Progress in Advancing Decent Work in Marine Fisheries — Part 2: What's Actually Working by Francisco Blaha

In Part 1, I introduced FAO's new Technical Paper No. 751 on decent work in marine fisheries, and mentioned that one of its authors, Blaise Kuemlangan, is a friend I've known since 1998, a friendship built on more fisheries conversations than either of us probably wants to count.

Having covered the report's diagnosis of the problem, I want to use this second post to talk about the part I found most useful: what states and regional bodies are actually doing about it, and where I think the report's honesty about the limits of these efforts is its real strength.

Ratification Isn't the Only Path Forward

One of the more encouraging threads running through this report is its documentation of countries that haven't ratified ILO Convention No. 188 but have built equivalent, or in some cases stronger, protections into their own domestic law anyway. The Republic of Korea and Chinese Taipei are both discussed at length; Taiwan can't formally ratify ILO conventions given its political status, but it has built out a comprehensive legal framework covering foreign crew recruitment, labour standards, and social insurance that closely tracks the Convention's requirements. Indonesia is doing something similar, layering sector-specific regulation for fishing vessel crew on top of its general labour law, even while ratification and full implementation remain a work in progress.

I found this genuinely important, because it pushes back against the idea that a convention's ratification count is the only meaningful measure of progress. It isn't. What matters is whether the standards actually reach the fisher on deck; and the report does a good job showing that this can happen through several different legal doors, not just one.

The Coordination Problem — and Some Real Fixes

If there's a villain in this report, it's institutional fragmentation. Fisheries agencies, maritime authorities, and labour ministries in most countries operate in their own silos, with almost no routine data-sharing between them. A labour inspector might have no idea a vessel has a history of safety violations; a fisheries officer working on PSM might have no mandate, or training, to recognise the signs of forced labour even if they're staring right at them. (Albeit right now I’m working with the great crew of the iMCSn to change this last bit… more to come soon)

What I liked here is that the report doesn't just diagnose this; it names country-level fixes that are demonstrably working. Brazil's system of cross-checking crew rosters between its Ministry of Labour and Ministry of Defence during vessel inspections. Thailand's Port-In Port-Out control centres, which coordinate the navy, labour officials, and port authorities to catch trafficking and check crew documentation as vessels move through port. Indonesia's joint inspection protocols between its fisheries and manpower ministries. Namibia's newly launched National Coordination Mechanism, set up specifically to oversee ILO Convention No. 188 compliance across three different ministries at once. FFA’s HMTCs tie up licensing to minimum contract standards aligned with C188

None of these is a perfect system, but they're proof that the coordination problem is solvable with the right institutional will, and that's a message national agencies genuinely need to hear.

The Regional Fisheries Bodies Are Starting to Move

The section of the report I found most consequential concerns Regional Fisheries Management Organisations; bodies like the WCPFC, ICCAT, and others that manage high seas fish stocks. These bodies have traditionally treated labour conditions as entirely outside their remit, focused purely on stock conservation. That's been changing, slowly and with real resistance from some member states.

The landmark moment the report documents is the WCPFC's adoption, in December 2024, of the first-ever binding conservation and management measure addressing crew labour standards, a measure that took roughly four years of negotiation to land, and won't take effect until 2028. (I wrote about my insider’s take on it here) It requires flag states to meet minimum labour conditions as a precondition for licensing, obliges port states to facilitate disembarkation of crew reporting abuse, and creates information-sharing requirements around crew recruitment providers. Other bodies — ICCAT, NAFO, the North Pacific Fisheries Commission, the South Pacific RFMO — have followed with their own non-binding resolutions built on similar principles.

This resonates strongly with something I've argued in the chapter I wrote for the Oxford University handbook of Human Rights at Sea: that no single instrument or institution is going to solve this problem on its own. What we actually need is a networked approach, international organisations, flag and port states, regional bodies, industry, and fishers themselves all pulling in the same direction, imperfectly but persistently.

The report's account of RFMOs edging into labour governance, often starting with something as narrow as observer safety before broadening into full crew standards, is a textbook example of that kind of incremental, networked progress.

Where This Leaves Us

The report closes without pretending there's a silver bullet. Its recommendations are the ones you'd expect from people who've actually worked this problem for years: ratify and implement Convention No. 188 more widely, strengthen interagency coordination at the national level, keep pushing regional fisheries bodies to treat labour as core business rather than an add-on, and use port state measures more deliberately as a lever for detecting and deterring abuse.

None of that is flashy. But having read Blaise and his co-authors' work here alongside my own thinking on this subject, what stands out to me is the shared conviction that decent work in fisheries isn't going to be delivered by one treaty, one agency, or one campaign. It's going to be built the way most durable maritime governance is built, slowly, through overlapping layers of law, regional cooperation, and enough political will at the national level to actually enforce what's already on the books.

For anyone working in fisheries management, labour inspection, or ocean governance more broadly, this report is worth the read … not because it has all the answers, but because it maps the terrain honestly, and points toward the places where real progress is genuinely being made.

Progress in Advancing Decent Work in Marine Fisheries — Part 1: Why This New FAO Report Matters by Francisco Blaha

I've spent most of my working life around fishing vessels, ports, and the people who make the seafood industry run, and if there's one thing that has stuck with me through decades in this sector, working on aspects from the welfare of sharks and cetaceans to bycatch mitigation, compliance, data, and 1000 more issues, and it's how slowly the world has moved on protecting the fishers themselves.

So when FAO released its new Fisheries and Aquaculture Technical Paper No. 751, Progress in advancing decent work in marine fisheries: challenges in the evolving legal and policy framework, I read it with more than professional interest.

Part of that interest is personal. One of the report's authors, Blaise Kuemlangan, is someone I've known since 1998. That's over a quarter of a century of crossing paths at FAO meetings, technical workshops, and the kind of late-night conversations about fisheries law that only two people who actually care about this stuff would have. Blaise has spent his career quietly building the legal architecture that underpins fisheries governance, and watching his name attached to this report, alongside Ke Song, Julia Nakamura and Daniela Kalikoski, felt like watching a thread I've followed for years finally being pulled together into something comprehensive.

I've written about the human dimension of offshore fishing myself, in a chapter for the forthcoming Oxford Manual of Human Rights at Sea. So reading this FAO report felt less like discovering something new and more like seeing an institution catch up, properly and rigorously, with problems that those of us working at sea and in ports have been flagging for years.

Building on a Decade-Old Foundation

This report doesn't appear out of nowhere. It's explicitly a follow-up to FAO's 2016 scoping study on decent work in fisheries and aquaculture, and then the draft Guidance on Social Responsibility in Fisheries and Aquaculture Value Chains I co-wrote with Katrina Nakamura in 2019 and did no progress through the COFI process at the time becuase it was seen as too prescriptive in their language by the USA delegation.

But specifically, it responds to a specific recommendation from the fifth FAO-ILO-IMO Joint Working Group on Illegal, Unreported and Unregulated (IUU) Fishing, held in January 2024. That Working Group asked FAO to help develop guidance for national fisheries agencies on implementing ILO and IMO instruments governing fishers — and this report is part of the response.

 In any case, what struck me about this report is the argument: that decent work and the fight against IUU fishing are not the same… yet they can be deeply entangled. Vessels that cut corners on crew safety, wages, and living conditions are very often the same vessels cutting corners on catch reporting and licensing compliance. However, I would be the 1st to recognise that this is not a given in my own experience; I worked in Argentina under some of the best protections known to fishermen while doing very doggy stuff

 In any case, strengthening monitoring, control and surveillance (MCS) systems and the tools we already use to fight illegal fishing can simultaneously protect the people on board. That's not a new idea to those of us who've done port inspections, but seeing it stated so clearly in an FAO technical paper matters, because it gives national fisheries agencies a legal and practical hook to act on.

Why Fishers Are Different

The report makes a serious effort to explain why marine fishers can't simply be treated as a subset of seafarers or lumped in with land-based agricultural workers. Anyone who has spent time fishing in the last couple of decades knows this instinctively, but it's worth spelling it out: months at sea, limited communication, no real access to healthcare, and a crew member's near-total dependence on the vessel master's goodwill. Add to that the reality that many fishers are non-nationals recruited through opaque, multi-country arrangements, hired in one country, employed on a vessel flagged to another, working in the waters of a third, and you get a jurisdictional tangle that almost nobody is positioned to untangle in the moment a problem occurs.

The report's authors organise this complexity into a three-dimensional framework I found genuinely useful: the jurisdiction where fishing happens (from internal waters out to the high seas), the legal status of the fisher (national versus non-national), and the scale of the fleet (small-scale, medium-scale, or large-scale industrial). It sounds academic, but it's actually a practical diagnostic tool. It lets you ask, for any given labour problem: whose law applies here, and does that law actually reach this category of worker?

The Convention at the Centre — and Its Limits

Much of the international legal architecture the report describes revolves around ILO Convention No. 188, the Work in Fishing Convention, which sets minimum standards for safety, medical care, rest hours, and wages on board fishing vessels. It's a solid instrument. But as the report is honest enough to admit, ratification remains thin , only 24 states as of writing, and none of the major distant water fishing nations beyond Spain have signed on. That's a gap I've raised in my own writing too, from the theory and as a ILO-trained fisheries labour inspector.

What I appreciated is that the report doesn't just lament this gap; it goes looking for evidence that the underlying standards are spreading anyway, through domestic law, regional agreements, and market pressure, even where formal ratification hasn't happened. That's the subject I'll pick up in Part 2, because the most encouraging parts of this report, for me, aren't about the treaty itself. They're about what states, regional fisheries bodies, and even private industry are doing around it, often without waiting for Geneva to catch up.

For now, the takeaway from the first half of this report is simple but important: decent work in fisheries is not a side issue to sustainable fisheries management; it is part of it. Anyone still treating labour conditions as separate from fisheries management and IUU is, frankly, a decade behind where this field has already moved.

Part 2 continues with a look at how countries and regional fisheries bodies are actually putting these principles into practice — with mixed, but genuinely instructive, results.

What Happens to the Fish That Swim Away by Francisco Blaha

A new study out of New Zealand's snapper fishery has put a number on something recreational fishers rarely think about once a fish disappears back under the boat: how many of those released fish actually survive.

Source: https://www.fisheries.noaa.gov/feature-story/gear-summer-snapper-season-return-em-right

The paper, published this month in Fisheries Management and Ecology by Jade Maggs and colleagues from Earth Sciences New Zealand and Blue Water Marine Research (whom I worked with in 2004 on a similar area), tackles the SNA 1 stock (the snapper fishery on the upper east coast of the North Island, and by some measure, the largest recreational fishery in the country).

Private boats alone harvested more than 1.3 million snapper in the 2022–23 season, with another 237,000 taken by charter operators. But harvest is only half the catch. Because of a 30 cm minimum legal size and increasingly restrictive bag limits, well over half of everything hooked in this fishery goes back over the side, 62% in the private sector, 69% on charters.

The question the authors set out to answer is deceptively simple: of all those released fish, how many die?

How they did it

Rather than relying on lab trials alone, the team combined three things. First, they sent interviewers to eleven boat ramps and observers aboard charter vessels for a full year (January 2024–January 2025), recording fork length, capture depth, hook location (lip, foul, or gut), and fate (kept or released) for nearly 24,000 snappers. Second, they used mortality probabilities from an earlier controlled field experiment by Maggs and colleagues, which had already shown that depth of capture and where the hook lodges are the two strongest predictors of whether a released fish lives or dies. Third, they scaled all of this up using national harvest survey data, so the sampled proportions could be converted into fishery-wide tonnes and numbers.

The result: an estimated 1,110 tonnes (2.6 million fish) were released across the SNA 1 fishery over the year. Of those, roughly 248 tonnes (about 580,000 fish) were expected to die from the stress and injury of capture and release, even though they swam away. That is 200 t in the private boat fishery and 48 t in the charter sector, and it lines up almost exactly with the 20% mortality rate found in the earlier experimental work, which is a nice bit of internal consistency for the model.

Put another way: 22% of the biomass of snapper released in this fishery is expected to die anyway. Nearly a quarter of every fish anglers believe they are returning to the water unharmed don't make it.

Most of the mortality risk can be traced back to two things. Deep-hooked and foul-hooked fish die at much higher rates than lip-hooked fish, and fish caught from deeper water, where barotrauma and rapid decompression come into play, fare worse than those taken in the shallows. The good news is that most snapper in this fishery are lip-hooked (around 89–95%, depending on sector), which keeps the overall mortality rate from being far worse.

The less good news is that the current stock assessment's allowance for "other sources of mortality" across all three fishing sectors is only 450 t a year, and recreational post-release deaths alone account for more than half of that, without counting under-reporting, ghost fishing, or illegal take.

Why this matters beyond the numbers

I wrote a piece back in May about the New Zealand Fisheries Amendment Bill debate, and one of the threads I pulled on was the discard and minimum legal size provisions and how the entire argument, on both sides, tends to collapse into slogans like "legalising discards" without engaging with what discarding already looks like in practice or why it happens.

The core point I was making then is that incentives, not intentions, drive outcomes. Under the current rules, undersized fish, commercial or recreational, can be released without consequence, even in situations where we've known since the mid-2000s that survival is often poor.

There's no cost attached to catching a fish you can't legally keep, so there's little built-in incentive to avoid catching it in the first place. The Bill's proposal to require landing and counting undersized fish against quota in low-survival commercial fisheries was, I argued, at least a coherent attempt to fix that incentive gap, even if it opens up other legitimate concerns about markets for small fish.

This new snapper study is exactly the kind of evidence that the debate needed and largely didn't have. It's easy to argue about minimum legal sizes in the abstract. It's harder to argue with 580,000 dead fish a year, quantified with published mortality probabilities and a proper bootstrap-derived confidence interval, sitting inside a species-specific allowance that's clearly too small for the job.

And it cuts both ways politically, which is what makes it useful rather than just another talking point. It's not an argument for scrapping the minimum legal size — the authors are explicit that removing or lowering it wouldn't necessarily reduce the number of releases since around 15% of released snapper were already above the legal size and released voluntarily or to stay within bag limits. But it is a strong argument that regulatory settings built around size limits and release-and-hope have a real, quantifiable biological cost that current management allowances don't reflect.

The paper's authors put it plainly: the current 450 t allowance for "other mortality" across all sectors is very likely insufficient once you actually measure what's happening at sea rather than assume it away.

The encouraging part of the story is that SNA 1 is, right now, a stock in good shape, rebuilt substantially since the 1990s low. Better hook and gear choices; awareness of depth-related mortality; and, as I said in May, clearer, less politically charged rules agreed upon before the pressure arrives, rather than fought over in the middle of a crisis.

Fish that swim away aren't necessarily fish that survive. If we're going to build fisheries policy, recreational or commercial, around the assumption that release equals conservation, we need studies like this one to keep testing whether that assumption actually holds.

