a certain population proportion in the oceans, which was certainly not the case when they were hauled up. Furthermore, due to an increase in foreign fishing, the boundary for legal fishing in Newfoundland was augmented from a former three miles to a staggering 200 miles offshore. Naturally, while this culled the foreign fishing around the island, the diminution was quickly offset by a radical increase in Newfoundland’s fishing. After the cod fishery’s plunge, substitutes were exhausted. This even led to a huge increase in the harp seal hunt, which caused substantial fluctuations in their population before other such restrictions were imposed.
Perhaps the destruction of climates might be rationalized—however wrongly—by the needs of the labor market, by the short-term benefits which might be reaped. But climate destruction does not benefit us, not any more than it benefits the wildlife and habitats that are impacted by it. In the long-term, all we see are the collapses of both systems in the process. Can it truly be called unprecedented? If moderation could be attained—if we could find a way to minimize cost before we reap our temporary gains—could we spare the suffering? It is not the action of any one individual who is responsible for what happened in Newfoundland, or anywhere else in the world. But it is the actions of you, and me, and everything that combines us into a collective body, which has destroyed climates and hurt livelihoods. Complicity must be acknowledged as every bit as corrosive to a cause as is those who oppose it, if we are ever to truly do something about indifference, about the apathy which reigns in our debates and keeps us from realizing what is truly important.
Sometimes, if you look at the horizon of the waters, and if you’re really, really, lucky, something rare and beautiful will happen. A whale will breach the surface, a great blossom of water jutting around it. A sleek tail, scalloped with water, will emerge, followed by a magnificent set of fins. All sorts of coloration—black, cobalt, ivory—though it is often so fleeting that one can only see a snatch of it, a tracery of shades before it slips back to the water. As the whale uncoils, you get a sense of just how gargantuan it is. A colossal body, shredding through the waves, and a mountainous head—a being so enormous that even from the distance you can sense the vastness of its presence, the mammoth dimensions which define it. My mother tells a story of the first time she saw a whale breach; she ran, full sprint, towards her house, convinced that a being that titanic was surely going to get her.
Only later was she told that whales are gentle giants. My father tells a similar story; one day, when he was out fishing with my grandfather, a whale passed by their boat. To capsize or submerge the boat would have been simple—almost accidental—for a whale of such a stature. When they saw the hulking mass of tail beside them, my father froze in fear, paralyzed. He had seen whales, but in this proximity, it was quite perilous. He seized the sides of the boat, as if to anchor himself, knowing it was folly but reflexively doing so anyway. My father did not dare to breathe, or move, so petrified was he. And yet, the whale passed unperturbed, not so much as stirring their boat. They are majestic creatures, marvelous in their peaceful disposition and their emotional complexity.
And yet, their populations dwindle as well. The moratorium on whale fishing in Newfoundland was declared about 20 years sooner—1972, to be exact—and continues. But whales are not nearly so abundant nor productive as cod, or other aquatic species. Female whales have only one whale-calf about every two to three years, an insufficient number to replenish a full species.
And meanwhile, even if it does not include upsetting the predator-prey balance through catching non-commercial fish, there are other ways that the ocean and its ecosystems have been menaced—ones which are deeply impactful to whales. Chemical and oil pollution in ocean waters have been harming animals, as well as non-biodegradable materials such as plastics. In fact, in the Pacific Ocean, there exists the culmination of these issues, given the name “The Great Pacific Garbage Patch.” Somehow, the landfill’s sobriquet, however truthful it is, still seems to be an understatement considering how massive it is. If whales are immense creatures, this mass is altogether voluminous, far too numerous to accurately be quantified.
And the expense of other species has also compromised that of the whales. Gray whales have been washing up on beaches in hordes, with most scientists theorizing—based on their emaciated appearance—that it is the result of malnutrition during their yearly migration. With the scarcity of food-sources, they are dying. Populations we have worked so hard to save are still being affected.
