WHAT IS A FISH?

 

At the October 2025 meeting of the Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission’s Atlantic Striped Bass Management Board, that Board rejected a proposal to reduce striped bass landings and so make it more likely that the stock will rebuild by the 2029 deadline imposed by the fishery management plan.

But it wasn’t a naked rejection.  Included in the motion to reject additional restrictions on the striped bass fishery was a proposal to create a “Work Group” charged with developing a white paper that could be used to inform future management decisions.  More specifically, as noted in the motion that created it,

“The goal of this Work Group is to consider how to update the [fishery management plan’s] goals, objectives, and management of striped bass beyond 2029, in consideration of severely reduced reproductive success in the Chesapeake Bay.”

The same motion directed the Work Group to include six specific topics in its discussions.  One of those topics was to

“Formally review hatchery stocking as both a research tool and a management tool for striped bass w/cost analysis.”

I have to admit that I cringed more than a little with respect to that topic, particularly to its mention of hatcheries as “a management tool” because I view hatcheries as an admission of abject failure, a concession that fisheries managers have failed in their efforts to maintain a fish stock or, at least, a concession that managers have experienced a failure of will, and will no longer make the effort to maintain a fish stock through natural means.

Instead, they turn to what are essentially factories designed to manufacture legions of man-made fish, to support unnatural fisheries where the primary intent is not to maintain fish populations that will perform their traditional roles in the ecosystems where their species evolved, but merely to entertain and enrich the people who participate in and profit from their capture.

And when we get to that point, the question needs to be asked, “Are they really fish at all?”

I recently came across an article written by John Waldman, a professor at New York’s Queens College.  Titled “The Natural World Vanishes:  How Species Cease to Matter,” it appeared in the April 8, 2010 edition of Yale Environment 360.  In it, Professor Waldman observed that

“Abundant research has shown that a fish is not a fish is not a fish,”

and quotes Richard Judd, who wrote in his book Common Lands, Common People:  The Origins of Conservation in Northern New England,

“An artificial resource maintained in a habitat no longer capable of spontaneous growth, fish became a property of the state rather than an element of the providential natural landscape.”

Thus, a hatchery fish, regardless of the species, is no longer a natural resource.  It is merely an object, existing without any meaningful context at all.

Mr. Judd’s comment is the sort of thing that I wish I had said first, because it perfectly sums up my views toward hatcheries and hatchery-based fisheries.

Still, others feel differently, and as striped bass reproduction grew ever worse, and the abundance of striped bass declined, it was inevitable that the topic of hatcheries would be raised, both by managers and by fishermen.

It’s not a new concept.

Maryland opened its Joseph Manning Hatchery in 1980, and although the facility has been and still is used to propagate a number of warm-water fish species, back in the mid-1980s one of its primary purposes was to produce striped bass in an effort to rebuild that stock, which had collapsed.  While it’s probably incorrect to say that Maryland’s stocking was ineffective, at least one scientific paper, “A Case History of Effective Fishery Management:  Chesapeake Bay Striped Bass,” which appeared in the May 1999 edition of The North American Journal of Fisheries Management, noted that

“Hatchery-reared striped bass were stocked in the Chesapeake Bay beginning in 1985 and may have accelerated recovery, though the benefits of stocking were far outweighed by the benefits of reducing fishing mortality.  [emphasis added]”

A striped bass hatchery was also built on New York’s Hudson River during the 1980s.  Costing 5.8 million dollars, it was funded by five electric power companies as part of a legal settlement between the companies, New York’s Department of Environmental Conservation, and concerned environmental organizations.  The hatchery effort was described in a June 8, 1986 article in the New York Times.

“’Our goal is always the same—to stock 600,000 fish,’ explained Bruce Friedmann, hatchery manager…The first year we produced 63,000 fish, the second year 156,000.  Last year we produced 293,000.  We’re hoping to continue that trend,’ to reach the 600,000 goal…

“…[S]ome biologists are turning to the restoration project as an important way to help the beleaguered bass species.  Others say that the hatchery programs are an expensive way to do it.  One biologist called the hatchery striper ‘a gold-plated fish…’

“New York State’s Department of Environmental Conservation is evaluating the hatchery program.  ‘It’s a very expensive way to put fish back into the river,’ said Robert Brandt, aquatic biologist for the state agency.  ‘From hatchery to river it costs about $1 a fish, and there’s a question of whether these fish are viable once they’re in the river.’…”

The Hudson River hatchery apparently failed its evaluation or, at the least, was found to be an expensive luxury after the striped bass stock began to rebuild in 1989; the hatchery was closed soon after.

While it’s possible—and probably likely—that hatchery technology has substantially improved, and become more efficient, since the Times article appeared, if the best a Hudson River hatchery can do is produce about 600,000 fish in a year, that hatchery would still be producing fewer bass than local anglers remove from the population annually.  New York anglers harvested about 433,000 striped bass during the 2024 season, and probably killed another 359,000 as a result of release mortality in the same year, thus providing more evidence that reducing fishing mortality, rather than manufacturing striped bass, is the more effective way to rebuild the striped bass population.

And hatchery programs are expensive. 

Assuming that there were no changes in the efficiency of hatchery operations, the $1 it cost to produce each bass stocked in the Hudson in 1986 would equate to $2.85 today; stocking 600,000 bass in the mid-2020s would thus cost over $1.7 million per year.  Recreating the hatchery that cost $5.8 million in 1981 would cost more than $20 million in today’s dollars—and that assumes that the computerized equipment that would certainly be used to run hatchery functions today had the same relative cost as the gear used to operate the facility during the early 1980s.

Which makes reducing fishing mortality not only the more effective, but probably also the less expensive, way to rebuild the striped bass stock.

Of course, there will always be voices from the recreational fishing industry and various “anglers’ rights” organizations that will support the introduction of manufactured fish, including striped bass, into the nation’s waterways as an alternative to natural reproduction, in order to keep the sales of fishing gear high and keep anglers’ coolers full.  

The Texas Parks and Wildlife Department freely admits that it uses artificially raised red drum, spotted seatrout, and southern flounder

“to ensure that harvest levels are sustained and stocks are replenished.  [emphasis added]”

However, there is little evidence that hatcheries, unlike lowered fishing mortality rates, have ever led to stable, sustainable, naturally-reproducing stocks of any popular commercial or recreational fish species. 

The first hatcheries used to stock Pacific salmon in United States waters appeared during the 1870s; in the 150 years since, more and larger hatcheries have continued to pump man-made salmon into Pacific coast rivers, but none have managed to rebuild a single salmon run, of any species, to the point that it could be sustained by natural reproduction alone.  Instead, despite the millions of dollars spent to dump millions of man-made salmon into rivers feeding into the Pacific,

“NOAA Fisheries has listed 28 population groups of salmon and steelhead on the West Coast as threatened or endangered under the Endangered Species Act.”