The Tahiti dFAD Workshop: From Diagnosis to a First Real Ledger by Francisco Blaha

Back in February, I was in Tahiti for the International Workshop on Mitigation of dFAD Loss and Abandonment in the Pacific, organised by SPC with the Direction des Ressources Marines of French Polynesia, ISSF, The Nature Conservancy and IATTC. I wrote about the experience at the time, first describing it as a waste crisis in the WCPO, and then, once I'd had time to sit with the FAO/IMO framing, arguing that dFADs are effectively ALDFG — abandoned, lost or otherwise discarded fishing gear — whatever the legal semantics say.

The official workshop report has now been published, and it's worth going back to it, because it puts numbers and structure around what was, at the time, mostly a feeling of watching a slow-motion train crash.

The scale of the meeting itself tells you something: 110 participants from 25 countries and territories, 35 presentations, three group exercises, spread across three themes — building shared definitions, exchanging stranded data, and identifying what a sustainable dFAD fishery would actually look like. This was the second such gathering, following the first international workshop on FAD recovery in Galapagos in 2024, and the difference in maturity between the two is, I think, the real story.

The numbers that frame the problem
Between 46,000 and 65,000 dFADs are deployed annually across the Pacific. More than 70% are never re-observed in the Eastern Pacific. An estimated 23.4% of EPO-deployed dFADs cross or drift into the WCPFC Convention Area. In the WCPO, at least 11.3% end up stranded, and 82% have an unknown ultimate fate.

That last figure is the one that matters most: we are managing a fishery input at an industrial scale while being unable to say, for the overwhelming majority of units, what happened to them. You can't govern what you can't see.

Finally, some shared language

A large part of the workshop went into something deceptively basic: agreeing on what "lost," "abandoned," "discarded", and "stranded" actually mean for a dFAD. Different stakeholder groups (fishers, governments, NGOs, scientists, regional bodies) proposed and voted on definitions, and the spread of answers was itself revealing.

Fishers, for instance, pushed hard on the idea that a dFAD drifting into a zone they're not licensed to fish or an MPA, is not "abandoned" in any meaningful sense, even though it is abandoned in law. That's exactly the tension I flagged in the ALDFG post: intentionality is a legal question, but ecologically irrelevant.

The workshop didn't resolve that tension so much as map it, producing a full lifecycle table that traces a dFAD from deployment through to its three real endpoints — retrieved, stranded, or sunk — with "lost," "abandoned," "discarded" and "reused" as the intermediate, contestable states in between.

The money is starting to move

This is where the report earns its keep. At the first Galapagos workshop in 2024, the funding discussion apparently went nowhere, and no concrete model emerged.

In Tahiti, that changed. Danielle Ferraro and Erin O'Reilly from UC Santa Barbara's Environmental Markets Lab presented an actual deposit-refund model: a deposit paid by the fishing company on deployment, a refund paid to whoever retrieves the dFAD, regardless of whether that's the original owner.

SPC's own feasibility study laid out five mitigation options side by side, deposit-refund among them, alongside dedicated cleaning vessels, better deployment siting, and shore-based "FAD watch" retrieval. None of these is mutually exclusive, which is a useful correction to my own instinct to look for one silver-bullet mechanism.

Interestingly, my friend Craig Heberer and I submitted a proposal a month ago to a PNA consultancy opportunity to help with initiating a FAD Buoy Recovery Programme. Let's see how it goes.

More concretely still, a sustainable funding initiative to recover dFADs before they strand was presented by an industry-backed body — the Ocean dFAD Recovery Foundation, drawing on several purse-seine associations (ATA, ATUNEC, OPAGAC) — and was positively received by a significant segment of the EPO fleet, with some WCPO uptake. And the three dominant buoy manufacturers, Marine Instruments, Zunibal and Satlink, the same trio whose competitive pricing I've argued turned dFADs into disposable, buy-forget-abandon commodities, signed a first-of-its-kind joint declaration of intent to align on recovery and circularity practices. Whether that translates into anything more than a press-friendly commitment remains to be seen, but it's a different starting position than a year ago.

What's actually happening on the water

The report is refreshingly concrete about existing programmes: SPC's regional stranding database now holds over 4,000 entries (with records going back to 2006); the Solomon Islands programme has logged more than 600 strandings across four dedicated trips; Tuvalu pays fishers for buoys brought in; Hawaii runs a bounty system for derelict gear, including FADs; French Polynesia has collected over 1,500 stranding reports through community networks. A 250kg-capacity portable crane developed by AZTI was floated as a practical fix for the very unglamorous problem of small vessels being unable to physically lift a stranded dFAD off a reef.

Workshop groups also produced a list of 51 candidate performance indicators for recovery programmes — cost per retrieval, weight of material recovered, response time, proportion of fleet participating, and so on… and four draft project proposals, including a genuinely interesting one to test whether sunk dFADs actually biodegrade at 200–6,000m depth, versus simply assuming they do.

Where this leaves things

None of this closes the legal gaps Justin Rose's review for SPC surfaced — when a dFAD counts as "fishing," who owns it once it drifts, whether MARPOL, Basel, BBNJ or UNCLOS actually bite on an artificial structure adrift in someone else's EEZ. MSC's revised standards, phasing in from 2027 for new fisheries and 2030 for recertification, will force some of this into certification audits regardless of how the legal questions get resolved.

But the shift in tone between the two workshops is real: from a room agreeing there's a problem, to a room with an actual bond mechanism on the table, an industry foundation with money behind it, and buoy manufacturers signing their names to something. It's still, as I said in February, a bill that the Pacific's coastal communities have been paying on our behalf. This report is the first sign that the industry is starting to reach for its wallet.

Why the "Pacific model" of fisheries cooperation keeps working by Francisco Blaha

A while back, I wrote here about being part of the CAPFISH summer academy in Suva, and before that, about the very first CAPFISH workshop back in 2022. One of the nice things about staying involved in something over a few years is that occasionally it turns into a paper, just published in the WMU Journal of Maritime Affairs, that I was invited to co-author: "Regional patterns in coordination and cooperation in the fight against illegal, unreported, and unregulated fishing", led by Kathleen Auld and Francis Neat at the World Maritime University.

Using Starboard.nz as part of the arsenal

The idea is simple. IUU fishing is too big and too expensive for most developing coastal states and Small Island Developing States (or Big Ocean Sovereignty States - BOSS as my friend Bubba Cook likes it better) to tackle on their own. Regional cooperation is about pooling assets, running joint patrols, sharing data, and establishing common rules.

So the paper examines four regions facing very different situations — West Africa, Latin America, East Asia, and the Pacific Islands — and asks what has actually worked and what hasn't.

My contribution was the Pacific case study, and I want to use this post to explain why, out of the four, the Pacific comes out looking like the most successful example. Not because Pacific people are cleverer than anyone else, but because of how they chose to organise.

Large ocean states, not small islands

The first thing to get right is the framing. The Pacific Island Countries are usually filed under "SIDS", but that label misses the point. In reality, they are large ocean nations, custodians of an enormous combined EEZ, and home to one of the biggest tuna fisheries on the planet.

Fisheries are not a side issue there; in many of these countries, the majority of government revenue comes from fishing, and communities depend on it for jobs, food and livelihoods. That vastness is exactly the problem; no single country can police that much water by itself, and it is also exactly why cooperation was never optional. Necessity did the organising.

A regionally agreed policy that becomes national law

Most of what makes the Pacific work runs through the Pacific Islands Forum Fisheries Agency (FFA). The centrepiece is the Harmonised Minimum Terms and Conditions for Foreign Fishing Vessel Access (the MTCs), first developed in 1983 and updated ever since. This is the clever bit that I think other regions can learn from. The MTCs are, legally speaking, just a regionally agreed policy — soft law. But they are made hard by being written into each member's national legislation, so that every distant-water vessel wanting to fish in the region has to meet the same baseline, no matter whose waters it is in.

On top of that framework, the region has bolted on the tools that actually catch things. Observers, government-nominated people placed on board, who started out collecting scientific data and now also handle compliance; purse seiners in Pacific waters carry one at all times. A satellite-based VMS since 1999, one of the first in the world, tied to the FFA regional register so that every licensed vessel reports its position port to port, not just inside the EEZ. Standardised electronic reporting of catch and vessel movements. A ban on transhipment at sea in coastal waters has been in place since 2005. And, since 2020, minimum labour standards based on the ILO Work in Fishing Convention (C188) have been built straight into the licensing conditions; don't comply with your crew's minimum rights, and you lose your good standing on the register and your fishing rights.

Sharing the picture and sharing the assets

Behind all of this sits what I think is the real jewel: the regional surveillance picture, hosted at the Regional Fisheries Surveillance Centre in FFA HQ. It pulls together, in real time, the positions of vessels reporting to FFA, the WCPFC, and AIS, layered over vessel registers, licence lists, observer reports, and boarding records. From that, you can build a compliance index for each vessel and steer patrol boats towards the ones worth inspecting.

The legal backbone for all this data sharing is the Niue Treaty of 1992. And crucially, countries share not just information but hardware; twelve PICs run a handful of patrol boats between them and top up with aerial surveillance from the Quadrilateral Defence group (Australia, New Zealand, France and the USA). Enforcement stays a national responsibility, always, but nobody is doing it alone.

The clearest sign it works is the quantification of IUU in the tuna fishery. The estimates are low, and they fell between the 2016 and 2020 surveys. The dominant threat was never dramatic pirate fishing; it was unreported catch by licensed vessels, and better coordination and monitoring brought it down. There is also a nice detail I keep pointing to: the MTCs fold in port-state measures aligned with the PSMA, even though very few PICs have actually signed the PSMA. You get the substance of a convention without waiting for everyone to ratify it, and you can tailor it to local realities.

Honest about the gaps

I don't want this to read like a victory lap, because it isn't one. Longline observer coverage sits at a 7.5% target and often falls short because the trips are long and conditions on board are grim. Observers on foreign fleets face threats and abuse, and some have gone missing at sea. Any programme that puts people in that position owes them protection. The transhipment ban applies to purse seiners, but longliners can simply shift to the high seas. And the honest conclusion of the whole paper is one worth repeating: regional cooperation cannot compensate for a lack of resources. It multiplies what you have; it doesn't create it from nothing. External partners and, above all, a strong regional body remain essential.

That, to me, is the "Pacific model" in one line: a credible regional body, minimum standards everyone writes into their own law, shared data and shared assets, and the humility to know where the holes still are. It is not magic, and it is not free, but it travels well, and I think West Africa, Latin America, and East Asia can each take a piece of it home.

The full paper is open access in the WMU Journal of Maritime Affairs. As always, the views here are my personal ones.

The 2026 US NOAA Report to Congress on IUU Fishing, Forced Labour, Bycatch and Shark Catch by Francisco Blaha

I wrote back in 2023 about NOAA Fisheries' biennial Report to Congress, the one mandated under the High Seas Driftnet Fishing Moratorium Protection Act (as amended by Magnuson-Stevens). NOAA has just released the 2026 edition, titled Improving International Fisheries Management, and as usual, it is worth a read even while keeping in mind the geopolitical lens through which any single country produces this kind of "who's naughty" list.

The mechanics haven't changed: NMFS identifies nations or entities for IUU fishing, forced labour, shark catch without a comparable conservation programme, or bycatch of protected living marine resources (PLMRs). Identification triggers a two-year consultation period, after which NMFS issues either a positive or a negative certification. A negative certification means denial of U.S. port access for the relevant vessels, and potentially import restrictions on the fish they land.

New identifications this cycle

For IUU fishing: Costa Rica, Grenada, Mexico, Morocco, the PRC, and the Russian Federation. For forced labour: Burma and the PRC — the first time Burma appears in this report, for conditions on the raft and mid-shore fisheries of the Ayeyarwady Delta, where roughly 40,000 people work and the majority are estimated to be in forced labour. For shark catch: Ghana, Japan, Mexico, Namibia, the PRC, Taiwan, and Vanuatu — all for lacking binding "fins naturally attached" requirements. And, notably, PLMR bycatch identifications now extend into the Pacific for the first time, catching Indonesia and Papua New Guinea for insufficient sea turtle bycatch monitoring in their pelagic longline fleets, a shift from the Atlantic-heavy focus of previous reports.

Certifications

Positive certifications went to Angola, The Gambia, Taiwan, and Vanuatu (on their 2023 IUU identifications), and to Tunisia (already certified positive back in May 2025, for adopting whole-finfish-bait requirements comparable to U.S. sea turtle bycatch mitigation). Negative certifications went to Grenada, Mexico, and the PRC for IUU fishing, and — this is the new bit — to the PRC and Vanuatu specifically for shark catch.

I have to flag Vanuatu again, since concerns were raised about them back in 2023. They get a positive certification for the IUU/CCAMLR/IATTC issues that triggered their original identification — genuine progress, with resolved transshipment notification gaps and resumed observer reporting. But they now carry a negative certification for sharks because, despite claiming that finning is prohibited, NMFS found no binding legislation to that effect, and Vanuatu's own National Plan of Action for Seabirds, Sharks and Turtles plainly states that "nothing in the Vanuatu national laws prevents" finning. That is a remarkably candid admission to have sitting in a national policy document.

Vanuatu's Fisheries Act provides the framework for implementing RFMO measures, but the gazette that would make them binding still hasn't been published. This is exactly the gap between having decent people trying their best in a fisheries authority and having a legal and political system that backs them up with the instruments they need — which is what I flagged three years ago.

Mexico's lanchas, again

This is the fifth cycle in a row Mexico has been identified for the same issue: small-scale vessels (lanchas) illegally fishing red snapper in the U.S. EEZ. The numbers this time are stark — 185 vessels interdicted by the US Coast Guard across 2022–2024, 175 case packages handed to Mexican authorities, and 92% of individuals interdicted in 2024 alone had been caught before, some more than 40 times. Mexico has taken some steps — a Tamaulipas working group, a proposed prevention zone — but recidivism has actually increased. Port denials for Mexican Gulf vessels, in place since February 2022, remain in effect.

The PRC, unsurprisingly, is everywhere

The PRC picks up identifications or negative certifications across nearly every category: IUU fishing (flag state control failures over distant-water vessels fishing in others' EEZs — Sierra Leone, Gabon, Guinea-Bissau, The Gambia, Vanuatu all cited), forced labour (squid jiggers and distant-water crew), and sharks (still no finning ban outside RFMO jurisdiction, and PRC belongs to three RFMOs — SPRFMO, CCAMLR, SIOFA — that lack one).

NMFS also flags, in the "priority issues" chapter, that PRC access agreements are more opaque than the EU's, which publishes its agreements and authorised vessel lists in full. This opacity around access agreements — who gets to fish where, under what MCS obligations — is a structural issue I keep coming back to in my own work, and it is good to see it get its own chapter here rather than being buried as a footnote to specific country cases.

Transhipment gets some real movement

Worth noting for those of us who follow this closely: SPRFMO adopted 100% observer coverage for transhipment in 2024 (led by the U.S.), NPFC stood up a regional transhipment observer programme in 2025, and ICCAT adopted Rec. 24-15 restricting non-member carrier vessels and banning dual carrier/fishing authorisation.

Meanwhile, WCPFC's 2009 transhipment measure remains stubbornly un-updated… a familiar story for those of us in the Pacific.

