Claws and Effect

White-tablecloth dining didn’t have much of a presence in rural Newfoundland during the early half of the twentieth century, so whenever my grandfather found a greenish-brown antennaed crustacean in his cod nets, he’d feed it to his hens. I can only imagine how good their eggs must have tasted. Historically, Newfoundland’s waters were too cold to support a lobster fishery like those in the milder Maritimes next door, and any spawn that did manage to survive the unforgiving Labrador Current would be hunted by cod: the Rock’s once mighty king is a voracious predator of juvenile lobster. The shellfish was considered a “poor man’s” food until lobster thermidor, that rich French dish, gained popularity in the twentieth century.

Lately, though, climate change has heated the ocean enough that the capricious bottom-feeders are finding Newfoundland’s coasts far more hospitable, and, ironically, the collapse of the legendary cod has allowed the newcomers to flourish. In 2024, fishermen in Newfoundland and Labrador landed nearly 9,000 tonnes of lobster, compared with less than 2,000 a decade ago. They exported nearly $130 million worth, much of it to the United States, where traditional grounds in places like Maine are declining. As the Globe and Mail reporter Greg Mercer explains in The Lobster Trap: The Global Fight for a Seafood on the Brink, a rapidly integrated economy and a rapidly warming planet have uprooted the lobster fishery, throwing the survival of the species and the people who harvest it into question.

Despite its barbed claws, thorny shell, and an enzyme granting near immortality, the lobster is a delicate creature — and ultra-sensitive to environmental changes. Lab studies have shown that this ancient bug‑like critter can detect a change of just 0.1 degrees Celsius, which can impact reproduction. As a result, more juveniles are thriving in colder northern climates, like Newfoundland’s, while fewer are reaching adulthood in places like New England. The migratory trend is likely to continue as the Gulf of Maine warms three times faster than the global average. The lobster’s temperamental disposition has also made survival outside the North Atlantic nearly impossible. From 1874 to 1966, American and Canadian governments tried to transport populations to such places as San Francisco and Vancouver Island; the attempts failed, either because the transportation process was too arduous or because the alien waters were too inhospitable. And while others have managed to manufacture ideal conditions for lobsters in tanks, it takes five to seven years for them to reach a marketable size of over a pound, making that approach commercially unviable. So the lobster remained a regional food for much of its gastronomical history, enabling communities in Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Prince Edward Island to entice landlocked gourmands with fresh authentic fare. Until recently, much of the rest of the world had to settle for frozen or canned lobster, but now, thanks to technological advances in refrigeration and supply chain logistics, a Chinese diner at the Jingshen Seafood Market can order a live one flown from the Atlantic, caught just days prior.

It is impossible to overstate the economic boon China has been for Canada’s seafood industry; the country accounts for nearly half of the world’s total marine cuisine. Not even COVID‑19 could slow it down. From 2017 to 2023, the market for Canadian lobster in China grew from just over $170 million to nearly half a billion. By the end of 2024, China was importing nearly 25,000 tonnes of live Canadian lobster. Such a hungry, lucrative consumer base has led to Canadian fishermen hauling in twice as much as they did fifteen years ago, while in some areas the catch has increased tenfold. Lobster has thus become the Atlantic’s most prized ruby, worth up to $2 billion annually, more than double the total for cod, haddock, halibut, herring, hake, eel, tuna, mackerel, swordfish, shrimp, and scallops combined. Experienced lobstermen can earn $200,000, and high school students working summer jobs are making $60,000. But between large, modern boats, new gear, and licences, many are in debt as deep as a million dollars, making them especially vulnerable to fluctuations in the market and the environment. Such fishermen invested heavily during a boom, which is now showing clear signs of busting, with catches down 40 percent in some regions.

These heady numbers have engendered a “gold rush mentality”— catch as many lobsters as possible while taking bigger risks by going out to sea farther and longer in rough weather with little sleep — among “saltwater cowboys.” In Canada’s fishing sector, a deckhand is fourteen times more likely to die on the job than a police officer, and there is roughly one death per month. With all the sunk costs and an ever dwindling catch, fishermen have little choice but to push even harder.