It is difficult to believe that reducing fishing mortality on at least some of those population groups—those devastated by dams blocking their access to historical spawning grounds being, perhaps, an exception—before they declined to the point where an Endangered Species Act listing was justified, would not have been a more effective management approach than just manufacturing more salmon to dump into the rivers.

Yet, there are those who just like to catch fish, and don’t care what hatcheries cost taxpayers or what impact they might have on native fish.  For example, the Coastal Conservation Association’s Oregon chapter

“supports the important role hatcheries have to play in providing harvest opportunities while conserving, sustaining, and rebuilding salmon and steelhead stocks.  We also support efforts to improve the efficacy of hatchery programs to ensure that, consistent with native fish conservation, opportunities are not unnecessarily constrained.”

Such language, while providing lip service to conservation considerations, leave little doubt that “providing harvest opportunities,” while ensuring that angling “opportunities are not unnecessarily constrained,” are the organization’s primary considerations. 

While it is impossible to predict anyone’s response to a situation with complete certainty, it seems likely that, if given the choice between a reduction in fishing mortality that would shut down the recreational fishery for an indefinite period of time, but eventually rebuild native salmon runs, or continuing hatchery production and maintaining “harvest opportunities” but leave the native runs wanting, they’d opt to keep the hatcheries pumping out fish.

I would choose otherwise.

People fish for different reasons.  Some fish for food, some for entertainment, some to spend time with family or friends.  Some are driven by ego, while others seek solitude and peace.

I understand all of those motivations, and all of them are, or have been, a part of my own motivation, too.  But, for the most part, I fish to touch the wild.

There was something about angling that always appealed to me, even when I was very, very young.  As I got older, the ability to get out on the water, learn how the marine ecosystem worked, and how fish—and most particularly, for many years, the striped bass—related to seasons and light and tides, the movements of baitfish, and all of the other factors that affected their behavior, fascinated me, and took me into a place where all of the concerns of school and, later, of work and all that involved, went away, and I could concentrate on more primal and, to my mind, far more real, concerns.

With that came a deeper understanding of the fish themselves, where they bred, how they migrated, and what they required to maintain themselves and support viable fisheries. 

It’s probably a difficult thing for a non-angler to understand—although I think most hunters would get it—but to use hard-gathered knowledge and execute a plan that results in meeting a wild creature on its home ground and bringing it successfully to hand, ignites an atavistic satisfaction, a feeling of being in touch with an ancient world that those who spend their time in more civilized pursuits will never know.

To have the wild removed from that pursuit, to know that the fish in my hand was unnaturally manufactured by man, no different than a golf ball or computer game that was produced solely to entertain, would strip the moment of wonder, and cause me to wonder whether the pursuit had any meaning at all.

For by seeking fish that are, as Mr. Judd called them, “an element of the providential natural landscape,” I become a part of that landscape as well. 

And it is in that landscape, and not in some unnatural vista where only factory-produced semblances of fish hold sway, that I choose to reside.

 

 

 

 

WHAT DO STRIPED BASS FISHERMEN REALLY BELIEVE?

 

When the striped bass management debate heats up, and managers debate the need for more restrictive management measures, various special interest groups within the recreational fishery come to the fore, each one claiming to speak for the striped bass angler.

We saw this in the recent debate over Addendum III to Amendment 7 to the Interstate Fishery Management Plan for Atlantic Striped Bass. 

It is difficult to forget the comments of Michael Waine, a spokesman for the American Sportfishing Association, at the December 16, 2024 meeting of the Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission’s Atlantic Striped Bass Management Board, when the addendum was first proposed.  At that meeting, Waine tried to discredit the many comments made by anglers who supported management measures that would have protected the large 2015 year class during the 2025 season, while saying that he, the American Sportfishing Association, and its members would generate comments from other anglers who might constitute a silent majority who did not agree with those who put their thoughts on the public record:

“I look at the public comments and I know there are millions of striped bass anglers out there, millions, and I’m only seeing 25-2800 comments from a lot of the same people that we know have been commenting.  As an organization, we’re going to work with our members to try to get more people integrated into this process.

“We know that the recreational fishery is very diverse, and I don’t feel like the public comments really are a good reflection of that diversity.  Where is the opportunity to get those individuals into this process?  Where is the opportunity to give folks the chance to get involved and engaged?..

“I challenge the Board to go the addendum route and reach out to the constituents that they haven’t heard from.  Don’t talk to the same folks that you’ve been talking to the same all the time.  Find the people who care about the resource, and value it in a way that their voices should be heard too…”

Then, in the written comments sent in ahead of the October 2025 Management Board meeting, we saw the American Sportfishing Association joined by the Boat Owner’s Association of the United States, the Center for Sportfishing Policy, the Coastal Conservation Association, the Marine Retailers Association of the Americas, and the National Marine Manufacturers Association as signatories to a letter opposing the 12% harvest reduction that had been deemed necessary to rebuild the striped bass spawning stock by 2029, which declared that

“We represent the entire recreational fishing and boating community, including businesses that serve all anglers, regardless of economic background or preferred fishing technique.  [emphasis added]”

Of course, they never quite explained exactly who appointed them to represent us all, nor why they believe we all consented to such representation?

When you consider that four of the six named organizations are trade associations serving their member businesses rather than anglers, and a fifth, the Boat Owner’s Association of the United States, is also closely tied to the boating industry, having entered into an agreement to

“exclusively promote West Marine’s boating equipment to Boat Owner’s Association members,”

in return for West Marine promoting

“services offered by Boat America and memberships in the Boat Owner’s Association of the United States (an affiliate of Boat America which was not acquired [when West Marine purchased other Boat America assets, which included its retail, catalog, and wholesale operations])”

it certainly seems like such groups are representing their own interests, and aren’t all that concerned with what striped bass anglers might want.

The sixth signatory, the Coastal Conservation Association, is an “anglers’ rights” organization with, at best, a trivial presence in the states with a striped bass fishery, having only a very small chapter in New Hampshire and small chapters in Maryland and Virginia.  Although it once had chapters throughout much of New York and the coastal New England states, those chapters faded away, largely due to the national organization catering to its large Gulf Coast membership and exhibiting little consideration for northeastern concerns.  The fact that the current CCA website states that

“by 1985, chapters had formed all along the Gulf Coast.  By the early ‘90s, the South- and Mid-Atlantic regions had CCA chapters, in 2007 Washington and Oregon chapters were formed and in 2015 the CCA California chapter was created,”

without mentioning the five (four now defunct) northeastern state chapters at all pretty well says all one needs to know about CCA’s presence and involvement with anglers on the striper coast.

But recently, a contingent of recreational striped bass fishermen have been given a chance to speak for themselves, as part of a study by researchers at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst and other academic institutions, the results of which were published in the paper “Understanding beliefs, perceptions, and attitudes of anglers in the Striped Bass recreational fishery along the Atlantic coast of the United States,” which appeared in the November 2025 edition of the journal Marine and Coastal Fisheries.