The report also documents a case of 22 PRC-flagged vessels transshipping 59 times with the Wan Tong, a vessel already on NPFC's IUU list under a different name, which the PRC nonetheless kept on its approved carrier list on the basis of a change of ownership and flag. NPFC found the PRC non-compliant as a result — a useful, concrete illustration of exactly how transhipment control gets gamed.

The full report is worth reading directly for the RFMO-by-RFMO detail in the later chapters, particularly if you work across CCAMLR, IATTC, ICCAT, or the Pacific bodies.

As always, the identifications and certifications reflect U.S. interests (hence China is the constant villain) and U.S. legal comparability standards, not a neutral global assessment — but as a structured, sourced, and reasonably transparent process, it remains one of the better public trackers of state-level IUU and bycatch performance available.

The views expressed here are my personal ones and don't reflect the position of any of my contractors.




Deep-sea mining's "third age" and the breaking of a bargain by Francisco Blaha

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the science of deep-sea mining and the Glover et al. review that rejected the easy story in either direction. This post is about the other half of the problem, the half the science can't touch: the governance.

source: https://isa.org.jm/maps/clarion-clipperton-fracture-zone/

And for that I've been reading a very different kind of document — an edited version of a lecture Michael Lodge gave at the US Naval War College in March, published in International Law Studies (108 INT'L L. STUD. 256 (2026)).

Michael Lodge is not a neutral observer. He served as Secretary-General of the International Seabed Authority (ISA) from 2017 to 2024 and was part of its machinery for 26 years. He now advises governments and industry. So you read him, knowing where he sits. But that's exactly why the piece is worth engaging with — it's an insider describing, with unusual bluntness, how the institution he led has hit what he calls an existential crisis.

I should say upfront that I actually know and really appreciate Michael. We shared an expert consultation on flag-state performance in Washington some years back, and he was a reference for my application to the Rhodes Academy of Ocean Law and Policy. I've always appreciated his frankness and, more than that, his willingness to work things from the inside rather than lob criticism from the sidelines, which is precisely what makes this lecture worth reading. He's not a man who walks away from a broken thing; he stays and tells you exactly how it broke.

When I did the ISA's Deep Dive 3 training back in 2024, the governance architecture of the Area was one of the modules. Reading Lodge, I kept thinking: the infrastructure I studied is the same, but the pressure in it has changed completely.

Three ages, and one broken promise

Mr Lodge frames the whole history as three "ages." The first ran from the late 1960s to UNCLOS in 1982 — a period of real commercial interest, ten international consortia, and actual recovery tests in the Clarion-Clipperton Zone. That age died when Part XI of UNCLOS turned out, in industry's reading, to be deliberately designed to make private mining unviable: mandatory technology transfer, production ceilings to protect land-based producers, and a review conference that could rewrite contracts retroactively. The US voted against the Convention in 1982. Reagan set out conditions it never met.

The second age began with UNCLOS entering into force in 1994, after an Implementation Agreement that stripped out the most punitive bits of Part XI. This is the age I was trained in. Exploration contracts grew from six in 2001 to thirty-one by 2024. Twenty-two sponsoring states. More than $2 billion invested. Lodge says that five years ago he'd have called the regime an unqualified success — and I believe him, because that's roughly the story Deep Dive 3 tells.

Then comes the part that genuinely changed how I think about this. The 1994 deal rested on a "fundamental bargain": the ISA would not stand in the way of commercial mining once a contractor was ready. The safety valve was the so-called two-year rule—any contractor ready to apply could ask the Council to finalise exploitation regulations within two years, and if it didn't, the Council still had to consider the application under whatever rules existed.

Nauru invoked it in 2021. The two years expired in July 2023. The Council did not adopt regulations and then questioned whether Nauru had the right to trigger the rule at all.

Mr Lodge's outrage here is the sharpest passage in the lecture, and I find it hard to dismiss. Many of the same industrialised states that insisted on the two-year rule in the 1990s to protect their own pioneer investors were foremost in opposing a developing state's attempt to apply it.

 Some have held exploration claims for over thirty years with, as he puts it, no serious intent to ever produce. France has been at it since 1987 — thirty-nine years of exploration and counting. Germany holds its contract while formally declining to sponsor any mining "until further notice."  

The players who wrote the rules now won't play by them when it suits them, and they're doing so to the detriment of a Pacific island state. As someone whose working life is largely in the Pacific, that framing lands.

It is quite obvious from the reading that Mr Lodge does not think highly of the environmental opposition, as he sees it as almost entirely in bad faith — NGOs and civil society coalitions "designed to prevent any viable exploitation regime from materialising," with funders quietly listed to imply hidden agendas.

I pretty much left most of social media after being targeted by Paul Watson and Sea Shepherd because of the death threats I got for pointing out the scientific inconsistencies and the veiled racism in the Seaspiracy movie. So I get that he had very personal attacks on a scale that I can’t imagine. As with fisheries, I share his contempt for groups that offer only opposition and have no willingness to find compromises and solutions to real needs (mineral or seafood).

Yet having just read Glover et all,  the environmental caution needs to be considered, and in my opinion, if you look at the comparative surface of the Areas of Especial Environmental Interest in the Clarion Clipperton Fracture Zone, environmental concerns are not being ignored.

The reality is that the science genuinely says "we don't yet fully know" about all the potential impacts of the nodule fields, and even less about vents and seamounts. A regulator dragging its feet is not proof that the concerns are fake. Lodge is describing institutional failure honestly, and the environmental NGOs are not as innocent as they pretend to be… Both things can coexist.

That said, what I think is his central strategic point survives the disagreement, and it's the bit I keep thinking about.

 The core argument is this: a dysfunctional ISA is not a stalemate that hurts everyone equally. It suits some players enormously.

China holds ISA exploration contracts across all three mineral categories — nodules, sulphides, crusts. It sits on the Council and the Legal and Technical Commission, and since 2023, it's been the largest financial contributor. Its state contractors face no investor pressure to reach production. So delay costs them nothing and costs Western private operators, who need a bankable timeline before a board will commit capital—everything.

From Beijing's vantage point, Lodge argues, a paralysed ISA is "not a problem to be solved. It is a condition to be managed."

Meanwhile, the US, having never ratified UNCLOS, has simply reactivated its 1980 domestic law (DSHMRA) via Trump's Executive Order 14285, and NOAA now lets companies apply for exploration and recovery permits in one go. I wrote about this here.

The Metals Company has already filed overground that overlaps existing ISA contracts. We now have parallel legal architectures for the same seabed, the multilateral ISA regime and a US national one, and no agreed mechanism for what happens when they collide.

Mr Lodge sees two futures. In the first, ISA members get their act together and fast-track a commercially realistic Mining Code; he thinks this is highly unlikely. In the second, his bet, the ISA stays frozen or worsens; the US builds a plurilateral "reciprocating states" framework with allies (an updated version of the 1980s arrangement); and parallel licensing becomes the working reality. He even floats, carefully, that they will be excising Part XI from UNCLOS altogether.

What I take from it

I read this the way I read Glover… as a model for how to think, not to be handed a position. The lecture is a lawyer-strategist's masterclass, and its structural insight is hard to unsee: paralysis has winners.

An institution that can't decide isn't holding a neutral line while the grown-ups work things out; it's quietly allocating advantage to whoever benefits from the clock running.

For the Pacific especially, that matters. The states with the most at stake, Nauru, the Cook Islands, and others weighing their continental shelves, are the ones being pulled between coalitions, national frameworks, and a multilateral body that promised them a seat and then couldn't function. The "common heritage of mankind" was supposed to be their guarantee. Right now, it reads more like an unresolved argument about what those four words even mean. 

Whether mining should proceed is a question science says we're not yet fully equipped to answer. But who gets to decide, and under whose rules… that contest is already underway, and as Mr Lodge says, it'll be settled in about five years. That's a strategic problem far more than a legal one, and the window to shape it is narrow.

In any case… whatever your position on deep-sea mining is… Michael Lodge’s paper is crucial reading if you really want to understand the complexity of the issue.

While the number of HS transhipment are less... nothing really changes by Francisco Blaha

I have written about high-seas transhipment in the WCPFC so many times now that I've lost count, and every year I tell myself the same thing: let’s keep the light on it… Things may not change, but at least there are no hidden

The latest Annual Report on Transhipment Reporting (WCPFC-TCC22-2026-RP03), pulled together by the WCPFC Secretariat for TCC22, gives me both a bit of hope and the same old frustration. So let me walk through it, because the story it tells is one I've been telling for years, just with fresher numbers.

The transhipment events (left) and species transhipped (right) in 2025 within the WCPFC Convention area.

First, the good news: reported high-seas transhipment activity has continued to decline. In 2025, there were 888 events, roughly 60% of the 2019 peak of nearly 1,470. That's a real drop, but it just follows a general drop in LL HS effort, and many LLs are working in the EEZ of some countries that do not allow them to TS in the HS

But also, the WCPFC secretariat has done a lot of quiet, unglamorous work that actually matters: quarterly reconciliation with CCMs instead of relying on the annual crunch, wider use of the TSER e-reporting system, and providing coastal CCMs with routine electronic access to declarations for fish reported as caught in their own waters. That last point is not trivial.

For years, the coastal states in whose EEZs this fish is caught had no visibility of what happened to it once it left for the high seas. Now they do, quarterly. Credit where it's due.

But here's where the frustration comes back in. Look past the declining event count, and the picture is depressingly familiar. In 2025, 56% of the vessels on the Record of Fishing Vessels were authorised to tranship on the high seas; that's over 1,750 vessels holding an authorisation for something that is supposed to be the exception, not the rule.

And of those, only about 28% actually used it. In other words, the authorisation is being handed out far more broadly than the activity justifies, which suggests the "impracticability" test meant to gate this whole thing is not being applied with anything approaching rigour. It's a box to tick, not a hurdle to clear.

And who is doing the transshipping?

The same names as always. The offloading side is dominated by China and Chinese Taipei, with Korea and Vanuatu behind them. The carriers fly to Panama, Korea, Chinese Taipei and China. This is the core group of distant-water fishing nations I've written about repeatedly, and the pattern from the Starboard/MIMRA network analysis holds: vessels mostly tranship within their own flag, carriers cluster by flag, and a small number of carriers move an outsized share of the fish. Nothing structural has shifted.

The volumes remain concentrated in albacore, bigeye and yellowfin — the report estimates that in 2025 something like 25% of the longline albacore catch, 33% of the bigeye, and 37% of the yellowfin from the Convention Area was transshipped on the high seas.

That is not a marginal activity happening at the edges. That is a very large chunk of the region's most valuable catch changing hands out of independent sight.

Which brings me to the part that worries everyone, and it's the part that hasn't improved at all: verification.

The whole point of observer coverage on transhipments is to ensure that an independent observer can confirm what the vessels are self-declaring. And the report is refreshingly blunt about how badly that's going.

Table 7 lays it out: carrier transhipment declarations against observer reports held by SPC, month by month, for 2024 and 2025. The "per cent observed" column consists of single digits and zeros. Whole months in 2025 with zero observer reports against 50, 80, 100+ declared events.

The WCPFC Secretariat is careful to say some reports haven't been entered yet, and that's fair. But even allowing for lag, a significant number of these transhipments simply have no independent observer record available to the Commission. So we are verifying nothing. We are taking the word of the vessels who are doing the activity that it is fine.

And on top of that, the report notes uncomfortable situations in which the same observer covers both the offloading and receiving vessels, or leans heavily on the vessel's own tally of what was moved. That's not independent observation. It's paperwork.

This is exactly why I keep arguing for an independent high-seas transhipment regional observer programme, the way IOTC, ICCAT and IATTC run theirs. Every other tuna RFMO manages some version of independent oversight. We don't.

There's promising work in here too: the Secretariat's proximity-alert tool, the location-discrepancy tool flagging carriers reporting events tens of kilometres, or even 193 km, from their nearest VMS position, and a third tool coming to detect discrepancies between the notifications and declarations for a single event.

These are good, and they're the kind of analytical muscle the region has needed for years. But, and this is the recurring theme, tools flag problems; they don't fix them. Fixing them requires the Commission members to actually make a decision. And that's where we keep failing.

Remember, the Transhipment Intersessional Working Group was disestablished in 2024 because CCMs couldn't agree on the core stuff. The impracticability guidance, the very thing that would give teeth to paragraph 37, is still not done.

High-seas transhipment continues, as the report politely puts it, "based on historical practices," with flag CCMs "noting their consideration of" costs. That is diplomatic language for: the DWFNs claim it's too expensive to come to port, no one makes them prove it, and it carries on.

So here's my message, and it's the same as it's always been…. Take the pressure off, and the curve straightens right back out, because the main DWFNs doing this transshipping have shown no genuine interest in doing the right thing.

They'll report a little better, tranship a little less, hold onto their broad authorisations, and wait for everyone to lose interest.

We can't afford to lose interest. We need to close the impracticability loophole, mandate real observer coverage, and stop pretending self-declaration is verification. Otherwise, we'll be back here next year, admiring another small drop in the numbers, and changing nothing.

The views expressed here are my personal ones.

A New Roadmap for the Pacific's Coastal Fisheries by Francisco Blaha

I was moved beyond words by having one of my photographs on the cover of what may be this region's most important publication on the future of coastal communities — and another in its key opening chapter. This region has been home for more than half my life. I would not be who I am without my Pacific colleagues and friends.

While I don’t really work on coastal fisheries, I wanted to write about this document beyond the fact that my camera often happened to be with coastal fishers.

The Pacific Climate Change Strategy for Coastal Fisheries and Aquaculture (2026–2036), released by the Pacific Community (SPC) out of Noumea, is the product of two years of Member-led negotiation — from a mandate at the Heads of Fisheries meeting in 2024, through ministerial endorsement in Niue in 2025, to final clearance in Noumea this April. It is dense, technical, and, in places, quietly devastating. It is also, I think, the kind of document this region has needed for a long time.

Why coastal fisheries, and why now

It's easy for coastal fisheries to get lost in conversations about the Pacific and climate change, overshadowed by the offshore tuna industry's economic weight or by the more visceral imagery of sinking atolls. But coastal fisheries are the fabric of daily life here. They account for an estimated 57% of fisheries-related GDP across the region, and coastal marine resources supply roughly half of all animal protein Pacific Islanders eat. In Palau, for example, aquatic food consumption reaches up to 125 kg per person per year, among the highest rates anywhere on Earth. These fisheries aren't just an economic sector. They're food security, they're women's livelihoods, they're the social safety net that kept communities fed when COVID-19 cut off imported supplies, and they're inseparable from custom, ceremony, and identity.

And they're under serious threat. Coral bleaching, ocean acidification, sea-level rise, and shifting species distributions are already degrading the reefs, mangroves, and seagrass meadows these fisheries depend on. The modelling in the Strategy is stark: coastal fisheries catches across the Pacific are projected to fall by 2050, with losses reaching as high as 65% of annual catch in the hardest-hit locations under high-emissions scenarios, and some countries facing protein deficits of up to 29 kg per person per year.

Yet despite all this exposure, the sector receives less than 1% of global climate adaptation finance, and the Pacific as a whole has accessed only 0.22% of global climate funds. Coastal fisheries barely feature in most national climate plans. This Strategy exists to close that gap, between how much this sector matters and how little it has been resourced to adapt.

