Free Rowboat in a Hurricane by Julie Angus Page A

was rather envious of their speed.
    It is hard not to be enamoured of these lightning-fast creatures, by their beauty and grace—and by their taste. This last attribute causes the bluefin tuna much trouble. The size, colour, texture, and high fat content of the so-called “king of fish” make them highly prized, especially for sushi.
    Bluefin tuna are harvested in great numbers, both legally and illegally. Modern fishing practices are extraordinarily efficient and, according to California’s Monterey Bay Aquarium, have caused the world bluefin population to plunge 90 per cent since 1970 . Scientists and conservationists are working hard to reverse this trend, by encouraging the lowering of fishing quotas, cessation of illegal fishing, and protection of breeding grounds. But so far, not one unified organization or government has implemented the required changes.
    The International Commission for the Conservation of Atlantic Tunas ( ICCAT ) is responsible for the management of tuna, but according to the World Wide Fund for Nature ( WWF ), they don’t do a good job of it. The WWF criticizes the ICCAT for setting irresponsibly high quotas—in 2007 they were twice as high as scientifically recommended—and for continuing to allow fishing during peak spawning season. That’s not to say firmer regulations would help much; many nations flaunt the laws, and, with no one to adequately monitor and enforce regulations, illegal fishing is rampant. Many believe bluefin tuna fishery in the East Atlantic and
    Mediterranean is out of control, that the most basic requirements for fisheries management are absent, and that the industry is in fact unregulated.
    “It is the most scandalous case of fisheries mismanagement currently happening in the world,” said Dr. Sergi Tudela of the WWF in 2007 . The industry was rife with fishing during the closed season, illegal use of spotter planes, massive over-fishing, and an international ring of corruption to conceal illegal catches.
    The small school of jumping tuna had long disappeared from our sight. I hoped they would lead long lives. They were off in chase of flying fish, herring, and sardines, flitting beneath the water at speeds we could only dream of. I wondered if they swam nearby or were already miles away. It was impossible to see more than a few metres into the water directly next to us. What lay beneath the water seemed such a mystery.
    THE FORCE OF the wind grew. It created intimidating waves that rammed the oar handles into my bruised shins. The waves toppled onto the boat, striking me with their foaming plumes. I was suddenly scared of the sea, of how quickly it had grown. The darkness of our third night out settled in, and I felt no more comfortable now than I had the two nights before. On the contrary, the sea seemed even more wicked tonight.
    Colin agreed, and we lashed the oars to the boat at midnight, two hours earlier than we would normally have. We huddled in the cabin—Colin on his back, me on my side—trying to get comfortable in our unbearably cramped quarters. Sleep did not come easily, so I listened to the powerful wind and waves.
    In the morning I climbed out of the cabin and into the gusting winds. Waves sprayed me as I unfastened the oars and settled into the rowing seat. But I struggled to keep the boat on course. I cursed the rudder. If only I could control it while rowing, keeping the boat on course would not be such an issue. But I had only the oars to pivot an eight-hundred-kilogram boat against forty-kilometre-an-hour winds and two-metre waves. After almost an hour of futile and exhausting rowing, I gave up. It was time to deploy the sea anchor.
    In rough, stormy conditions it is best to point the bow of the boat into the wind and waves using a sea anchor or drogue. A drogue is essentially an underwater parachute connected to the bow with a long shock-absorbing line. As the wind pushes the boat, the boat naturally weathercocks towards the drogue. A regular