The researchers explained that

“The online survey launched on May 1, 2023, and was open for responses until October 15, 2023, coinciding with the Striped Bass angling season along the Atlantic seaboard.  Recreational anglers 18 years and older who had experience targeting Striped Bass along the Atlantic coast of North America, spanning from the Gulf of St. Lawrence in Canada to Georgia in the United States, could take the survey.  The survey was administered through the Qualtrics online survey platform, and the methodology was approved by the University of Massachusetts Amherst International Review Board…Survey distribution was carried out by a range of angler organizations (i.e., American Saltwater Guides Association), industry groups (i.e., Cheeky Fishing, Patagonia Fly Fishing), nonprofit organizations (i.e., International Game Fish Association, Keep Fish Wet, Stripers Forever), and fishing clubs (i.e., Cape Cod Salties, Cape Cod Trout Unlimited, Osterville Anglers’ Club, Cape Cod Flyrodders) that shared the survey via social media platforms (i.e., Instagram, X (formerly known as Twitter), Facebook), email, and e-newsletters.”

The survey results provide an insight into how anglers view the state of the striped bass stock and the efforts made, or not made, to conserve it.

One of the survey’s more interesting findings was how anglers perceived the current health of the striped bass stock.  68.3% of the anglers who fished with spinning or conventional gear were “somewhat to extremely satisfied” with their current fishing experience, although only 57.2% of fly fishermen shared that view.  The researchers noted that

“Fishing quality was mostly rated as fair to very good from the 1990s to present, although respondents reported a significant decline in angling quality from the 2000s to the 2020s.”

It was also interesting to read that

“Anglers with fishing histories dating back to the 1970s generally ranked fishing quality in the 2000s and 2020s lower than anglers with shorter fishing histories.  This suggests a loss of intergenerational knowledge transfer and possible ‘shifting baselines’ phenomenon, where more experienced anglers have witnessed a decline over time while newer anglers might lack the reference points for previous conditions. [citation deleted]” 

As someone who caught his first bass in 1960 or ’61, and who was at least a once-weekly participant in the fishery by the summer of ’67, and who fished just about every day that I wasn’t attending classes in high school, college, or law school during the 1970s, I don’t find that surprising at all. 

The survey also explained why angler satisfaction can be a deceiving metric.

“Overall satisfaction with fishing quality varied by gear preference, with anglers using conventional tackle being generally more satisfied than fly anglers.  This may be driven by spin anglers reporting higher angler catch rates than fly anglers.  Fish often aggregate in preferred habitats, and technological advancements, especially for boat-based anglers, enable more efficiency locating fish.  This can mask signs of overexploitation, as catch rates remain stable despite actual decreases in fish abundance, a phenomenon known as hyperstability.  Their seasonal nearshore migrations and fidelity to specific spawning grounds allow Striped Bass to be reliably targeted by anglers across diverse environments and with various tackle types, making them particularly vulnerable to hyperstability.  Further, angler perceptions of good fishing quality may be skewed by the fishery’s current reliance on the last robust year-class of 2015.  Biological assessments reveal that this perception of good fishing quality is misleading because of the limited success of specific spawning events…  [citations omitted]”

Despite the perception held by many anglers that fishing quality remains fairly good,

“Concern about the state of the fishery was generally high among anglers and increased as anglers became more committed to fishing.  More dedicated anglers often develop a stronger connection to their environment and are more attuned to ecological issues and changes within the fishery, resulting in a heightened sense of stewardship among experienced anglers.”

Given that concern, it’s not surprising that anglers are largely supportive of regulations intended to conserve the striped bass resource.

“In Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, and New Jersey, the majority of anglers considered the slot limit for Striped  Bass to be either appropriate or too loose while they viewed the one-fish bag limit and the gear regulation (i.e., only inline circle hooks when fishing with natural bait) as appropriate.”

The study noted that surveys conducted a decade ago in Massachusetts and Connecticut found less support for the one-fish bag.  What it did not acknowledge was that, prior to 2015, a two-fish bag limit had been in place for two full decades, so going to a one-fish bag represented a substantial new restriction on recreational landings; after ten years (eight years at the time the survey was taken), anglers have become used to the smaller bag limit, and probably no longer consider it a serious imposition on their ability to harvest striped bass. 

The survey suggests that the seeming current acceptance of the one-fish bag limit

“could be reflective of an increased proclivity towards catch and release among our surveyed demographic driven by sampling bias from our distribution methods, though a strong catch-and-release ethic exists among anglers that target trophy-sized Striped Bass, stemming from concerted management and angler efforts during the stock collapse and moratorium of the 1970s.  Alternatively, as harvest regulations have become increasingly strict, mandating more fish be released, the angler attitudes captured in this survey may be evidence of a shift towards an increased catch-and-release mindset compared with previous studies conducted a decade ago.  [citations omitted]”

When all of the information was tallied, the researchers were able to conclude that

“Considering that the majority of respondents acknowledged the necessity of regulations and expressed a desire for those regulations to be grounded in scientific research along with the strong support of the ASMFC emergency action, it is clear that at least a subset of Striped Bass anglers along the eastern seaboard are highly invested in the stewardship of this fishery.”

The question that still needs to be answered is just how large that subset of anglers dedicated to stewardship might be.  The researchers openly admit that

“it is noteworthy that over 70% of responses stemmed from anglers primarily fishing in New England, particularly Massachusetts…Although virtual snowball sampling schemes [which this survey apparently was] depend on participants sharing the survey within their networks to increase sample size, which can introduce sampling bias, this geographic distribution of respondents is not surprising given the majority of Striped Bass angling effort is concentrated in New England.  [citation omitted]”

However, that latter statement is inaccurate, as a slight majority of striped bass angling effort has, at least in recent years, been concentrated in the mid-Atlantic, which was responsible for about 52% of the directed striped bass trips in 2021, 59% in 2022, 56% in 2023, and 53% in 2024.  So it is at least possible that, if a more representative number of mid-Atlantic anglers had been sampled, the results of the survey might have been somewhat different.

The researchers also admit that

“our findings may be subject to sampling bias as responses could be skewed deeply involved (i.e., avidity bias) and conservation-minded anglers.  This can likely be attributed to the highly specialized and conservation-oriented angler organizations…fishing companies…and nonprofit organizations…that aided in distributing the survey link.  This may have resulted in an overrepresentation of fly fishers in our survey population compared with the overall fishery.”

Another possible source of bias, which the researchers didn’t acknowledge, was that the sample of anglers surveyed probably included a higher percentage of anglers with some sort of post-secondary education—91.92% of the respondents had at least “some college,” while 71.36 had either a bachelor's or post-graduate degree—than would be found in the general striped bass angling population, a factor that also could have skewed the results toward support for striped bass conservation and science-based management policies.

So, the study’s findings can certainly be challenged

Still, it at least provides a look into how one subset of the striped bass fishing community views the health of the striped bass stock and the value and direction of striped bass management.