Six objectives, twenty-two actions

Rather than treating climate change as a single problem, the Strategy organises its response around six connected strategic objectives: strengthening adaptation and resilience; advancing mitigation and blue carbon protection; recognising and responding to loss and damage; ensuring fishing communities are informed and heard; mobilising climate finance; and embedding coastal fisheries in Pacific and global climate policy.

Underlying these are 22 specific actions, ranging from scaling up community-based fisheries management (still, the document argues, the single most effective governance tool the region has) to piloting climate risk insurance for small-scale fishers, to helping countries build the technical capacity to write competitive proposals for funds such as the Green Climate Fund or the newly established Fund for Responding to Loss and Damage.

What struck me most, reading it, was the loss and damage section. The Strategy is blunt about this: for Pacific fishing communities, loss and damage are not a future risk to be modelled. As it puts it, it “is a present reality.” That section pushes for something more than economic accounting; it calls for national capacity to document slow, cumulative losses that don't show up neatly in a spreadsheet: the disappearance of species a family has fished for generations, the erosion of access to traditional grounds, the loss of species central to ceremony. Documentation methods, the Strategy insists, should be decided nationally and can be qualitative, narrative, or culturally grounded… not forced into a template that was never built for this region.

I also appreciated that this isn't a document that treats gender equity as an afterthought. Women make up roughly half of everyone engaged in subsistence fishing in the Pacific and account for 56% of small-scale catch by volume, yet they're consistently the least visible in the data and the governance structures that decide who gets heard and who gets resourced. The Strategy builds gender, disability, and social inclusion into a mandatory accountability standard running through every single objective and action, not a side box to tick.

A regional framework, not a regional mandate

One thing the Strategy is careful about is not overreaching. It explicitly describes itself as “a regional framework, not a regional prescription”— each Pacific Island country and territory implements it through its own national fisheries plans, on its own political timeline, adapted to its own capacity and vulnerability. An accompanying tiering framework sorts the 22 actions by sequence: what has to happen first (strengthening data systems, scaling community-based management, embedding fisheries in disaster planning), what accelerates once those foundations exist, and what requires longer, sustained investment, like innovative finance mechanisms and insurance products.

Why this matters to me

I've spent more than half my life in this region, mostly working on compliance mentoring and research on boats and docks, and sometimes photographing the people for whom fisheries is not a hobby, but their livelihood, mostly fellow commercial fishermen, but sometimes, a couple helping each other after a fishing day in Kiritimati, or the young men in Noro coming to check me out while superfinishing,.

Seeing those pictures in the cover and opening chapter of the Strategy is something I still haven't fully processed. This document won't fix everything (no strategy could), but it names, clearly and with real evidence behind it, what people here have known for a long time: that these waters, and the people who depend on them, deserve far more attention and far more finance than they've been given. I hope it gets both.

The full Strategy is available through the Pacific Community (SPC). Many thanks to Marie Lecomte for choosing the pictures and to SPC for the acknowledgement.

Help me understand this “new” longline manoeuvring pattern by Francisco Blaha

I’m trying to better understand this emerging fishing pattern — and I'd love to hear from people who've actually seen it in action.

Something interesting is showing up in vessel-tracking data, and I think the people best placed to explain it are those out on the water or those who manage them.

More and more, I’ve been observing in the WCPO longline fleet a change in the traditional manoeuvring pattern from parallel straight lines to an almost rectangular overlapping pattern  

And I have been asked to have a look at this and the potential it may have on the way we monitor LL fisheries and its impacts on CPUE

One of the explanations I’ve been asked to take a closer look at is what's being called "double setting" — a more complex setting pattern that some longline vessels appear to be using within a single fishing operation.

From what we've been able to piece together and out of one the theories, the sequence seems to go roughly like this:

  1. Set the first line

  2. Begin hauling it

  3. Cut it in half mid-haul

  4. Set the second line

  5. Haul the second line in full

  6. Go back and haul the remainder of the first set

A similar thing is that they set out the line with X baskets, then haul only half of them, 1/2 X , cut the mainline and join/connect another new set and set maybe ½ X baskets again, basically expanding the number of hooks by 50%

The result, when you look at it, is a pattern of overlapping rectangles. It's visually distinctive, which is partly why it's starting to catch our attention in vessel-tracking data.

So why does this matter?

These kinds of manoeuvres are becoming increasingly visible in monitoring systems, and they raise some genuinely interesting questions about how fishing effort and catch data get captured.

As you see below, other h than the RMI-based fleet (upper left corner) that fishes in the standard parallel and coordinated among vessels of the same company style, the rectangle way is taking over on other EEZ and HS.

When a vessel conducts a complex, interleaved set-and-haul sequence like this, how well does a traditional logsheet capture this? To answer that, I’d like to understand the reasons and logistics of the manoeuvring.

Getting this right matters, not to create more paperwork for anyone, but because regional monitoring standards need to keep pace with how fishing is actually done out there. If the data doesn't reflect modern operations, it doesn't serve anyone well.

Here's where I love your help if you know more about this

Has been a long time since I was on the bridge of an operation longliner, so I may be seeing this with old eyes; hence, I’m at the early stages of trying to understand this properly — which means what I need most right now isn't large volumes of data. I’m after examples and operational insight.

Specifically, I’m curious about:

  • How these operations actually play out in practice on the water

  • How skippers and crew sequence the deployments and hauling activities

  • How vessels typically record what they've done in the official logsheets, with, or under EM

Have you seen this? Have you done this? Does the description above match something you recognise, or does it miss the mark in ways that would be useful to flag?

I’m genuinely keen to hear from skippers, crew, observers, fishing companies, anyone with a window into how these operations work on the water. Anything shared will be treated confidentially and used solely to improve my understanding of current fishing practices.

So yeah… if you've got ideas, stories, or just a hunch about how this works — I’m more than happy to hear them.

Reach out directly at franciscoblaha(at)mac.com. Thank you.

Disclaimer: No confidential information is being disclosed; all these images are from Starboard.nz, which is the platform I work on most, but they will be visible to anyone on other platforms, such as GFW or Skylight.

When the Physics Doesn't Quite Fit the Biology by Francisco Blaha

I like papers that make me think... And I like thinking. It's not about fish, or food, or the sea… not directly anyway.

But it touches on something that has always kind of bothered me: the moment when a theory gets so much respect that people stop questioning it.

This paper by Marshall and colleagues is a polite but firm reminder that physics borrowed into biology is only as good as the biology it wraps around, and that a model that fits the data is not the same as one that explains it.

“Schematic representation of water flows across the gills of a fish”. From a different paper I enjoyed: The gill-oxygen limitation theory (GOLT) and its critics. https://www.science.org/doi/10.1126/sciadv.abc6050

There's a fish growth example in here that will resonate with anyone who has thought about how fish actually grow. And there's a Borges reference, which is always a good sign for me as a fan of its writing.

When someone tells you that larger cells are constrained by surface-area-to-volume ratios, or that fish stop growing because their gills can't keep up with their oxygen demands, it feels solid. Grounded. The laws of physics, after all, don't negotiate. So when biology leans on them, the resulting theories seem to inherit that same authority.

A new review paper, Second thoughts about first principles in biology, in Trends in Ecology & Evolution by Marshall, White, Savage, and Levine (2026) pushes back on this confidence, not to demolish first-principles approaches in biology, but to make them better. The authors argue that many of biology's most influential theories, despite claiming physics as their foundation, are built on incomplete physics, hidden biological assumptions, or both. And the field's habit of validating theories by how well their predictions fit the data, rather than by scrutinising their assumptions, has left these problems largely unexamined. 

It's a paper that rewards careful reading, not least because the authors are candid enough to use some of their own past mistakes as examples.

What Are First-Principles Approaches?

A first-principles approach in biology means building theory upward from established physical or chemical laws, rather than fitting curves to data and working backwards. The appeal is obvious: if your theory is grounded in physics, it should apply broadly, depend less on the quirks of any one species, and require fewer empirically estimated parameters to get off the ground. Examples that have worked well include Stokes' law predicting how pollen disperses in wind, and how marine snow sinks through the water column, elegant applications of well-understood fluid dynamics.

Many of biology's big theoretical frameworks use this approach, including the Metabolic Theory of Ecology (MTE), Dynamic Energy Budget (DEB) theory, and the Gill Oxygen Limitation Theory (GOLT) for fish growth. All three purport to derive their predictions from first principles of physics. The authors examine each and find that, in different ways, each falls short of the standard it claims.

The Problem of Incomplete Physics

The first issue the paper identifies is what the authors call "unaccounted-for physics": situations where the physical principles invoked are real and valid but incomplete for the biological context in which they're applied.

They illustrate this with cell size, a topic where the surface-area-to-volume ratio is invoked almost reflexively. The argument goes: larger cells have less surface area relative to their volume, so by Fick's law, they face greater constraints on resource uptake. Smaller cells should therefore be favoured when resources are scarce, and under warming, which increases metabolic demand, smaller cells should be even more strongly selected. It's intuitive. It has the feel of inevitability.

But the physics is incomplete. Whether surface area or diffusion rate limits resource uptake depends critically on whether the cell is moving. A swimming or sinking cell creates thinner boundary layers around itself, dramatically reducing diffusion barriers. A cell of 1000 micrometres in diameter acquires resources 300 times faster when swimming than when still. When you include this covariance between cell size and swimming speed (which is not captured by simple surface-area arguments), you get a very different picture of how cell size should respond to warming. Some models that include this physics reach the opposite conclusion to those that don't. 

The fish growth case is developed at length in the paper's Box 1, and it's worth dwelling on. The Gill Oxygen Limitation Theory (GOLT), one of the more prominent modern theories of fish body size, proposes that the surface area of gills scales sublinearly with body size. As a fish grows, the argument runs, its metabolic oxygen demand eventually outpaces what its gills can deliver, and growth halts. Under warming, when oxygen demand rises further, this constraint bites at a smaller size, so fish should shrink in a warming ocean. It's a theory with significant implications for fisheries science and climate change biology.

GOLT grounds itself in Fick's second law of diffusion, making it sound like settled physics. But the authors show that, as typically formulated, GOLT treats gill surface area as the only body-size-dependent variable in its gas-exchange equation. In reality, two other terms in that equation also change with body size: gill tissue thickness decreases as fish get larger, and the boundary layer of water around the gills (the main barrier to oxygen transfer in water-breathing fish) thins as larger fish swim faster and ventilate more vigorously.

When these terms are allowed to vary with body size, as a more complete application of the physics requires, the conclusion reverses: larger fish may be less oxygen-constrained than smaller ones, not more. Similarly, GOLT excludes the effect of temperature on Krogh's diffusion coefficient, which increases with warmth, meaning the theory overestimates diffusive barriers in warmer water and underestimates how well fish can supply themselves with oxygen as temperatures rise.

This isn't a minor technical quibble. These omissions underpin predictions that feed directly into climate-change models for marine ecosystems and fisheries management.

Hidden Biological Assumptions

The second issue is subtler and, in some ways, more troubling. First-principles approaches can smuggle in biological assumptions so naturally that they go unnoticed, even by their authors.

The paper's authors confess to having done exactly this in their own work on carbon uptake in photosynthesising cells. They predicted, based on Fick's law and surface-area scaling, that larger cells would struggle to meet their inorganic carbon demands. When they tested this experimentally, the prediction failed: larger cells simply upregulated the density of carbon transporters on their surface and evaded the constraint entirely. The physics was real, but the assumption that transporter density was size-independent was not, and that assumption had never been stated explicitly.

Similar hidden assumptions lurk in larger theories. MTE famously predicts that metabolic rate scales with body mass to the 0.75 power, derived from the geometry of fractal distribution networks. The argument for why these networks should be optimally efficient invokes evolutionary logic: efficient networks leave more energy for reproduction. But this implicitly assumes that total energy intake is independent of network efficiency, an assumption with major consequences that received far less scrutiny than the scaling exponent itself, which became the focus of intense and largely inconclusive debate.

The Prediction-Explanation Fallacy

Here, the paper makes its sharpest point. Across all the examples discussed, the dominant response to each theory's critics has been to point to predictive success: the theory predicts that organisms shrink with warming, and they do; it predicts metabolic scaling of 0.75, and that's roughly what's observed; it predicts that larger organisms grow more slowly, and they do. Surely this is evidence that the theory is right?

The authors call this the prediction-explanation fallacy, and illustrate it with the story of Clever Hans — a horse famous in the early twentieth century for appearing to solve arithmetic problems by tapping his hoof. Hans consistently got the right answers. The problem was that he wasn't doing arithmetic at all; he was responding to subtle, unconscious postural cues from his interlocutors. He predicted the right answer for entirely the wrong reasons.

A theory that fits the data is not thereby proven to explain the data. Multiple theories with very different assumptions can often yield the same predictions, as the paper demonstrates across growth, metabolic scaling, and cell size. Prediction is a necessary condition for a good theory, but it is not sufficient.

The Map That Becomes Useless

None of this means, as the authors are careful to say, that first-principles approaches should be abandoned. It means they need to be built and evaluated more rigorously.

The paper borrows Jorge Luis Borges's image of the perfect map, a map so detailed that it replicates the territory exactly and is therefore completely useless. Theories should not seek to capture every nuance of the phenomenon they describe; otherwise, they would be as useless as Borges's perfect map.

Simplification is not just acceptable; it's necessary. But simplification requires choices about what to include and what to leave out, and those choices carry assumptions… assumptions that should be stated, tested where possible, and scrutinised with the same rigour as the physics they accompany.

The authors propose a three-part test for first-principles theories: completeness (are all the factors that covary with the trait of interest actually included?), clarity (are both included and excluded assumptions explicitly stated?), and congruence (is the physics appropriate for the scale at which the biology is operating?). They also argue for a shift in how debates about these theories are conducted, away from battles over predictive fit and towards scrutiny of the assumptions that lie beneath.

For those who have spent time considering how fish grow, how they cope with warming oceans, or how marine ecosystems respond to change, this paper offers a useful corrective. The physics matters. But so does the biology that surrounds it. 

Marshall, D. et al. (2026). Second thoughts about first principles in biology. Trends in Ecology & Evolution. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tree.2026.04.010

 

 

 

 

Emerging Thawing Technologies by Francisco Blaha

Why How You Thaw Your Fish Matters More Than You Think


While I was fishing commercially and going to university, I was always the guy who wrote all the documentation on board... and there was a lot of writing to do!

Confronting the paper work on the Ocean Dawn, aNZ factory twawler that produced filled hoki at the end of the 90s … NZ fisheries and seafood paper work is really heavy, yet that was my job!

You have the fisheries side (logsheets, reports, etc.), the maritime side (safety, logbooks, radio, etc), the labour side (working hours, crew safety), and the seafood safety side (cleaning records, maintenance, etc.). While fishing in the WCPO in the 90s, most of it was the FFA log sheets and port entries.

Only after the WCPFC was established did we get the standardised ones. And once in NZ, the whole HACCP world and the deepening of market access requirements kicked in, and not many people were doing that... so I rode the wave and did a lot of work on the seafood safety side of fishing... “Once fish is on deck, it becomes food”, and a whole other regulatory universe becomes necessary, one that, until the last two decades, wasn’t as critical as now.