Henry-David Thoreau once insisted that, “…It is not an era of repose. If we would save our lives, we must fight for them.” It has been centuries, and yet the urgency of the matter has never been more immanent than it is today. The only thing that can overpower our ignorance is activism.
I stand on the shores of Newfoundland. It is an overcast day—it is almost always that way. If you walk about a quarter-mile from my grandma’s house, there is a testament to how the world has changed. I look at the slipways, eroded and worn from years of disrepair, mangled with overgrown vegetation, the wooden planks gnawed by the ocean water. I look at the solemn small boats still laying on them, more like watery tombs than vessels. And I look at the waves lapping on this scene of tragedy, all so evitable. This landscape is one of the saddest in the world to me, not only because it could have been avoided, but mostly because I know it is not unique. I know that there are other closed fisheries around the world, I know that there are other ecosystems being ravaged by other fisheries that should have been closed long ago.
Furthermore, I know that most people do not even know where Newfoundland is, much less the catastrophes that befell it or the tenuous nature of their own circumstances. I cannot be too harsh—I only know because it is my legacy, the stories I inherited from my parents who grew up there. I know that many view the day that the fishery officially closed as the day of calamity: it is one of those vivid, emotional memories that people can recall with clarity, conveyed the way that only horrible memories can be. But the calamity began long before that; it began years earlier, and yet, I can promise that no one remembers that with such vibrancy. We are not only blind to the issues, but we relish in our blindness. We preserve it, and when our blindness is unveiled and unmasked, we struggle to keep it intact. The truth is scary, because nothing other than honesty can strip people of their comfortable illusions.
If only we had not delved so deep, so dark into the treacherous chasms of what we are humanly able to do. If only we did not forget that we had. If only.
But to condemn it as being “too late” is equally wrong.
It is not too late to prevent similar tragedies, to circumvent the sadness that we will otherwise face. It is not too late to save each other, the environment, and ourselves. And it is not impossible for an individual to make a difference. I refuse to believe that the only way we will know what a whale was will be to look through the windows at a zoo at those whales born in captivity. I refuse to believe that we cannot rise above our tendency to destroy.
So, rather than continuing to mourn our losses, and dwell on our mistakes…
Let’s correct them. I know it is not easy; if it were, it would have already been done. But to direct our efforts towards this challenge, to persevere in it despite the difficulties it has faced, and to act without being conquered by our hesitations…
That is the essence of human determination. It is everything that is wonderful about human innovation, without the danger of its repercussions. It is the ultimate expression of who we are and the truly amazing potential that we have.
Works Cited
https://www.heritage.nf.ca/articles/environment/whaling-in-the-20th-century.php
https://www.opb.org/news/article/dead-gray-whales-oregon-washington-beach/
https://www.nationalgeographic.org/encyclopedia/great-pacific-garbage-patch/
https://quotefancy.com/quote/825718/Henry-David-Thoreau-We-have-used-up-all-our-inherited-freedom-like-the-young-bird-the
https://www.heritage.nf.ca/articles/economy/moratorium-impacts.php
Reflection
Reflection
When I was growing up, I felt lucky to always know where I came from. My cultural heritage was clear—my parents were natives of Newfoundland, whose relationship with the ocean was ingrained in almost every aspect of their lives. We would visit every summer, and I would be told the stories of the fishing lifestyle there. I was told where to get the best fish and chips; I was told memoirs of ice-fishing when the cold months came. I would listen attentively, captivated by the anecdotes, not yet privy to the less triumphant ones. The crash of the fishing industry in the early 1990s there was a cataclysmic event. The heartbreak of that particular narrative led me to pursue a better understanding of why it happened and how; however, I realized that the story of the ocean and its ailing health is a universal one, far outside of any small island province. We have been negligent of the larger issues impacting us, and I wanted to do something about it... that is the message I want to convey in this work. I am empowered by the fact that activism is rising internationally; people have become far more conscious of the issue than they were even a few decades before. However, in order to truly make a difference, this has to be a contribution made by a large body of people, myself included. Personally, I want to help spread this spirit of activism by informing others.