And for that insight alone, it will help to inform the management debate.

STRIPED BASS: CAMERAS (AND BAD FISH HANDLING) KILL

 

It gets kind of ridiculous, particularly in these days of a 28- to 31-inch slot size limit for coastal striped bass.

Somebody catches a big fish, a bass likely to break 40 pounds, and maybe even break 50.  After a long fight, they bring the bass into the boat or drag it onto the beach, then start digging for their phone or  camera as the fish lies gasping on the deck or the sand, trying to breathe.  Eventually, the photos are taken, with the bass kept out of the water for a minute, two minutes, or more as the angler strikes multiple poses for multiple snapshots before finally putting the fish in the water where it can, hopefully, finally take a good gulp of water and start breathing again.

At times, the bass just lies there, floating on its side, and when that happens, more times than not, the angler will sort of swish it back and forth in the water for 30 seconds or so, hoping that it might revive itself and slowly swim off into the distance.  Sometimes, that happens, and when it does, the angler will assure anyone who asks that “It swam away strong.”

When it doesn’t, and the bass continues to float, the angler might swish it back and forth a few more times, and if continues to lie prostrate on the ocean’s surface, console himself by saying, “Sometimes that will just happen.  There’s nothing that I can do.”

But some recent research provides reason to question whether any of those statements are really true.

As I have noted in previous blog posts, the Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission has stated that

“The recreational [striped bass] fishery is predominantly prosecuted as catch and release, meaning the majority of striped bass caught are released alive either due to angler preference or regulation (e.g., undersized, or the angler already harvested the daily bag limit).  Since 1990, roughly 90% of total annual striped bass catch is released alive of which 9% are estimated to die as result of the fishing interaction (referred to as ‘release mortality’ or ‘discard mortality’).  In 2024, recreational anglers released alive an estimated 19.1 million fish, of which 1.7 million fish are assumed to have died.”

Since those 1.7 million bass that died after being released are approximately equal to the number of bass harvested by recreational fishermen in 2024, and are more than 2 ½ times as many bass as were killed in the commercial striped bass fishery (landings and discards combined) in the same year, they definitely affect the state of the stock.  Taking reasonable action to reduce release mortality thus makes sense.

Unfortunately, too many anglers don’t really understand what “reasonable action” involves.  A few years ago, in an effort to maintain a sustainable fishery, they have replaced harvesting fish with something that well-meaning folks titled “C.P.R.”, with the three letters standing for “Catch.  Photo.  Release.”

Although the effort was well-meaning, and was intended to offer an alternative to catch-and-kill, the emphasis on photographing one’s catch turned out to be a bad idea, particularly in the social media age, when websites such as Twitter, Instagram, YouTube, and others have become flooded with still photos and videos of not-particularly-notable striped bass being waved around in the air, lying on people’s laps or on the decks of boats, or stretched out, sand-covered and gasping, on an ocean beach.

It didn’t take much thought to realize that such poor handling practices weren’t good for the striped bass, although we couldn’t really quantify just how bad they might be.

But now we know, thanks to a paper titled "Effects of capture and handling on striped bass (Morone saxatilis) in the recreational fishery of coastal Massachusetts,” which appeared in the August 2025 issue of the journal Fisheries Research.  It provides a pretty good understanding of just how much handling, and how much time out of the water, a striped bass can take.

As explained by the paper’s authors,

“Understanding how striped bass respond to capture and handling, particularly air exposure, is crucial for improving management and angler practices to maximize post-release survival.  This study evaluated the physical and physiological condition of 521 striped bass subject to catch-and-release angling across different gear and tackle types and five air exposure treatments using reflex action mortality predictors.  A subset of striped bass (n=37) caught on conventional gear and double treble hook lures were fitted with triaxial accelerometer biologgers to assess short-term post-release activity across three air exposure treatments…

“The integration of reflex action mortality predictors (RAMP) and triaxial accelerometer biologgers has become a reliable method for evaluating the cumulative effects of capture and handling on fish during release.  Assessment of RAMP involves evaluating the presence or absence of multiple (usually between 2 and 5) reflexes identified to be consistently present in vigorous individuals.  Previous studies provide evidence that these tests are often predictive of short-term post-release behavior and/or mortality.  Triaxial accelerometer biologgers effectively quantify fine-scale activity, behavior, and short-term mortality of fish after release.  These biologgers are attached to fish in a minimally invasive manner and measure acceleration (g) across three axes (x, y, z).  When combined with RAMP assessments, they provide detailed insights into additional aspects of the angling event and environmental conditions, helping to bridge critical gaps in our understanding of how fish respond to capture, handling, and recovery.  [references omitted]”

All of the fish sampled were caught, using standard conventional and fly fishing techniques, between May 6 and October 24, 2023, and between May 5 and July 3, 2024, off the coast of Massachusetts.  Researchers measured both the fight time and the handling time.  The fish ranged in size from 10 to nearly 40.5 inches in length, with the mean size of the fish caught on conventional gear just under 28 inches and the mean size of the fish caught on fly gear about three inches smaller.

The researchers found that the time handling fish out of the water mattered. 

A lot.

 

As noted in a description of the study provided by the University of Massachusetts at Amherst (the lead researcher is a member of the UMass/Amherst staff)

“The stripers were divided into groups that remained out of the water for 0, 10, 30, 60, and 120 seconds before being thrown back.

“This was the first time that air exposure was scientifically and systematically tested to see its effects on striped bass…

“[The researchers] discovered that air exposure was the most significant factor influencing striped bass stress and post-release swimming activity.  Higher water temperatures, fighting for longer periods of time and getting hooked somewhere other than in the jaw all increased their recovery time.

“Fish released immediately or after only 10 seconds retained most of their reflexes and recovered quickly, [one of the researchers] said, adding that ‘stripers that had been out of the water for 60 seconds took 8-10 minutes to swim similarly to the low air exposure group.’

“In addition to finding fish out of water for 120 seconds never fully recovered during the 20 minute monitoring time, they also found that the bigger the fish, the greater toll of being hooked, landed, and released.  Reducing angler impacts on big fish, particularly females, is critical to the future of the population.”

The current slot limit was put into place to protect the older, larger female striped bass, which are believed to produce more eggs, larger eggs, and eggs more likely to produce viable fry and are, particularly given the current period of poor recruitment and abundance decline, deemed to be too valuable to intentionally kill.

But the efficacy of that slot limit can be, and very possibly is being, substantially reduced when those older, larger striped bass—perhaps the “50” that an angler has been seeking for the past two or three decades—are unintentionally killed by anglers who land them after a difficult fight, drag them into a boat or onto the shore, and then keep them out of the water for an extended photo session.

And even though smaller bass are probably somewhat more resilient, the Internet hero and self-declared “influencer” who walks around on a jetty with a Go-Pro attached to his head, or who has cameras set up on his kayak, so that he can film every 10-pound bass that he catches for his YouTube channel isn’t doing the stock too much good, either.