Partly because of that, I did my 2nd master's in Seafood Science, as I knew fish but wanted credibility in ‘fish as food’, particularly since it was associated with the official certification world, which prepared me for what was to come with the various catch certifications and CDS.

I did a lot of work around that. In fact, the EU itself contracted me for over 10 years to train seafood inspectors on vessels and at landing sites worldwide, including in Europe. I wrote guides on the EU certifications and even a chapter in a book on refrigeration on board, which is still quoted today.

I found the physics and chemistry of freezing very interesting, as well as the best relationship between fishing methods and types. For example, it would be ridiculous to use blast or plate freezing on a purse seiner, just as it would be ridiculous to use brine freezing on a longliner or a hoki trawler. Yet the corollary of freezing, namely thawing, didn't get much attention those days… mostly you just took it out of the freezer and left it in a cold, humid place, or directly in water before processing…

Things have changed, and this particular paper brings updates to a lot of the newer methods… not all related to fish… for now… yet the nerd in me likes to learn new tricks for old methods.

So yeah, here is a summary of the paper, but as always, I recommend you read the original.

Freezing is the backbone of the global meat and seafood trade. Vast quantities of fish, beef, pork, and poultry are frozen and shipped around the world every day, typically stored at −18°C or below. The problem isn't the freezing itself — it's what comes next.

Traditional thawing methods, such as leaving the product at room temperature or running it under water, are slow, wasteful, and damaging. As ice crystals melt, they disrupt muscle fibres, cause water to leak out (known as drip loss), and create ideal conditions for bacterial growth. That drip loss isn't just water — it carries soluble proteins, vitamins, and other nutrients. For the food industry, this translates directly into lost weight, quality, and money. For anyone operating within a HACCP framework, it also represents a Critical Control Point that demands close attention.

The damage goes deeper than the surface. Thawing triggers a cascade of chemical changes: proteins unfold and denature, fats oxidise and develop off-flavours, and the muscle’s fine microstructure — the tight bundles of fibres that give it texture — breaks down. The longer the thaw takes, the worse these effects become.

What Actually Goes Wrong Inside the Muscle

The review identifies four main areas of quality deterioration during thawing, all of which will be familiar to anyone who has worked seriously with frozen seafood.

Water-holding capacity is arguably the most commercially important. During freezing, water forms ice crystals outside muscle cells. When it thaws, an osmotic imbalance draws water out rather than back in. The result is the spongy, pale, wet surface you sometimes see on thawed product. Once this water is lost, so are the nutrients dissolved in it. Fish and crustaceans are particularly vulnerable here because their connective tissue is structurally weaker than mammalian muscle, making their cell walls more susceptible to irreversible ice-crystal damage.

Protein changes are subtler but equally significant. Roughly 20% of muscle is protein, and these proteins — particularly the myofibrillar proteins that control texture — are highly sensitive to freeze-thaw cycles. During thawing, protein structures partially unfold, hydrogen bonds weaken, and reactive oxygen species attack them. This is why thawed product can turn mushy or lose elasticity. Fish myosin is notably less stable than its mammalian counterpart, so temperature control during seafood thawing needs to be stricter.

Lipid oxidation is the primary cause of off-flavours and reduced shelf life. When cellular compartments rupture during thawing, fats come into contact with oxygen and iron-containing compounds in the drip fluid, accelerating rancidity. Seafood faces heightened risk here because of its high content of polyunsaturated fatty acids (PUFAs), which are far more chemically reactive than the saturated fats that dominate red meat. Anyone who has thawed tuna or salmon poorly knows exactly what this smells like.

Finally, microstructural damage — visible under electron microscopy — reveals physical tearing of muscle fibres, widened gaps between cells, and disrupted connective tissue. These gaps become channels through which additional water and nutrients escape, compounding the drip loss problem.

Seven Technologies Changing the Game

The review evaluates seven emerging thawing technologies, each based on different physical principles.

High-Voltage Electric Field (HVEF) thawing uses a strong DC electric field to reorient water molecules in the ice, accelerating melting without generating significant heat. It shows real promise for inhibiting microbial growth, but requires careful calibration. Exceed the right voltage threshold, and you enter corona discharge territory, generating ozone that accelerates fat oxidation — the opposite of what you want, especially with PUFA-rich seafood.

Ohmic thawing passes an alternating electrical current directly through the product, generating heat uniformly from within via electrical resistance. One study found it thawed frozen tuna more than five times faster than water immersion, while preserving nutrient content. The main concern is the potential migration of metallic ions from the electrodes into the food if parameters aren't tightly controlled.

Microwave thawing generates internal heat by exciting water molecules with high-frequency electromagnetic waves — a principle familiar to anyone who has used a domestic microwave. The limitation is uneven heating. The classic "still frozen in the middle, cooking on the outside" problem is a genuine quality and safety concern in industrial settings, causing localised protein denaturation and textural damage.

Radiofrequency (RF) thawing operates on the same electromagnetic principle but at much lower frequencies — around 27 MHz, compared with 2,450 MHz for microwaves. The longer wavelengths penetrate more deeply and more evenly, making RF particularly well-suited to large commercial frozen blocks. Several studies confirm that it produces a more uniform temperature distribution than microwaves, with significantly less surface overheating.

Ultrasound-assisted thawing uses high-intensity sound waves to induce cavitation — microscopic bubbles that collapse, releasing intense local heat and pressure, thereby accelerating thawing and inhibiting microbial growth. The trade-off is that excessive power can mechanically damage muscle fibres. Research into multi-frequency ultrasound systems, which use transducers operating at multiple frequencies simultaneously, shows considerable promise in overcoming this limitation.

Low-temperature, high-humidity (LHT) thawing surrounds the product with near-saturated humid air at temperatures just above freezing. The humidity forms a thin water film on the surface, which blocks oxygen and dramatically slows oxidation. Of the seven technologies reviewed, LHT consistently produced the best results for preserving water-holding capacity and minimising lipid oxidation. Its main drawback is speed — it is the slowest of the methods examined.

Vacuum thawing reduces atmospheric pressure, causing water vapour to condense on the frozen product's surface and release latent heat that drives thawing. The low-oxygen environment effectively prevents oxidation, but the process can cause moisture loss through sublimation. Recent developments — particularly vacuum sublimation-rehydration thawing — aim to address this by reintroducing water during the thawing cycle.

So Which Is Best?

The honest answer is that it depends on your operational priorities. The review is clear: no single technology wins across all criteria.

For large-scale industrial operations where speed and uniformity matter most, RF thawing is the most practical standalone method. For operations where quality preservation is the priority — minimising drip loss, protecting protein structure, and limiting oxidation — LHT thawing delivers the best outcomes. For the optimal balance of speed and quality, the combination of microwave and ultrasound-assisted thawing emerges as the most scientifically robust hybrid approach, with each technology compensating for the other's weaknesses.

Technologies such as standalone vacuum thawing and ultrasound remain largely confined to the laboratory scale, hampered by scalability challenges and equipment costs.

The Road Ahead

The review is candid about the gap between laboratory promise and industrial reality. Most studies have been conducted on small, neat samples in controlled settings, and there is a critical shortage of data on how these technologies perform on the large, irregularly shaped commercial blocks that real-world processing involves.

The authors identify three key pillars for future progress: integrating multiple physical technologies into combined systems; deploying machine learning and digital twin models to dynamically adjust thawing parameters in real time; and developing standardised Life Cycle Assessments to quantify the true energy and carbon costs of each approach.

For those of us who have spent careers thinking about what happens to fish between the moment it hits the deck and the moment it reaches the consumer, that last point feels particularly timely. The physics of freezing has always attracted attention. It's good to see thawing finally catching up.

Wang, Y. et al. (2026). Emerging Thawing Technologies for Frozen Muscle Foods: Mechanisms, Quality Impacts, and Industrial Prospects. Foods, 15, 1991. https://doi.org/10.3390/foods15111991

 

 

The environmental impacts of deep-sea mining by Francisco Blaha

I’ve been interested in this topic for a while, and when my friend Gilles sent me this paper, Glover, A.G. et al., 2026, “The environmental impacts of deep-sea mining,” Current Biology 36, R400–R419 (, it struck me as a good, rigorous treatment of the subject.

Source: Graphical abstract of the paper

At the end of 2024, I completed the ISA’s Deep Dive 3 training programme — the Authority’s most advanced capacity-building course, covering over 50 lessons across UNCLOS, geological and biological oceanography, environmental assessment, and the engineering realities of prospecting in the Area. That training gave me some foundation for reading this paper with some discipline rather than just reacting to the loudest voices on either side.

This review brings a deep and credible roster of deep-sea biologists — many of them from the Natural History Museum, the National Oceanography Centre and Southampton’s long-running SMARTEX programme — that methodically dismantles that myth that the deep sea as a cold, dark, food-poor desert where almost nothing lived., and in doing so produces one of the more honest accounts of seabed mining’s environmental stakes I’ve read. Its great virtue is refusing the easy story in either direction.

The first thing the paper insists on is that “deep-sea mining” is not one thing. There are three quite different targets — polymetallic nodules on the abyssal plains, seafloor massive sulphides at hydrothermal vents, and cobalt-rich crusts on seamounts — and they sit in ecosystems so different that lumping them together is a category error. A fourth, often-forgotten impact cuts across all three: the midwater plume created when ships dewater the ore, which can affect the water column far from the seabed. Treat these as one problem, and you will get the policy wrong.

The nodule fields: scarring and slow, partial recovery

On the nodule fields of the Clarion-Clipperton Zone, the science is now genuinely informative, and the picture is nuanced rather than damning. The abyss turns out to be biodiverse but at vanishingly low biomass — Southern Ocean sediments can hold three orders of magnitude more animals per square metre. A commercial 20-year mine might clear an area the size of Crete, scraping nodules and the surface sediment and laying down a benthic plume. The standout dataset comes from revisiting a 1979 US mining test: 44 years on, the tracks are still visibly cut into the seabed, and megafaunal density in the collection area remains reduced. Yet the story isn’t uniformly bleak. Macrofauna and foraminifera showed no clear spatial impact, a xenophyophore had actively recolonised the most disturbed ground, and recent tests — the 2021 Patania and 2022 NORI-D trials — suggest the plume is more constrained than once feared, though the NORI-D work did find macrofaunal density down 37% in the tracks. The honest summary is “persistent geophysical scarring, mixed and partial biological recovery over decades,” not “instant catastrophe” and not “no harm done.”

Impact is not extinction

Crucially, the authors draw a distinction that most public debate collapses: ecological impact (animals die, communities shift, recovery takes decades) is not the same as biodiversity loss (extinction). For the abyssal nodule fields, they are admirably candid that we cannot currently predict extinction risk. Of an estimated 6,000–8,000 animal species in the CCZ, only 436 are named, and 98% of the wider abyss is unsampled. Some common species have ocean-basin-scale ranges, which would lower extinction risk; but there are also real biogeographic boundaries that could shrink ranges and raise it. The data simply aren’t there yet. This is the paper at its best — naming an absence of evidence rather than dressing precaution up as certainty, or treating ignorance as licence.

Vents and seamounts

Vents and seamounts are where the verdict sharpens. Active hydrothermal vents are minuscule — under 50 km² globally, a rounding error on Earth’s surface — island-like, and full of endemic species found nowhere else; 71 of 184 assessed vent molluscs are already Endangered or Critically Endangered. Seamounts likewise show high endemism and host slow-growing corals and sponges that recover from disturbance over centuries, if at all. Here, the logic flips relative to the abyss: we have limited data on the precise ecological impacts of mining them, but clear reason to expect biodiversity loss, precisely because the habitats are rare and their inhabitants restricted. The review’s most pointed conclusion follows directly: if vents and seamounts were classified as areas of “high biodiversity importance” under the Convention on Biological Diversity, mining them would not be scientifically compatible with the Kunming-Montreal Global Biodiversity Framework. That is a strong claim, but it is carefully bounded — a scientific “if/then,” not a political demand.

The comparison the paper doesn’t make: land-based mining

Where the paper is necessarily thinner is on the comparison that any informed reader will be reaching for: how does this stack up against land-based mining for the same metals? The review largely brackets that question, and that is a real limitation given that the entire commercial rationale for seabed mining is that terrestrial cobalt and nickel extraction carries its own heavy ecological and human costs. The authors gesture at it — noting that abandoning one resource simply shifts demand elsewhere is the industry’s core argument — but they don’t adjudicate it, which leaves the most consequential trade-off for policy unresolved. To their credit, they don’t pretend to settle it; the paper is explicitly about in-situ effects and extinction risk, not life-cycle accounting. But a reader wanting “seabed versus terrestrial, all things considered” won’t find the answer here, and shouldn’t pretend the review offers one.

A word on positioning

In fairness, the authors’ institutions have received research funding from across the spectrum — governments, NGOs, and public and private companies — to conduct baseline work for ISA-regulated exploration, though this particular paper was government-funded with declared independence. That breadth of funding is disclosed, and the measured tone bears it out; this does not read as advocacy for any side.

I also should be transparent about where I’m coming from. When I did the ISA’s Deep Dive 3 programme (fifty-plus lessons, each with its own exam requiring a minimum of 80% to pass), I did it as an independent learning resource to expand the horizon of my work, and I found it genuinely rigorous. It didn’t hand me a position on whether seabed mining should proceed; it gave me the vocabulary and the disciplinary grounding to interrogate the claims made on all sides.

My professional background is in fisheries compliance. The marine realm beyond national jurisdiction is not new territory for me. What Deep Dive 3 added was the seabed dimension: the geology, the governance architecture of the Area, and the environmental assessment frameworks that any responsible regulatory conversation about mining has to engage with seriously. I cite this not to claim authority I don’t have, but because I think it’s relevant context: the Glover et al. review reads very differently once you have some grounding in the underlying science rather than arriving at it purely through the advocacy literature, whether that advocacy comes from the industry or the campaign groups.

Why it matters

What I take from it is a model of how to talk about an uncertain environmental issue. The deep sea is not a desert — it is biodiverse, ancient, and slow to recover. But it is also not a single fragile monolith: the abyss, the vents and the seamounts demand separate verdicts, and the science supports a cautious “we don’t yet know” for nodules and a much firmer warning for vents and seamounts. The campaigners who say “ban it all” and the contractors who say “it’s basically empty down there” are both flattening a story that refuses to be flat.

That refusal is exactly why this review is worth reading

Challenges and Opportunities for Strengthening the Sustainability of Bottom-Tow Fisheries by Francisco Blaha

I started my fishing life in southern Argentina, initially in small trawlers and trap-based fisheries, and then moved up to commercial trawlers and trawl-based research vessels. I know this gear well and, to an extent, marvel at the unique physics involved in the operations. And yes… I’m fully aware, having had frontline experience, of the environmental impacts not only of trawling but of most fishing gear.

Furthermore, I also grew up on a farm. My dad was an agronomist working with Argentina’s National Institute of Agrarian Technology, and I spent my fair share of time ploughing with tractors and managing sheep and cattle herds. 