Tougher conservation regulations seem imminent, with potentially shorter seasons and stricter controls; improved gear would reduce wasted catch, but many fishermen are hesitant to embrace the cost. Mercer does an admirable job of respecting the economic pressures facing fishermen while criticizing their reluctance to face the reality of a fishery in peril. “What’s their end goal? They want to get rid of everybody to save the ocean?” one asks about conservationists. “There’s been lobstering, long-lining, and gillnetting for hundreds of years.” While that may be true, the fishery has never experienced this intensity, nor has it had to endure the current impacts of global warming. As Mercer demonstrates by travelling to other formerly vibrant lobster fisheries gone belly up — like those in Ireland, England, and France — once an aquaculture breaks, it is unclear how to put it back together.

Adding to the high-tension situation is a burgeoning Mi’kmaw fishing industry. In 1999, the Marshall decisions affirmed First Nations’ treaty right to fish, hunt, and gather in pursuit of “a moderate livelihood,” based on the Peace and Friendship Treaties of 1760 and 1761. But while the Supreme Court of Canada has recognized that right, it has not yet been enshrined in any plainly delineated laws, so it is unclear whether those decisions grant Indigenous fishermen the right to sell their catch at a commercial level. Successive federal governments haven’t expressed much interest in reckoning with this problem, leading to conflicts between Indigenous and non-Indigenous parties. On one hand, Mi’kmaw fishermen complain that they have been systematically excluded from the industry and are again being unfairly castigated now that they’re trying to do things their way. On the other, non-Indigenous fishermen complain that they’re forced to shoulder punishing overheads, while Ottawa has spent over $350 million on licences, vessels, gear, and training for thirty-two First Nations, who don’t have to follow the same conservation rules.

Things came to a head in 2020 when the Sipekne’katik First Nation issued five licences to its members, saying they could trap and sell their catch outside the federally regulated season, resulting in fights, riots, and a lobster pound being set on fire. Until the federal government begins the difficult work of negotiating with First Nations on fishing rights, similar conflicts are bound to continue. Whether or not Ottawa determines that treaty rights do indeed grant First Nations their own commercial fishery, it’s important to point out that, in 2023, the Mi’kmaw lobster fishery in Atlantic Canada represented fewer than 11,000 traps, less than 1 percent of the commercial fishery.

Indigenous groups elsewhere are offering their fishing rights to foreign interests. Consider the Māori, who obtained 20 percent of New Zealand’s aquaculture in 2004 through the Māori Commercial Aquaculture Claims Settlement Act. Moana New Zealand, the largest Māori-owned fisheries company, then sold a 50 percent stake to a Japanese firm, which now sends nearly all its catch to Japanese buyers. It is difficult to see how a similar deal would benefit First Nations here in Canada by enriching executives abroad. And if Canada is serious about reconciliation, it needs to be a national project rather than a piecemeal approach, which can only lead to uneven results. “I believe in the spirit of reconciliation,” one Nova Scotia lobsterman explains, “but I believe it’s a price that all Canadians deserve to bear equally. And right now, only some Canadians are bearing any price for it.”

Mercer effectively navigates these issues without falling back on easy answers. Unfortunately, the discussion of Indigenous fisheries is one of the few passages in the book where he slows down to contemplate the many questions he raises. Chapters skip across the globe from Atlantic Canada to China, from Europe to the United States, and to Canada again, circling back to the same death spiral gripping the lobster fishery: the boom has gone bust, stocks are endangered, and there don’t seem to be any promising solutions. While his point is accurate and well researched, he seems reluctant to lean fully into more thoughtful analyses; it’s a shortcoming that does a disservice to his considerable fieldwork. He waits until his conclusion to state outright the most obvious take-away from his research: “Allowing market forces alone to determine the fate of lobster is a formula doomed to fail.”

The fishery needs to be protected from itself; otherwise, the ocean floor will be stripped bare. Anyone reluctant to embrace more conservation methods needs to ask themselves which is better: a reduced fishery or none whatsoever. Perhaps Mercer is afraid of his own radical, anti-capitalist conclusion, but it is one that a fisherman like my grandfather would have readily understood, having lived through the decline and fall of Newfoundland’s cod empire.