So if we really want to help the striped bass, the first step is to keep the cameras at home, so that fish can be released as quickly as possible, preferably without taking them from the water at all.  To all of those folks who are about to object that they’re fishing from boats, and have to bring the bass on board in order to unhook it, I’ll only say this:  I’m fishing out of a 32-foot Topaz, a traditional inboard sportfisherman with its rails a long way from the water.  And just about every week during the summer, I take out a team of researchers from Stony Brook University, who manage to bend far over those rails to perform surgery on sharks that might be small, or might weigh upwards of 300 pounds, along with taking blood and tissue and fecal samples.  If those researchers can cut open the abdomen of a shark, insert an acoustic tag, and then sew the fish back up before release, if they can find a blood vessel in that shark, insert a needle and take the needed sample, and if I can snap the hook with a bolt cutter and then reach down with a pair of needle-nosed pliers to remove the remains of the barb from a shark’s jaw, then an angler can lean over the side of the typical outboard with the same sort of pliers—or perhaps a dehooker—and unhook a striped bass without removing that fish from the water at all.

And to those surfcasters who fish from jetties and rock ledges, and say that they can’t safely perform an in-water release much of the time, my question is whether, after they unhook the fish up in the rocks, they feel confident that they are going to get a good release on a fish that might need some reviving before it swims away.  Because if someone truly cares about the striped bass’ future, as so many surfcasters claim to do, tossing a fish back in the water in the mere hope that it survives should not be good enough.  They should either fish from places where a good release—preferably an in-water release—is possible under existing conditions, or not target striped bass in such places at all.

As anglers, we are by far the greatest source of striped bass fishing mortality, responsible for 86% of all such mortality in 2024, and an even greater proportion in previous years.  With the striped bass facing an uncertain future, we are ethically obligated to minimize that mortality to the extent that we can.  As the recent research shows, proper fish handling, which includes foregoing long, out-of-water photo sessions of the fish that we catch and keeping bass out of the water for the shortest possible time, can help keep mortality down.

For while the original form of C.P.R. may help the victim of a drowning or heart attack, the kind of C.P.R. that’s applied to striped bass too often leads to unintended death.

 

 

 

THE TRIALS OF A FISHERIES MANAGER: AN INSIDER'S ACCOUNT

 

I recently came across a piece on fisheries management—more specifically, Gulf of Maine cod management—that was written by a former National Marine Fisheries Service biologist, who spent a decade of his life as the lead scientist performing the assessment of Gulf of Maine cod, which might just be one of the most frustrating and thankless jobs on the East Coast.

The piece, titled "Bankers’ Hours to Bankruptcy:  The Collapse of Gulf of Maine Cod,” appeared in an unusual place, the blog of a business that calls itself the Waquoit Bay Fish Company, which sells fish-related art rather than fish, and is owned by Michael Palmer—the former NMFS scientist who wrote the piece, and also seems to be an accomplished artist inspired by his time at sea.

I have been involved in the fisheries management process and conservation advocacy for a very long time, and I’m not sure that I have ever before read anything that engaged me in the same way that “Bankers’ Hours to Bankruptcy” did, for it speaks with the voice of someone who labored within the management system for a very long time, someone who cared very much about getting things right for both fish and fishermen, and who touches on just about every aspect of why fisheries management efforts, and particularly efforts to manage cod, so often go wrong.

He begins with describing how surface appearances can often be deceiving.

“Boats [from Massachusetts and New Hampshire] were sailing at reasonable hours, towing close to home, coming back with what, on the surface, looked like solid trips.  The joke among Gloucester fishermen was that cod fishing had turned into “bankers’ hours”; no more brutal all-nighters chasing scattered fish over the horizon.  Cod seemed thick near the western Gulf of Maine ports, and for a little while the mood—if not jubilant—was at least cautiously hopeful…

“In 2008, a federal stock assessment…concluded that Gulf of Maine cod had rebuilt to about 58 percent of its target spawning biomass, with projections that the stock might be fully rebuilt by 2010.  After decades of decline and increasingly strict regulations, it was the storyline everyone wanted: sacrifice, recovery, vindication.”

But there was a problem.  Many of the assumptions underlying the 2008 assessment were too optimistic.  Thus, when Michael Palmer became the lead scientist for the 2011 stock assessment, the underlying assumptions were revisited.

“Much of what we changed would have sounded like housekeeping to anyone outside the room.  We fixed how we converted between estimated fish numbers and weights—reshaping our picture of how much cod biomass we thought was out there.  We stopped pretending every survey number was equally solid; some estimates were clearly noisier than others, so the model let them tug less on the final answer.  And we gave the model a bit more room in how it followed the catch history.  On paper, it was just a different way of reading the same history—in practice, it was better science.”

Such changes, which occur in many stock assessments, not just Gulf of Maine cod, are largely unseen by the public, although the recent Atlantic menhaden stock assessment, which corrected a previous error in the calculation of natural mortality and, as a result, reduced the size estimate of the menhaden stock by about 37%, was a well-publicized exception.

The changes included in the 2011 assessment reduced the estimated size of the Gulf of Maine cod stock, too, and by a far greater percentage, for

“once the new model was fully wired up and the data was pushed through, the stock we thought was more than halfway rebuilt suddenly shrank.  Cohorts we’d been counting on all but vanished, and historical biomass estimates fell by more than 70 percent.  The recovery narrative that had been built over the previous decade—sacrifice, rebound, vindication—collapsed in a few pages of output.”

At that point, the scientists had done their job.  They had improved the model used to estimate Gulf of Maine cod abundance, and they had developed a more accurate stock assessment as a result.  But what the scientists couldn’t do—what no fisheries scientist can do, regardless of the species involved—is translate the stock assessment into effective regulations.  That job falls to the regional fishery management councils, to NMFS and, in the case of many species (but not in the case of cod), to the Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission and/or state regulators.

And the regulatory folks weren’t very happy with the results of the 2011 stock assessment.

“My lane in all this was narrow but well defined: assemble and vet the data, choose and run the models, and explain what the results did and didn’t mean.  I didn’t vote on quotas; I handed managers the best picture we could produce, uncertainty and all, and they decided what to do with it.

“The people holding the levers of management didn’t like what they saw.  Neither did much of the industry.  The assessment was criticized from every angle—data inputs, model choice and structure, reference points.  Under that pressure, the big cuts implied by the 2011 results were softened and delayed, and instead of fully acting on them, the system asked for a do-over.”

Because there’s a funny thing about stock assessments:  If an assessment comes out that requires a reduction in landings—and often, the reduction doesn’t have to be all that large—we hear members of the commercial, for-hire, and, more and more in recent years, the recreational fishing industries complain about “bad science,” and allege that “the numbers are wrong,” but if the assessment allows landings to increase, no one questions the science or the data at all.