A few weeks ago, I drew on the irate responses from readers in our local weekly newspaper to a letter that appeared the week after the previous edition, which had 3 articles about banning bottom trawling in the Hauraki Gulf and across New Zealand, either through NGOs and the Green Party

My question in the letter concerned consistency: if the justification for banning bottom trawling is its undeniable impact on the seabed ecosystem, then intellectual honesty demands that we apply the same standard to other forms of primary production. Ploughing land for wheat doesn't merely disturb an ecosystem — it eliminates it, replacing a complex native community with a single-species crop and re-tilling it every season. Converting land to a pine plantation removes indigenous vegetation, creating an even-aged exotic monoculture for decades. By most ecological measures — loss of native species, permanence of conversion, soil disturbance, habitat homogenisation — these terrestrial land uses inflict damage that is at least comparable to, and arguably greater and more permanent than, dragging a net across a recoverable muddy seabed (as we have in the Hauraki Gulf).

So a society genuinely willing to ban trawling on impact grounds should, to be consistent, be equally willing to ban wheat farming and plantation forestry. Since virtually no one is, the singling out of trawling looks less like principled environmental policy and more like selective attention — easier to target because the damage is out of sight and the affected industry is small.

Of course, my point wasn’t about banning agriculture, but about highlighting that bans don’t work (look at drugs), that "we can't ban everything" doesn't establish that we should ban nothing, and that the comparison doesn't become a way to excuse all impacts rather than reduce any. Food and fibre from farming are poor substitutes for one another, so trade-offs aren't symmetric. And "you'd have to ban agriculture too" can slide into a tu quoque — pointing at someone else's harm doesn't neutralise your own. 

The honest version of the argument isn't "therefore ban nothing" but "therefore judge all primary production on a consistent, evidence-based footing”, and stop treating trawling as uniquely sinful, as a trawled benthos can still support a (modified, depleted) functioning benthic community, whereas a wheat paddock holds almost none of the system it replaced."

Needless to say, my rational argument for what we should be discussing is not blanket prohibitions but rather about where and how much trawling, via spatial closures, as we discuss agriculture and forestry, did not impress the readership… the conversations (allegedly, as I don’t have the most common social media apps) diverted to my past as a commercial fisher (therefore I’m a unredeemable enviromental criminal), that as a scientist I know nothing (and are corrupt), to a mention that, as I worked for the UN FAO, I was involved in the COVID conspiracy…

And then yesterday, a paper landed on my desk (whose author list tells you as much as its abstract) titled "Challenges and Opportunities for Strengthening Bottom-Tow Fisheries Sustainability" that made me feel less lonely in my plight.

Scroll through the byline, and you find over thirty names spanning Alaska to Iceland, Peru to China. It reads like a who's who of those who have spent their careers arguing that fisheries can be managed well rather than merely mourned. That pedigree is worth flagging up front, because it shapes both the strengths of the piece and the questions a fair reader should keep in their back pocket. 

The subject is trawls and dredges — gear dragged across or near the seafloor that, between them, lands roughly 24 million tonnes of seafood a year. That is not a niche. It is a globally significant animal-protein system, and the paper's framing is unapologetically food-systems: as the human population heads towards ten billion, abandoning a major protein source simply shifts the ecological burden onto land or other fisheries.

The authors are explicit that many bottom-tow fisheries are already well managed and that over a third of MSC-certified fisheries use these very gears. Their starting position, in other words, is not "ban it" but "fix what's broken and protect what works."

What's broken is laid out with admirable specificity. The group convened a workshop alongside the 2024 World Fisheries Congress and distilled the discussion into 30 sustainability gaps across six challenge areas: seafloor disturbance, bycatch and discards, management design, fishing operations, cross-sector conflicts, and public perception. The honesty here is real. They point out that quantifying benthic disturbance remains difficult, that "unobserved mortality" — animals killed by gear contact but never landed — is a genuine and contested problem, and that seafloor carbon release from trawling is poorly mapped and poorly modelled. These are not the admissions of an industry apologia. They are the live controversies, clearly identified.

The 28 recommendations that follow cluster into four themes: better data capture, better models, stronger policy, and better communication. The top-ranked fixes by breadth — diversify collaboration, strengthen governance, inventory fleets and gear, collect spatially explicit catch and effort data — are sensible and, as is generally the case for strategies that work in reality, unglamorous.

 That is rather the point; the paper's through-line is that sustainability is mostly an information problem layered on a governance problem: you cannot manage seabed impact, bycatch, or carbon if you cannot see them, and you cannot see them without funded monitoring, study fleets, and habitat maps that most jurisdictions simply lack.

Where a fair reader should stay alert is in the framing's gravitational pull. This is a group temperamentally inclined toward "manage and innovate" over "restrict and close," and the paper reflects that. Spatial closures are repeatedly cast in terms of their downsides — displacing effort to higher-bycatch grounds, requiring enforcement to mean anything, which is true, but the framing leans more toward the limitations of closures than their successes.

The carbon section is candid about uncertainty, yet other researchers read the same evidence as warranting more precaution, not less.

And recommendation R23 — liberalising the permitting of gear experimentation — is plausible, but "streamline regulation" is the kind of phrase that deserves scrutiny about who benefits. None of this is sleight of hand; the authors are upfront about their food-systems lens. It simply means the document is as strong an expert argument as it is a neutral inventory.

 The communication chapter may be the most quietly significant for me after 14 years of doing this blog; the authors note that media coverage of trawling is overwhelmingly negative and that the sector has done a poor job of showing its actual performance — feeding a cycle in which pressure to ban outruns evidence.

They want Life Cycle Assessments and transparent "report-card" metrics to put bottom-trawled fish on the same footing as beef, chicken, or farmed alternatives. That is a fair ask. It is also, conveniently, an argument that tends to favour well-run fisheries, which is exactly the point that most of the authors have pursued throughout their careers.

From my perspective, this is a valuable, rigorous, refreshingly specific synthesis from people who know the gear, the science, and the politics intimately. Read it as the considered case of the management-and-innovation school — persuasive, evidence-rich, and worth weighing against the more “preventative” voices it gently argues with.

 

Consumer choice is a fine amplifier but a very poor foundational stone. by Francisco Blaha

There is a kind of righteousness—a well-meaning, progressive, and mostly wealthy one—that runs through much of the conversation about sustainable seafood that I see.

It goes something like this: if we make ethical consumption easy, visible, and sufficiently rewarding, the market will sort it out. Ecolabels will signal the right sustainably caught product, certification schemes will clean up the supply chain from labour abuses, and private capital will make IUU fishing too costly to sustain. All we need is consumer pressure and the right incentives.

It's a nice story. It also assumes, without ever quite saying so, that we all have roughly the same amount of money.

We don't.

The World Bank's updated figures (June 2025) show that nearly half the global population lives on less than $8.30 a day. Not $8.30 for seafood — $8.30 for everything: food, shelter, transport, clothing, the lot.

For them, the question is far from "is this privately certified as sustainable?" What about the catch certificate? Or "was this caught without forced labour?" The question is whether there is anything affordable enough to put on the table tonight.

I’m very lucky to have been able to leave that segment of the world population when I was accepted as a migrant in New Zealand and got good jobs… but when it marks the 1st half of your life, you always remember that “choice is a privilege” (and even here in NZ we have around 30% of the population experiencing food insecurity)

The ability to choose on environmental, ethical or legal grounds is a privilege that perhaps 30% of the world's population can exercise. The rest are not making different choices — they are making no choice at all, because the market mechanism assumes a purchasing power they simply don't have.

This matters enormously when we talk about market pressure as a tool against IUU fishing. When premium buyers in Europe or North America refuse IUU-linked seafood, that seafood doesn't disappear. It gets redirected to markets where the ethics of the supply chain are the last thing on anyone's mind, and where the price point is the only thing that matters.

The ceiling on what private initiatives working through premium market access can actually achieve is real, and it's set not by the willingness of rich consumers to pay more, but by the existence of a much larger market that can't do so.

I've argued before that the private certification model — ecolabels, labour standards schemes, sustainability marks — functions, often unintentionally, as an extension of the neocolonial dependency model. As a 2012 paper I came across put it, transnational eco-certification replicates the structure of colonial-era extraterritoriality: it identifies subjects in the Global South that need protection, builds a narrative of deficient states incapable of providing that protection, and then installs certification agencies as the rule-making authority in their place.

The irony is that it is primarily Northern-based organisations that decide what constitutes acceptable practice in Southern fisheries, charge Southern producers for the privilege of demonstrating compliance, and sell the resulting label to Northern consumers at a premium.

The money flows north. The burden falls south.

And the coverage — this is the part that gets quietly omitted from the brochure — is structurally limited to the segment of global seafood consumption that can afford to care. Which, by definition, is not most of it.

None of this is an argument for doing nothing or for dismissing the genuine good that well-designed market instruments can achieve. Partial tools, deployed with honesty about what they can and cannot achieve, are still tools. But partial tools presented as solutions are something else — they are a way of making people in wealthy countries feel that the problem is being managed, while the larger and messier part of the global seafood system remains largely untouched.

If we actually want ethics and legality to be the baseline — not the premium — then the lever has to be state-driven: binding market-access conditions, flag-state obligations enforced as a condition of trade, and import controls that don't leave a back door open for the price-sensitive end of the market. Consumer choice is a fine amplifier but a very poor foundational stone.

 

The structural tension in UNCLOS when it comes to fisheries access agreements by Francisco Blaha

I’m starting some work on the nature and structure of fisheries access agreements, and while my angle is from an operational perspective, as a born-again UNCLOS nerd, there is so much more to it than rich country A with lots of boats and no fish paying poor country B (generally with surplus fish and fewer boats) to fish in their waters.

So I guess over the next few months, I’ll be using the excess research I’m doing for that job to blog about a few of the many issues these agreements entail… starting with the legal tensions arising between the regulatory frameworks of the flag state and the coastal state.

In the past, I wrote about the geopolitics in fisheries, and access agreements are the most basic manifestation of that… and perhaps the most influential (albeit short-lived) and forgotten agreement was the Kiribati - Soviet Union one in 1985 that brought the USA Purse Seiners to accept and respect the Pacific Island Countries’ EEZ. I wrote about it here

But let's get back to the “tension,” of course. I don’t develop much new thinking myself that hasn't been studied and published before by real experts, and some of them are acquaintances, which I'm extremely proud to know: Camille Goodman and Valentin J. Schatz are the first ones to come to mind… so this blog has a lot of bibliography at the end!

Flag and/or Coastal?

The foundational issue is that the EEZ is legally neither territorial sea nor high seas — it is a sui generis zone where two sets of jurisdiction apply simultaneously to the same space. Under UNCLOS, the coastal State has sovereign rights for the purposes of conserving and managing the living resources within its EEZ (Article 56(1)(a)) and is authorised to board, inspect, and arrest vessels engaged in IUU fishing in violation of its laws (Article 73(1)). At the same time, as a general rule, ships on the high seas are subject to the exclusive jurisdiction and authority of the state whose flag they lawfully fly — a principle of exclusivity firmly rooted in the order of freedom of the high seas. When a foreign fishing vessel enters an EEZ under an access agreement, both jurisdictions claim it simultaneously, and UNCLOS does not fully resolve how they interact[1].

The "due regard" asymmetry

The critical mediating concept is Article 58(3), which requires flag states and their vessels to have "due regard" to the rights of the coastal state when operating in its EEZ. The existing discourse on due regard obligations has primarily focused on the conflicting rights or interests between coastal States and flag States in areas within national jurisdiction. Most commentators read this as an asymmetric, subordinating obligation — it falls on the flag state operating in someone else's EEZ, not on the coastal state in its own zone. This gives the coastal state structural legal prevalence, even if the practical picture is messier.[2]

The ITLOS 2015 Advisory Opinion

The most significant recent clarification came from the ITLOS advisory opinion of the Sub-Regional Fisheries Commission. The Tribunal's starting point was the role of the coastal state, which, "in light of its special rights and responsibilities in the EEZ, has the primary responsibility, and even an obligation, to take the necessary measures to prevent, deter and eliminate IUU fishing." With respect to fisheries in the EEZ, Articles 56, 61, 62 and 73 establish the coastal state's primary responsibility, which includes extensive regulatory and enforcement jurisdiction. However, the opinion did not make the coastal-state and flag-state jurisdictions mutually exclusive. Rather, the flag state retains parallel or concurrent jurisdiction over its fishing vessels in the EEZ. [3]

Recognising the sovereign rights of coastal States to manage and conserve fisheries resources in their EEZs, the Tribunal concluded that coastal States have "the primary responsibility for taking the necessary measures to prevent, deter and eliminate IUU fishing." Nonetheless, the Tribunal emphasised that flag States were not relieved of their obligations. The Tribunal acknowledged the obligation under UNCLOS Article 58(3) to give "due regard" to the laws of the coastal State, and under Article 62(4) for nationals of other States to comply with the laws of the coastal State. As such, flag States have the obligation to effectively exercise jurisdiction and control over the vessels they flag when those vessels are in the EEZs of other States..[4]

The practical implication was that, as coastal State regulation and enforcement have, in many cases, proven insufficient, the focus has shifted towards a parallel, complementary responsibility of flag States.[5]

How the literature assesses prevalence

The scholarly consensus is that coastal state rights are legally primary within the EEZ, but that primacy is qualified in three important respects:

First, 40 years after the adoption of the Convention, there remains considerable uncertainty about the nature and extent of these sovereign rights — particularly how far coastal States can go in imposing conditions on access and in exercising enforcement. Goodman's influential work (OUP, 2021) argues that coastal State jurisdiction over living resources in the EEZ is flexible but functional — consisting of broad discretion, exercisable within functional limits determined by reasonableness and by reference to the balance of rights and interests in the EEZ. Crucially, she also identifies a clear trend: coastal States adopt approaches that "thicken" their jurisdiction within the EEZ, "project" their jurisdiction beyond the EEZ, expand the effect of their jurisdiction through cooperation, and enhance the application of their jurisdiction through technology. [6]

Second, international courts and tribunals are likely to adopt a more generous approach to assessing the reasonableness of the coastal State's prescriptive exercises of jurisdiction, and a narrower, more textual approach to assessing the reasonableness of enforcement jurisdiction. Thus, coastal States have wide latitude to legislate access conditions, but less latitude to enforce them extraterritorially.[7]

Third, there is a live political dispute — most visible at WCPFC — over how this legal primacy translates into allocation. Coastal states have advocated that "all historical catches taken within an area under the national jurisdiction of a CPC shall be attributed solely to the CPC with jurisdiction over that area, regardless of the flag of the vessels that took such catches." In contrast, the EU and some distant-water fishing nations have proposed that historical catch from an EEZ should be attributed to the vessel's flag, even if a foreign vessel within an EEZ took it. This is a direct collision between the legal logic of coastal state sovereign rights and the political-economic interests of distant-water fishing nations, and it remains unresolved. [8]

A note on the critics

Not everyone views the current settlement as satisfactory for coastal states. Generally, the ITLOS advisory opinion places emphasis on the responsibilities of flag States and eludes the question of the primary responsibility of coastal States for the management and conservation of resources. This criticism from the Coalition for Fair Fisheries Arrangements reflects a broader concern among developing coastal states that the "primary responsibility" language cuts both ways — conferring rights but also imposing obligations on states with limited enforcement capacity, while distant-water fishing nations retain practical leverage through access negotiations and economic dependence. [9]

In short, the legal literature broadly concludes that coastal state rights are structurally and judicially prior within the EEZ, but that this primacy is (a) constrained by a reasonableness standard on enforcement, (b) supplemented rather than replaced by flag state concurrent obligations, and (c) contested in practice through the political economy of access negotiations where distant water fishing nations retain significant leverage regardless of the formal legal position.