It's all good if it allows them to bring home more fish, and all bad if it restricts their landings.

We saw that sort of thing happen at the recent Summer Flounder, Scup, and Black Sea Bass Advisory Panel meeting, where Mid-Atlantic Fishery Management Council staff informed the AP that, if the usual 80% confidence interval—what a non-statistician might characterize as the margin for error—around estimates of 2026 recreational black sea bass landings was used, the 2026 landings target would remain unchanged, but if the confidence interval was reduced just a little, to 75%, to accommodate the high degree of uncertainty in the landings estimate, the landings target could be increased by 39%.  Faced with the possibility of significantly relaxed regulations, almost all of the advisors who spoke on the issue—advisors who generally represented the for-hire fishing industry—opined that using the 75% confidence interval was the right way to go, solely because it would provide the results, in the form of higher landings, that they preferred.

There was almost no discussion of what would make the most sense from a policy or management perspective.

And then there are the politicians who get involved.  In the case of the Gulf of Maine cod, Michael Perry wrote,

“Years earlier, Congress had written the law that said we would base catch limits on science and rebuild depleted stocks.  We were just doing the work the statute required.  But when the results pointed toward painful cuts, some of the same elected officials who had helped pass that framework into law turned around and attacked the science and the policies that flowed from it.

“As Senator John Kerry wrote to the Secretary of Commerce on December 14, 2011: ‘This GOM cod situation is further proof that the entire research and data process needs to be completely overhauled.  Therefore, in conjunction with the new assessment for GOM cod, I ask that you undertake an end to end review of the stock assessment process that includes the analysis and recommendation of outside parties.’”

That was not a unique occasion.  It is routine for politicians, who might have, at best, a rudimentary understanding of fisheries management, to try to undercut the fishery management process and impeach fisheries scientists just so their constituents can kill more fish than science or good judgment would allow. 

That sort of political interference may have reached its peak in the recreational red snapper fishery in both the Gulf of Mexico and the South Atlantic where, a decade ago, we saw former Congressman Garret Graves (R-LA) introduce H.R. 3094, the Gulf States Red Snapper Management Authority Act which, although never passed, would have stripped NMFS of its authority to manage Gulf of Mexico red snapper, and vested that authority in a new management body composed of fisheries managers from the five Gulf states, after “anglers’ rights” organizations headquartered in the region actively opposed the science-based measures needed to rebuild the red snapper stock. 

Today, something somewhat similar is going on in the South Atlantic, where H.R. 470, the Red Snapper Act, introduced by Congressman John Rutherford (R-FL), would prevent NMFS from implementing a closed season on all recreational bottom fishing in the South Atlantic in order to reduce the level of recreational red snapper bycatch.

In both instances, the goal was to block science-based efforts to manage the recreational red snapper fishery.

Not surprisingly, in the case of Gulf of Maine cod, the fishing industry worked hard to impeach the science. 

“For years, some in the industry argued that the surveys were simply missing cod.  Their skepticism was understandable.  If you can still fill your hold in your best spots but the survey index is falling, it’s tempting—almost irresistible—to believe the survey must be wrong.

“And there were, to be fair, plenty of technical questions to point to.  The survey trawls weren’t the same as commercial gear.  Their doors spread differently; their nets fished a little higher or lower; their tows were shorter, slower, more standardized…

“Those were real, worthwhile scientific questions.  The problem is how they were used.

“A small but influential set of voices in the management process—industry representatives, academic consultants, and a few advisors—leaned hard on those uncertainties.  They highlighted every potential bias that might make the surveys look too pessimistic and treated them as proof that the stock was healthier than the assessments suggested.  Questions about gear efficiency, selectivity, calibration coefficients, and survey design became a kind of fog.  Whether intentionally or not, the effect was to keep attention focused on what might be wrong with the warning lights, rather than on the very real possibility that the engine itself was failing.”

When merely questioning the methodologies used in the cod assessment failed to impeach its conclusions, the fishing industry went a step further.

“When official assessments warned that cod were in deep trouble, segments of the industry increasingly responded by commissioning their own analyses.  Outside consultants—often respected quantitative academic scientists—were hired to critique government models, reanalyze data, or generate alternative population estimates.

“Sometimes those critiques caught real problems.  No assessment is perfect; outside eyes can be invaluable.  But over time, a pattern emerged that was hard to ignore: industry-funded science almost always bent in one direction.  It emphasized uncertainties and alternate interpretations that could justify higher catches or delay cuts, rarely the reverse.

“In public debates, phrases like ‘science for hire’ started to surface.  In council meetings, dueling narratives about stock status became weapons rather than tools.

“The erosion of precaution wasn’t abstract.  You could see it in the model choices.  Industry consultants often pressed for strongly domed selectivity in the assessment models—telling the models that mid-sized cod were easy to catch while the biggest, oldest fish mostly slipped through.  On paper, it turned the absence of large fish into ‘cryptic biomass’ lurking just out of view…

“You could see it again in the population projections built off those consultant runs.  The rebuilding deadline stayed the same on paper, but the bar for what counted as ‘rebuilt’ moved.  By swapping in different recruitment assumptions that said cod could hit peak production of young fish at a smaller stock size, it made it easier to claim we were on track without actually putting more cod in the water.

“From my seat at the science table, I watched the uncertainties I saw as reasons for caution repurposed as excuses for inaction.  If surveys might be missing cod, if models might be biased low, if a consultant could spin up an alternative set of numbers with a higher biomass line—there was always an argument for waiting one more year before making the really hard cuts.”

And once again, such industry actions were not unique to Gulf of Maine cod. 

Those who follow fisheries management in the mid-Atlantic can probably recall a group that called itself the Save the Summer Flounder Fishery Fund, which tried very hard for a number of years to impeach NMFS recreational catch and landings data, hired consultants, and went to great lengths to convince fishery managers to reduce the minimum size for summer flounder because, they argued (unsuccessfully), higher size limits forced anglers land mostly female fish, and so negatively impacted the stock’s spawning potential.

In the Gulf of Mexico, there was the so-called Great Red Snapper Count, an effort to impeach NMFS’ red snapper data through what was touted as an “independent” study not conducted by federal fisheries scientists, although funded with about ten million taxpayer dollars.  Although the Count did find far more red snapper in the Gulf than NMFS believed were there—primarily fish widely scattered over low-profile bottom, where surveys didn’t expect the structure-loving snapper to be—when biologists considered that data, it didn’t lead to a large increase in the total allowable catch, largely because of the high level of uncertainty surrounding the Count’s findings.  One conservation group, The Ocean Conservancy, noted that

“Invited reviewers from the Center for Independent Experts, who performed the first external peer review of the Great Red Snapper Count, identified issues around methodology, calibration, sample sizes and uncertainty that warrant further review, particularly given the magnitude of changes to red snapper management being considered.”

The Coastal Conservation Association, which despite its name is, in reality, the largest anglers’ rights group in the country, complained,

“NOAA pledged to take the findings of [the Great Red Snapper Count] and incorporate them into its next assessment of red snapper which was scheduled to begin in 2021.  While it would have been reasonable to expect the results of the [Great Red Snapper Count] to simply become the new benchmark, NOAA insisted that those findings would have to be calibrated and synched up with the data streams and techniques it had used in the past.  The same data streams and techniques that the [Great Red Snapper Count] had shown to be inaccurate by a factor of at least three.”

Because in its efforts to impeach federal fisheries science, the Coastal Conservation Association, which wants to see an increase in recreational red snapper landings, naturally wants to see its preferred studies prevail, regardless of the true accuracy of their conclusions.

Now, in the South Atlantic, something called the South Atlantic Red Snapper Research Program, utilizing scientists from various universities, is conducting a similar “independent” study, which will almost certainly be used by various recreational fishing organizations to challenge federal scientists’ findings IF it develops data that seems more favorable to the recreational fishing industry.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy to come out of the whole Gulf of Maine cod affair wasn’t the failure to rebuild the cod stock, but rather that the constant battle to develop and present the best possible science ultimately wore down Michael Palmer and, despite his dedication to the effort, convinced him to give up his scientific career.

“I never stopped believing in the work itself.  I trusted the science, respected the skill and hard-won knowledge of working fishermen, and believed in the colleagues in the trenches with me—survey technicians, modelers, analysts, port samplers, observers—doing their best to wrestle meaning from noisy data, not script a convenient answer.  What wore me down wasn’t some grand conspiracy; it was seeing how, when uncomfortable results landed, uncertainty could be amplified while what we did know slipped into the background.  Support from senior leadership often felt thin, and the hardest conversations fell to the people closest to the work.  In that kind of environment, the science often felt like background noise instead of the basis for decisions.”

We can only surmise how many other scientists, dedicated to the truth as Michael Palmer was, have chosen the same route rather than see their work constantly derided by industry spokesmen who, seeking to put more dead fish on the dock regardless of the long-term cost to the public and to the resource, claim that the science-based federal fishery management system is “broken” and needs to be replaced by state fishery managers, knowing that such state managers are much more susceptible to political pressure and, unlike federal fishery managers, are generally not legally bound to prevent overfishing or to rebuild overfished stocks.

We can only guess how many stocks of fish—not only Gulf of Maine cod, but winter flounder, striped bass, red snapper, and others—have fallen victim to the sort of obstructionism that hindered the implementation of effective, science-based rebuilding plans, became overfished or, in the case of winter flounder, collapsed altogether.

Michael Palmer’s writing gives us a look into the real world of the professional fishery manager, a world where scientists are castigated, rather than rewarded, for doing their jobs well, and where science is too often shunted aside when political and industry forces combine to suppress what should be the guiding principle of fisheries management.

In this blog, I often make special efforts to recognize, and offer special respect toward, the fisheries scientists who seek to rebuild and maintain healthy fish stocks.  Michael Palmer’s story helps to explain why.

CONSIDER THE EEL

 

Consider the American eel.

I stole the title for this post from author Richard Schweid, who published the book, Consider the Eel:  A Natural and Gastronomic History, over two decades ago.  But the truth is, eels really do deserve some consideration, as both a highly evolved species of fish with a fascinating natural history, and as a troubled diadromous species that is finding itself increasingly stressed as time goes on.

When I was a boy during the 1960s, fishing from shore, from docks, and from boats along the Greenwich, Connecticut coast, eels were everywhere, and not particularly respected.  Back then, before striped bass became a fish for the masses, most casual saltwater anglers in our part of the world—folks like my own family—were bottom fishermen trying to bring home some food. 

Our primary target was winter flounder which, despite their name, were available all through the summer, although their numbers thinned out a bit during the dog days of August.  Depending on where we were fishing and the time of the year, our sandworm-baited hooks sometimes also attracted blowfish (a/k/a “northern puffer”), porgies (more properly, “scup”), blackfish (properly called “tautog”), tomcod, smelt, spot (we called them “Lafayettes”), northern kingfish, young-of-the-year “snapper” bluefish, and a host of undesirables, including bergalls (more formally, “cunner”), “sundials” (windowpane flounder), oyster toadfish, sea robins, smooth dogfish, and such.

But mostly, aside from the flounder, we caught eels.

Lots and lots of eels.

If we fished anywhere near a sod bank, on a mud flat, or in a shallow channel, at any time between late April and mid-October, the eels often far outnumbered the flounder.  They often snatched the small killifish that we used to catch the young snapper blues that flooded the creeks, harbors, and coves just before the start of a new school year signaled summer’s end.  And when an eel grabbed the inch-long piece of sandworm that we had impaled on the small “flounder hooks” designed to fit into the flatfish’s tiny mouth, it often swallowed the hook deep down in its gut before the angler ever knew it was there.

And that was more than a little problematic, because, for the most part, we didn’t want to take the eels home.

That wasn’t a universal sentiment, of course.  Eels were always a valued foodstuff in Europe, and many of the more recent immigrants, largely from Poland and Italy, and perhaps also the first generation born in this land, tpp, still ate eels as a matter of course.  But among everyone else, they had a somewhat unsavory reputation, partly because of their slimy, snakelike bodies and partly because eels aren’t too choosy about what they choose to dine on.

Back in those days, when sewage treatment was far less advanced than it is today, one of the best places to catch a bucketful of eels (“bucketful” being more of an expression than an accurate description, for if one tried to fill a bucket with eels, it wouldn’t take long before the ones on the top of the pile would begin to climb out and start crawling around the boat, dock, or shore, seeking a way back into the water) was in front of the sewage treatment plant discharge at Grass Island, a Greenwich town park, which also hosts the town’s sewage treatment facility.  Yes, you would have to deal with all of the paper flooding out of the pipe getting caught on your hook, but that seemed a small price to pay when you were a 9- or 10-year old boy seeking to catch a bunch of eels while enjoying the warmth of the midsummer sun (and yes, we always did give those eels away).

But while eels’ affinity for sewer discharges was certainly a turnoff for many, it was the eel’s sense of smell, and how it was used, that was the source of the greatest disgust.  For an eel has the keenest sense of smell in the ocean, it uses that sense of smell to find food and, at times, that food took the form of the bodies of drowning victims. 

When I was growing up, hanging around the town dock on warm summer evenings, I often heard the old timers on the waterfront talking about “the eels coming out” when drowned men’s bodies were dragged from the water.  I didn’t think about too much about those tales until one April afternoon in 1968, when I was fishing off the Grass Island riprap and heard a commotion from the boat launching ramp.  Curious, I walked over, and saw police and some other people pulling something which, I was shocked to realize, was a body, out of the water.  I later learned that someone had committed suicide the previous winter, jumping off the wall into Greenwich Harbor and, as the waters warmed, his body floated to the surface, where someone noted an arm sticking out from under the dock.