Bibliography

[1] Deirdre M. Warner-Kramer & Krista Canty, Stateless Fishing Vessels: The Current International Regime And A New Approach, 5 Ocean & COASTAL L.J. (2000). Available at: https://digitalcommons.mainelaw.maine.edu/oclj/vol5/iss2/3

[2] Kim, So & Moh, Youngdawng. (2025). Due Regard Obligations in Areas beyond National Jurisdiction. International and Comparative Law Quarterly. 74. 235-254.

[3] Valentin Schatz (2016) Fishing for Interpretation: The ITLOS Advisory Opinion on Flag State Responsibility for Illegal Fishing in the EEZ, Ocean Development & International Law, 47:4, 327-345, DOI: 10.1080/00908320.2016.1229939

[4] Ford, J. H., Wold, C., Currie, D. & Wilcox, C. (2022). Incentivising change to beneficial ownership and open registers—Holding flag states responsible for their fleets and costs of illegal fishing. Fish and Fisheries, 23, 1240–1248. https://doi.org/10.1111/faf.12677

[5] Valentin J. Schatz (2017), The contribution of fisheries access agreements to flag State responsibility, Marine Policy, Volume 84, , Pages 313-319, ISSN 0308-597X, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.marpol.2017.06.022

[6] Camille Goodman (2021). Coastal State Jurisdiction over Living Resources in the Exclusive Economic Zone (Oxford, Oxford University Press) 2021, ISBN: 97801928g6841,

[7] Goodman, C. (2018). Rights, Obligations, Prohibitions: A Practical Guide to Understanding Judicial Decisions on Coastal State Jurisdiction over Living Resources in the Exclusive Economic Zone. The International Journal of Marine and Coastal Law, 33(3), 558-584. https://doi.org/10.1163/15718085-12323082

[8] Andriamahefazafy, M., Haas, B., Campling, L. et al. (2024). Advancing tuna catch allocation negotiations: an analysis of sovereign rights and fisheries access arrangements. npj Ocean Sustain 3, 16. https://doi.org/10.1038/s44183-024-00055-9

[9] Anaïd Panossian, 2015 Rights and responsibilities of flag states and coastal states in West Africa - CFFA comments on ITLOS Advisory opinion about SRFC request. https://www.cffacape.org/publications-blog/2015/06/09/2015-6-9-rights-and-responsibilities-of-flag-states-and-coastal-states-in-west-africa-cffa-comments-on-itlos-advisory-opinion-about-srfc-request

The Long Arm of the Port: Extraterritorial PSMs and the High Seas Transhipment Problem by Francisco Blaha

A PhD thesis from 2019 rarely makes it to the top of my ever-growing everyday work reading pile, but it does when pretending to be an academic researcher on UNCLOS (after my conversion at the Rhodes Academy), one of my pet topics: transhipments in the High Seas by Longliners in the WCPFC.

That is why Arron Honniball's PhD thesis on extraterritorial port-state measures deserves not only my attention, but that of anyone who thinks seriously about how we govern fishing on the high seas.

What he maps out — methodically, legally, sometimes painfully — is the architecture of something practitioners like me navigate daily: the uncomfortable gap between what a port state wants to do and what international law allows it to do.

Yet it is not a straight line, as Arron's thesis doesn't focus specifically on high-seas transhipment. I therefore used the extraterritorial PS Jurisdiction framework he builds as the lens through which to examine why transhipment is so legally awkward: carrier vessels arriving at port with catch that changed hands in international waters, outside the reach of any port-state inspection that occurred at source.

The distinction he draws between enforcement jurisdiction (what happens at the port, which is territorial) and prescriptive jurisdiction (the rule being applied, which may target extraterritorial conduct) is the heart of it.

That's what makes denying landing to a reefer carrying transhipped fish legally defensible in some cases but exposed in others.

Let me explain why his work matters overall, but for my interest…. especially for high-seas transhipment.

The basic idea of port state measures (PSMs) is elegant in its simplicity: a vessel has to come to port eventually, and when it does, you have leverage. Deny it entry, deny it landing rights, deny it fuel and ice and the ability to offload its catch — and suddenly the economics of IUU fishing become far less attractive. The Port State Measures Agreement (PSMA), which entered into force in 2016, formalised this leverage into binding international law. So far, so good.

But here is where it gets complicated, and where Arron’s analysis cuts to the bone.

The moment a port state tries to go further than reacting to what happened in its own waters — the moment it tries to use port access as a lever to regulate what a vessel did on the high seas, or in another state's EEZ, or in a fishery it has no direct relationship with — it steps into deeply contested jurisdictional territory. This is what Arron calls "extraterritorial" port state jurisdiction (PSJ): the use of port access conditions to influence conduct that happened elsewhere.

And this is precisely the terrain on which high seas transhipment lives.

The transfer of catch from a fishing vessel to a carrier or reefer vessel on the high seas is one of the original sins of fisheries monitoring. It is the moment when the chain of custody breaks, when IUU catch can launder itself in the legitimate supply chain, when the accountability that port state inspections are supposed to provide simply... evaporates.

A tuna longliner offloads to a carrier in a High Seas Pocket. That carrier then steams to a port — maybe in one state, maybe another — and presents documentation for fish that no inspector or intelligence analysis has laid eyes on since it was caught. The fishing vessel itself may never enter a port where a PSM-capable authority is waiting for it.

The transhipment problem is not new… anyone working in Pacific tuna knows it. The WCPFC has wrestled with it for years around the “impracticability exemption” but what Arron's work forces us to confront is the legal fragility of the tools we're using — or trying to use — to fix it.

When a port state refuses to allow port use to a carrier vessel (maybe change crew or to land fish that were transhipped at sea from a vessel suspected of IUU activity), it is doing something legally remarkable: it is effectively regulating conduct that took place outside its territory, by a vessel it may have no flag or nationality connection to, in waters governed by flag state exclusivity under UNCLOS. The freedom of fishing on the high seas is not a platitude — it is a foundational norm, and states that breach it face real legal exposure.

Arron walks through this carefully. The basis for extraterritorial PSMs lies in a mix of treaty obligations (UNFSA's Article 23, PSMA provisions, RFMO CMMs) and the more contested terrain of customary international law. The key insight is that a port state denying landing or transhipment is exercising enforcement jurisdiction within its own territory—at the wharf side or in the lagoon—even if the prescriptive basis for that denial (the rule being enforced) targets extraterritorial conduct. The distinction matters legally, even if it looks academic from the operational perspective.

What this means in practice is that the legal ground under PSMs applied to high seas transhipment is real but limited. A port state can deny the landing of fish that were transhipped from a vessel suspected of IUU fishing or a vessel on the vessel of interest list (VoI). It can refuse port services to a carrier whose documentation doesn't meet the CMMs of the relevant RFMO. It can require prior notification and inspection.

What it cannot do — or at least cannot do without legal risk — is unilaterally legislate behaviour on the high seas and enforce that legislation through port access conditions that go beyond what existing treaty frameworks authorise, hence the importance of having information and compliance-sharing agreements, but also reaching out to port states to be part of RFMOs, even if as cooperation non-members.

The Chilean – EU (2000-10) swordfish dispute is the canonical cautionary tale here. Chile sought to use port access conditions to enforce its national licensing requirements for high-seas swordfish fishing. The EU pushed back hard, arguing that this violated the freedom of fishing and constituted an extraterritorial overreach. The case was eventually settled, but the legal ambiguity it exposed never really went away. Port states with strong domestic fisheries interests, good inspection infrastructure, and political will to act — and there are not many of them — have to calibrate carefully.

So, where does this leave the transhipment problem?

Honestly? In a difficult place. The PSMA's provisions around transhipment — requiring parties to inspect vessels seeking to use designated ports for transhipment — are a real step forward. Several RFMOs have moved toward requiring transhipment in port or at designated anchorages rather than on the high seas. These are the right moves. But enforcement remains patchy, the carrier vessel fleet is heavily concentrated under flags of convenience (or open registries to use the polite terminology), and the high seas remain — as they always have — a jurisdiction of last resort where the flag state's exclusive authority is both foundational and yet frequently useless as a compliance tool.

What Arron's work does, at its best, is provide practitioners and policymakers with a map of what can legally be demanded of vessels entering port and where those boundaries lie.

For those of us working on transhipment reform — trying to make the data systems work, trying to get independent observer coverage on carriers, trying to conduct intelligence analysis prior to notification requirements, and actually inspect what comes off carrier vessels — this is not abstract jurisprudence. It is the scaffolding on which operational tools are built.

The future of PSMs as applied to high seas transhipment almost certainly runs through two things: greater multilateralism (so that unilateral measures reflect shared treaty obligations rather than individual state preferences) and better information systems (so that port state inspectors can actually interrogate the catch history of fishing vessels that pass their fish to a carrier vessel before it offloads).

The legal framework, as Aron demonstrates, can accommodate robust action. Whether the political will and the technical capacity exist to use it — that remains the harder question, and one that no PhD thesis can answer for us.

This blog draws on Arron N. Honniball, Extraterritorial Port State Measures: The Basis and Limits of Unilateral Port State Jurisdiction to Combat Illegal, Unreported and Unregulated Fishing (Utrecht University, 2019).

 

In tuna fisheries... fuel prices underlie it all. by Francisco Blaha

A bit over a month ago, I wrote about the potential impacts of the then-looming fuel crisis on the tuna industry. Unfortunately, things have not got better.

Source: https://shipandbunker.com/prices/apac/sea/sg-sin-singapore

When analysts discuss threats to global tuna supply chains, the usual suspects appear: overfishing, IUU fishing, climate change, labour standards, traceability gaps, and so on. These are real concerns. But the single biggest disruptor on the desk of every Pacific tuna vessel operator is none of them. It is a fuel invoice.

What began as military strikes between Israel, the US, and Iran has escalated into a full maritime crisis — Gulf shipping attacks, Strait of Hormuz restrictions, and the Houthis re-emerging as a force capable of paralysing Red Sea commerce. Most people read war headlines. Pacific tuna businesses are reading them as cost projections.

Here is the number that matters: Singapore bunker fuel — the benchmark for Pacific fishing fleet operations — was trading at USD 709 per tonne at the end of February. By 10 April, it had reached USD 1,630. Fuel prices doubled in six weeks.

This is not a minor fluctuation in input costs. Fuel accounts for 40 to 65 per cent of vessel operating costs in tuna fisheries. No other single variable comes close. When the Persian Gulf destabilises, Singapore’s crude supply tightens almost immediately — and the Pacific, which depends on Singapore for bunker fuel, feels the impact within days. The distance between a military strike in the Strait of Hormuz and a vessel operator in Majuro delaying departure is shorter than most people in this industry appreciate.

Fish prices have risen in response — skipjack has moved from around USD 1,600 to USD 2,000 per tonne — but nowhere near enough to offset the cost shock. Operators are caught in a margin squeeze with no quick way out.

What does a fleet do when fuel economics break down? It does not stop immediately. The changes are operational and incremental: dry-docking brought forward, port stays extended, departures delayed while waiting for price signals. By the third week of April, contractions were visible. Philippine fleets slowed. Taiwanese vessels lingered in port. South Korean ships returned early, nominally for maintenance. In fisheries economics, these are leading indicators. The supply chain notices them weeks later, often after the damage has already compounded.

The industry that worries me most in this scenario is not the large distant-water fleets backed by conglomerates or state subsidies. Those operations have balance sheets capable of absorbing a prolonged shock, and some have government support mechanisms that effectively socialise the risk. The operations that cannot wait out a six-month fuel crisis are the marginal domestic operators in Pacific Island countries — smaller fleets, thinner capitalisation, higher exposure to local financing costs, and far less resilience to external shocks they cannot influence.

When domestic Pacific fleets stop fishing, the consequences quickly move ashore. Processing plants in the Solomon Islands and Papua New Guinea depend on local tuna throughput. Reduced throughput generally means reduced employment, reduced export earnings, and direct pressure on foreign exchange reserves in economies where fisheries revenues are not marginal — they are foundational. A conflict in the Persian Gulf becomes, within months, a budget problem in Noro, in the Solomon Islands.

For me, this is the structural lesson that Pacific tuna fisheries policy (and surely others, too) struggles to grasp: global seafood systems are energy systems first. We spend enormous effort debating reference points, the use of dFADs, paying for Ecolabels, EM and observer coverage, catch documentation, labour standards, market access, and so on— all of it important, all of it necessary — yet fuel prices underlie everything.

Without affordable fuel, vessels don't move, carriers don’t transport fish, containers don’t get loaded, refrigeration chains become economically unviable, air freight costs escalate, and the access fee negotiations that underpin Pacific Island government revenues look completely different at the table, where distant-water operators factor fuel costs into every offer.

That last point deserves serious attention from Pacific governments. Prepaid vessel-day arrangements currently offer some insulation. But if high fuel prices persist through the next negotiating cycle, operators will build that uncertainty into their pricing. Nobody wants to pay yesterday's access fees against tomorrow's fuel bill.

There is a deeper paradox here. The foreign distant-water fleets that Pacific Island nations have, entirely reasonably, sought to regulate and extract greater value from are, structurally, better placed to survive this kind of shock than the domestic industries those same nations are trying to build. External shocks rarely first weaken the most powerful actors. They weaken the most exposed.

The tuna is still in the water. The vessels can still catch it. The market still wants it. But between the tuna and the plate lies a global logistics and energy system that is becoming increasingly volatile and more expensive to operate. Pandemics, conflicts, sanctions, climate disruption, freight crises — these are no longer exceptional events for Pacific fisheries managers to plan around. They are becoming the baseline operating environment.

The sector is no longer just managing tuna stocks; it is managing volatility. That requires a different kind of thinking from the one most fisheries institutions we work with were built for.


The Fisheries Bill Debate We Should Actually Be Having by Francisco Blaha

I don't get involved in NZ fisheries much anymore, yet up to the late 90s I was part of the industry, then advised regulators and also was an MPI (MoF on those days) research provider working on pelagics and recreational fisheries assessments, and survival rates of returned fish

that is me going fishing here at home in Waiheke island… speaffishing and non motorised troll

Various reasons for me not being involved… firstly, NZ has a lot of good people working on fisheries, then while many people believed that I being a “foreigner” was good as I had no agenda… others had a more “who the fu*k are you?” attitude and they were quite vocal about it. Finally, there was better pay for working overseas.

This is not to say that I don't keep a keen interest in it or that I have no intention of returning to it. In fact, I have used NZ experiences and models in my work overseas and have good friends deeply involved in NZ fisheries at every level. 