And yes, the eels began to come out.

When word of that sort of thing gets out, it can really hurt eels’ reputation as a food fish.

Thus, as the tide of eastern and southern European immigrants, who began to flow into this country around the start of the 20^th Century, waned, and the descendants of those immigrants largely integrated into the United States’ population, the popularity for eels as food has waned as well.  According to the National Marine Fisheries Service, anglers landed just 31,000 American eels in 2024, down from a peak of 680,000 in 1982, and it’s not clear how many of those 31,000 eels were caught for food, and how many would be used as bait for striped bass, cobia, and other popular recreational species.

Commercial landings show a similar trend, with landings peaking at just under 4 millon pounds in 1979, compared to just under 91,000 pounds in 2024.  The nature of commercial eel landings has changed as well, with most of the eel landings intended for export, not domestic consumption.  About 10,000 pounds of the exported eels consist of tiny “glass eels” transitioning from their larval to juvenile form, which regularly sell for well over $1,000 per pound.

Unfortunately, while some of the decrease in recreational and commercial landings can be attributed to a decline in demand, much of the decrease is probably due to the fact that eels are far less common than they used to be.  The 2023 benchmark stock assessment notes that

“American eels were formerly extremely abundant in inland waters of eastern North America, occupying lakes, rivers, streams, and estuaries…

“There is substantial evidence that the American eel stock is reduced from historic levels.  The cause for the reduction is a combination of habitat impacts and fishing pressure.  In the last half of the 20^th century, a suite of stressors including habitat loss from dams or urbanization, turbine mortality, the nonnative swim bladder parasite Anguillicolla, toxic pollutants, non-native fish species, and climate change are all factors that act in concert with fishing mortality on American eel.  The American eel does not have a federal US protected status.  It has been on the [International Union for the Conservation of Nature’s] endangered list since 2013.  [citations omitted]”

 There was an effort to list the American eel under the federal Endangered Species Act, but in February 2007, the United States Fish & Wildlife Service decided against a listing, saying, in part that

“we find that the American eel remains widely distributed over their vast range including most of their historical freshwater habitat, eels are not solely dependent on freshwater habitat to complete their lifecycle utilizing marine and estuarine habitats as well, they remain in the millions, that recruitment trends appear variable but stable, and that threats acting individually or in combination do not threaten the species at a population level.  On the basis of the best scientific and commercial information, we conclude that the American eel is not likely to become an endangered species within the foreseeable future throughout all or a significant portion of its range and is not in danger of extinction throughout all or a significant portion of its range.  Therefore, listing of the American eel as threatened or endangered is not warranted.”

Unfortunately, determining the status of the American eel stock is a very difficult thing to do.  The 2023 benchmark assessment stated that

“The primary model used in the assessment…does not allow the determination of stock or fishery status with respect to traditional [maximum sustainable yield]-based biological reference points.  The evaluation of the coastwide index, presented by the [Stock Assessment Subcommittee], does indicate the stock has declined.  The Review Panel concludes that the term ‘depleted’ is appropriate to describe the stock biomass for the yellow eel stage.  This is a qualitative term used only as a descriptor and not as a determinant of status.”

So, the American eel is probably not doing too well, but just how “not well” isn’t completely clear. 

In an effort to provide the eel with some level of protection, Panama and the European Union proposed listing both the American eel (Anguilla rostrata) and the related Japanese eel (Anguilla japonica) on Appendix II to the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora, more commonly known as “CITES”.  The issue was placed on the agenda of the CITES meeting held earlier this month.

As part of the explanation of why such a listing was needed, the proposal noted, in part,

“Historically, A. japonica was the primary species supplying East Asian eel farms, but declines in this species led to increased reliance on A. anguilla [the European eel] and A. rostrata, particularly in farms in China.  Following the inclusion of A. anguilla in Appendix II and the introduction of trade restrictions by the European Union in 2010, combined with catastrophic declines (>90%) in recruitment of this species, A. rostrata has become a key source of juvenile eels to supply the farms in recent years…A recent analysis of East Asian customs datasets highlighted that glass eel and elver imports from the region from the Americas increased from 2 tonnes in 2004 to 157 tonnes in 2022…The United States of America…and Canada have domestic management frameworks in place for A. rostrata.  Across the Caribbean nations where the majority of glass eels in the Caribbean region are harvested (Dominican Republic, Cuba, and Haiti), there is a less consistent approach to regulatory measures.

“A. japonica and A. rostrata were categorized as Endangered in 2018 and 2020 IUCN Red List assessments, respectively, on the basis of declines in abundance of approximately 50% across their respective ranges over three generation lengths…”

An Appendix II listing would neither prohibit the harvest of American eels, nor prohibit them from being purchased and sold internationally.  However, such listing would require that the exporter’s nation provide an export permit, which may only be issued if the eels (or other Appendix II-listed species) were legally obtained, and their export won’t threaten the species’ survival.

Even such modest restrictions on trade in American eels met with significant opposition, with not only members of the seafood industry, but also the governments of the United States, China, and Japan speaking against the Appendix II listing.  One big North American eel dealer went so far as to characterize CITES as

“an international body dominated by volunteer scientists and unelected bureaucrats,”

while a coalition of fishing industry organizations in China, Japan, South Korea, and Taiwan argued that the allegation that international trade was leading to a decline in American eel populations was

“not supported by sufficient evidence.”

The opposition was strong enough to successfully prevent CITES from approving the listing.

That result was decried by conservation groups such as the Wildlife Conservation Society, which announced that

“CITES Parties Miss a Chance to Ensure a Future for Endangered Eels,”

and went on to say that

“WCS is deeply disappointed that Parties to the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES) failed to support Proposal 35 to list all Anguillid eels, including the American eel (Anguilla rostrata) on CITES Appendix II…The proposal, submitted by the European Union and its 27 Member States and Panama, was unfortunately defeated today at the CITES meeting.  There were strong lobbying interests against this scientifically sound effort to regulate the global eel trade…

“The decision leaves this iconic migratory fish—already threatened by overfishing, illegal trade, habitat fragmentation from dams, pollution, disease, and climate change—without the international oversight urgently needed to support recovery and prevent further decline…

“WCS urges governments to continue advancing science-based policies and international cooperation to conserve the American eel and indeed all anguillid species.  The fate of these extraordinary fish reflects the health of our rivers, coasts, and oceans—and the consequences of inaction will be felt far beyond their waters.”

So, the American eel remains much where it began the 21^st century—ignored by many, and unloved by most who cross its path.  Here in the United States, it enjoys better protections than it had when the century began, but it also is facing challenges that were notably less severe 25 years ago.

The plain fact is that, to the general public, the American eel lacks the charisma of a bluefin tuna, white shark, or Atlantic salmon—or even the humble menhaden—and lacks the benefits—including the public relations campaigns—that such charisma supports.

That’s unfortunate.

The American eel deserves a little consideration, too.