In any case, I always get dubitative when I’m asked to comment on NZ fisheries, since you're immediately cornered into a sector or user… doesn't matter what you take is… You are with us or against us… and I hate that shit.  I get accused of being with industry (even if I haven’t worked for industry for over 20 years) or, as I work with government, it means that I’m paid by industry, or as a scientist, I don’t know shit, or as a former UN fisheries officer, I’m part of a conspiracy… and so on

Yet there has been a remarkable amount of noise about the proposed New Zealand Fisheries Amendment Bill. Depending on who you listen to, it is either a long-overdue modernisation of fisheries management, a dangerous weakening of environmental protections, or a total sell-out to industry interests. The problem is that voices are either from a recreational lobby group with the support of massive multinationals with interest in selling trucks, boats and fishing equipment, people involved in making money out of selling spearfishing gear (which I buy) or have a TV fishing program on one side and the minister of fisheries on the other, and that is it

As usual, the reality is more complicated and somewhere in between those poles. So it was great to read a few of my friend Shelton Harley's posts on LinkedIn. Shelton is an avid recreational fisherman originally from Whakatane, but is also a fisheries scientist with over 30 years' experience studying fisheries in New Zealand, Alaska, the western and central Pacific, the Indian and Atlantic Oceans. He obtained his PhD in Canada, where he studied in the years immediately after the infamous cod collapse (and in my opinion, he is part of a group of scientists responsible for the fact that tropical tunas have not collapsed)

I tend to be generally fair with my praise, but he really knows his shit… I would only trust 3 people in terms of NZ fisheries advice, and he is one of them (Adam Langley and Andy McKay are the other 2)

So, based on his writings and my own ideas, here is my take… yet first, I state that I dive into this from a fisheries science and management point of view, not from privacy rights and compliance, so I stay away from the non-science aspects of the bill: i.e., the fines for releasing EM footage

I start where much of the public discussion has focused on headlines—“legalising discards,” “allowing undersized fish to be landed,” “weakening protections.” But also, for me, a key aspect that has not been touched and is buried beneath the politics is some genuinely important questions about how fisheries management actually works in practice, and how it might work better in the future.

The three aspects of the Bill that are particularly interesting to me are: the introduction of multi-year catch decisions and Management Procedures, the proposed changes to discarding rules, and the reform of Minimum Legal Sizes (MLSs). On the surface, these may appear to be separate technical issues. In reality, they are deeply connected by a common theme: incentives.

And in my experience, fisheries management is, in the end, largely about incentives.

New Zealand manages more than 400 individual fish stocks under the Quota Management System. That alone explains part of the challenge. We often talk about “the fishery” as if it were a single entity, but it is really hundreds of small management systems operating simultaneously across species, regions, and fishing methods.

A useful comparison that Shelton does is monetary policy. The Reserve Bank reviews the Official Cash Rate regularly using economic indicators and adjusts it accordingly. Fisheries management operates in a broadly similar way, except that, instead of one OCR, fisheries managers effectively run hundreds of them at once.

The difficulty is scale… only around 20 to 35 catch limits are reviewed each year. At that rate, many fish stocks may go a decade or more without formal reassessment. And it is worth remembering something important: not reviewing a catch limit is still a decision. It is a decision to leave things as they are.

This is where the Bill’s proposals on multi-year decisions and Management Procedures become interesting. At present, catch limits are generally reviewed annually. If the science suggests that a stock needs a significant adjustment but decision-makers prefer a cautious, staged approach, the current system often requires repeating the entire consultation and decision-making process each year. This consumes time, resources, and management attention.

The Bill proposes allowing multi-year pathways to be agreed upon up front. In practical terms, this means a gradual adjustment over several years could be consulted on once, rather than repeatedly.

That may sound bureaucratic, but it matters. Because the real issue here is not simply efficiency, it is management coverage. If structured processes allow managers to deal with more stock more often, that can potentially improve responsiveness across the system.

Management Procedures go a step further. These are essentially pre-agreed rules that determine how catch limits change based on data. In plain language: if the stock looks like this, then management responds like that.

This is not a radical idea. Variants of Management Procedures and Harvest Strategies are widely used internationally, including in some of the world’s best-managed fisheries. We have been dealing with this in the WCPFC for a while now… in fact, and I couldn't give a shit about Ecolables like MSC (I find private certifications neocolonial), but having a Harvest Strategy is one of the conditions.

Environmental organisations and industry groups alike often support them because they reduce ad hoc decision-making and create more predictable, science-based responses; also, and fundamentally, in my opinion, they reduce the space for lobbying and political improvisation.

Of course, no system is entirely automatic. Exceptional circumstances still require judgment. But the principle is important, fisheries management works best when rules are clear before the pressure arrives, not negotiated afterwards in the middle of conflict.

What strikes me about this part of the Bill is that it has attracted relatively little public attention compared with some of the more emotive debates. Yet these procedural changes may ultimately prove more significant in the long term than many of the headline issues.

Because they are really about changing how decisions are made, not simply what those decisions are.

The debate around discards and Minimum Legal Sizes is different. Here, the politics become more visible because the images are more tangible. Undersized fish thrown back dead into the sea tend to provoke strong reactions, understandably so.

The phrase “legalising discards” has circulated widely in criticism of the Bill…but that framing is, at best, incomplete.

Discarding already exists in New Zealand fisheries. Commercial fishers currently return undersized fish that do not count against quota, and Recreational fishers must also release undersized fish, with generally no obligation to retain them.

The important point is that, under the current system, there are situations in which fish are discarded without direct consequences, even when survival rates are low, and this is what we studied already back in 2005.

That matters because incentives matter. If undersized fish do not count against quota when discarded, what incentive exists to avoid catching them in the first place? Particularly in fisheries where post-release survival is low.

This is where the previous government’s policy shift becomes important, and much of the current debate seems to overlook this context. The previous government introduced a principle that fish should only be returned if they are likely to survive. If survival is unlikely, requiring release may simply institutionalise waste, which is actually a fairly logical position.

The current Bill largely operationalises that earlier policy direction by proposing the removal of many commercial MLS requirements, particularly in trawl fisheries where survival rates of returned fish are often poor.

Under the proposed changes, those fish would instead need to be landed and counted against quota.

On the face of it, there is a coherent logic here. If fishers must retain and account for undersized fish, then catching them becomes costly. And if catching them becomes costly, there is a stronger incentive to avoid them.

That is a meaningful change in behavioural incentives.

Yet this is also where concerns raised by recreational groups and environmental NGOs deserve serious attention… Because incentives can cut both ways.

If undersized fish can legally be landed, could markets eventually emerge for smaller fish? Could that alter targeting behaviour over time? I understand why people worry about that possibility.

At the same time, the issue is not quite as straightforward as some of the public rhetoric suggests. Commercial fisheries remain constrained by quota limits. Fishers generally maximise value, not volume alone, and smaller fish often represent lower economic returns.

Besides that small fish are hard to commercialise (and eat!) as commercial fishermen you need to make the biggest return possible for every kilo you catch, and fishing, thanks to mostly the cost of fuel, has never been as expensive as it is now… and if you don’t sell your fish for more money that it costed you to catch it, you’ll be out of business in no time.

So the whole idea that industry will turn to catch undersized fish to send to fishmeal and byproducts where the price is set by the waste of processing bigger fish, would be ruinous to whoever idiotic fishing company try that strategy… so it will not last long.

And while I agree that it is not one at the front of most critics' minds and does not eliminate the risk entirely. But neither does it make the feared outcome inevitable.

And here Shelton’s insight is gold: we are really debating a trade-off between two imperfect systems.

Maintaining existing MLS rules may continue to generate significant waste where released fish do not survive. Removing them may improve accountability and reduce waste, but it also creates concerns about unintended incentives. Neither position is entirely comfortable.

And perhaps that discomfort is healthy.

Too often, fisheries debates collapse into simplistic binaries: conservation versus industry, protection versus exploitation. The reality is usually messier. Fisheries management is full of situations where every option carries risks, costs, and unintended consequences.

What matters is whether the incentives embedded in the system broadly push behaviour in the right direction.

That, ultimately, may be the common thread linking these different aspects of the Bill.

Multi-year decisions and Management Procedures aim to create more structured, predictable management incentives at the governance level. Discard reforms and MLS changes aim to reshape incentives at the operational level.

In both cases, the Bill is attempting to move away from reactive, ad hoc approaches toward systems where behaviours are influenced more directly through pre-agreed rules and accountability mechanisms.

Whether it succeeds is another question.

But the debate would probably benefit from spending less time arguing about slogans and more time examining the incentive structures these changes actually create.

Because fisheries policy is rarely just about fish. It is about the systems we build around people.

And here's the main beef for me: when we get to fisheries policy in NZ… It is a circle of people who are pointing fingers at each other and expecting the other to change, while not offering much in return

Recreational and commercial fishing lobbyists, public servants responsible for fisheries management, politicians, fisheries scientists, and other experts (indeed, whether they are or not) who provide advice we all need to understand the nature and dimensions of fisheries politics in which we operate. 

When you say someone is "playing politics," you're generally trying to criticise or even insult them.

But politics is how people talk about and work out their differences. Politics can't happen without people disagreeing. Politics is how disagreements are discussed and resolved, whether in the family, at work, in government, or in a campaign to parliament

Fisheries politics happen at many different levels. It determines which tools are available to control fisheries and how they affect the environment. It clarifies the connection between extraction and protection. It determines how the catch will be split among groups with different needs.

International rules govern the protection and sharing of migratory and straddling stocks between countries. These relationships are based on political rules and norms. Those who want to have the most impact on how fisheries are handled and used can learn these rules and practise them, not just toxically point fingers

People fish for a job, people fish for fun, and people fish because it is part of their culture, but we're in the same game. We are lucky we can debate in NZ, but I believe each sector's sense of entitlement has taken the debate to toxic levels. We are all using the same resources.

In NZ, we are fortunate to be able to fish for fun and recreation without paying a licence, have access to a commercial QMS, and practise legislated customary fishing. We have so much in our favour, yet we are wasting our time pointing fingers at each other.

This has never been so evident to me than in this debate

Seeing a lot but owning very little by Francisco Blaha

It’s hard not to be compelled by the promises of electronic monitoring (EM) paired with machine learning (ML), artificial intelligence (AI), and edge computing. Cameras and algorithms that never stop, providing near-real-time insights into what is being caught, where, and how.

This article, "Monitoring Fishing Activity on the Edge," which deals with EM and edge AI for longline fisheries, makes its case well. It is forward-looking, technically grounded, and persuasive in its central proposition: that combining onboard processing with machine learning can dramatically improve transparency, reduce review costs, and bring fisheries monitoring closer to real time.

Source: https://www.fisheries.noaa.gov/new-england-mid-atlantic/commercial-fishing/electronic-monitoring-northeast

For those of us involved in MCS and fisheries management, which suffer from delayed, incomplete, and often unreliable data, the idea of near-real-time catch verification is not just attractive—it is overdue. The longline sector, in particular, has long operated in a space where visibility is limited, observer coverage is sparse, and verification is often retrospective at best.

So yes, the technology is promising. But as I read the piece, what struck me was not what it said, but what it did not.

Because the discussion of cameras, models, and deployment strategies is all about data management and processing… but not a lot about who owns it, who controls it, and who ultimately benefits from it.

The article speaks confidently about systems that convert raw video into annotated datasets and about using those datasets to train models capable of identifying species and verifying catch. It gestures towards openness by mentioning publicly available tools and baseline datasets. It highlights efficiency gains and scalability.

The model is compelling:  Raw footage becomes labelled imagery >> Labelled imagery becomes training data >> Training data becomes model weights (the core process of ML- essentially converting massive datasets into actionable knowledge and numerical patterns), and then >> Model weights become products.

At each step, value is created… And at each step, the question grows sharper: where does that value go?

This is not a theoretical concern. It is a structural feature of how ML systems develop; the more data they ingest, the better they perform. The better they perform, the more valuable they become. Over time, the models themselves—refined through exposure to vast quantities of real-world data—become proprietary assets.

In the context of fisheries, that data does not come from nowhere.

It comes from vessels operating in sovereign waters, from fish caught under national jurisdictions, and from fisheries that coastal states here in the Pacific are responsible for managing.

And yet, if the architecture of these systems is not carefully designed, the long-term value generated from that data can easily accumulate elsewhere.

EM deployments, especially when combined with edge AI, are more than monitoring and compliance tools. They are also a data-harvesting system that generates continuous streams of information for monitoring and training increasingly sophisticated models.

If those models—and the datasets that underpin them—are controlled by vendors, then over time, a form of dependency will emerge.

While countries receive improved monitoring in the short term, developers/vendors accumulate data and refine models in the long term… And the balance of value shifts accordingly.

As I wrote in the past, I still struggle to read much about some basics:

  • Who owns the footage captured on board?

  • Who has rights to the annotated datasets derived from it?

  • Who controls the trained models built using that data?

  • Can those models be transferred, replicated, or independently audited?

These are not peripheral questions. They go to the heart of what this technological transition means.

Without clear answers, there is a real possibility that image libraries derived from sovereign fisheries become proprietary training sets. That model weights—refined over years of deployment in specific regions—become locked within commercial platforms, and then the countries that contributed the raw material find themselves purchasing back the analytical capability built from their own data.

It seems that along the way, the terms governing data ownership and intellectual property are either left vague or treated as secondary to immediate operational benefits. By the time the system is mature, the structure is already set, and at that point, renegotiating ownership or access becomes considerably harder.

Don’t get me wrong… this is not an argument against EM and the use of edge computing; all the opposite, these tools have the potential to address long-standing weaknesses in fisheries governance. They can improve compliance, support science, and reduce the opacity that has long characterised parts of the industry.

But technology does not arrive in a vacuum.

It arrives embedded in business models, contractual arrangements, and institutional contexts that shape how benefits and costs are distributed. And in the case of EM and AI, those distributions are not always obvious at the outset.

The WCPO provides a particularly relevant context for this discussion, as it is here that some of these systems are being piloted or considered. It is here that the stakes are high—not only in terms of fisheries management, but in terms of economic value, data sovereignty, and long-term control over marine resources.

The narrative, however, remains heavily weighted toward the technological promise these systems are bringing, which is real.

But the parallel narrative—about data sovereignty, intellectual property, and value capture—seems underdeveloped… and this imbalance matters:  If the first wave of deployment proceeds without clear data governance frameworks, the second wave will inherit those assumptions. By then, the leverage to reshape them may be reduced.

This is not unfamiliar territory… data generated in one place, processed in another, monetised elsewhere. Value chains that begin with raw inputs and end with high-value outputs are often concentrated in the hands of those who control the intermediate steps.

The difference is that this time, the resource is not just the fish. It is also the data about the fish. And data, unlike fish, accumulates and compounds. It becomes more valuable the more of it you have.

Without them, transparency, compliance, and even sustainability may improve, but the underlying distribution of value becomes more skewed.

As said, this is a really good article that makes a strong case for what these technologies can achieve.

I would like to see more articles on what they may be doing unintentionally. In the end, with EM “seeing” everything, only part of the story is told; the other part is deciding who gets to own what is seen—and what is built from it.