"I’m reminded of the impact that the little efforts have when I look to their local repercussions, which I think anyone can resonate with when making environmentally conscious choices."
Words and photographs by Hunter Ferner
My hands work to ring out my soaking dive shirt over the hot pavement of the parking lot. Everyone seemed a little beat from the currents we had to put up with today. I look around at our mesh bags, each of them half full of fishing line, hooks, and bottles we found beneath the surface of the nearshore waters. We come to this spot often to dive for the waste that ends up in the ocean as many southern currents converge along this coast.
I was diving with three other members of Hawaii Marine Animal Response’s Marine Debris Program (MDP) on O‘ahu’s south shore. Virtually every weekend, the team comes together to remove debris from many of the island’s shallow waters. The majority of what they collect are fishing lines, weights, netting, and litter. And they collect a lot. In the month of October alone, MDP removed nearly 3,500 feet of monofilament fishing line and over 100 pounds of debris. Not only does the debris removal contribute to pollution control, but—at the core of the non-profit’s mission—it removes a potentially lethal entanglement hazard for marine life.
Marine debris collects in the ocean for a variety of reasons—from negligible handling of fishing gear, to storm drain runoff, and merely “accidents happen.” But sometimes, debris comes to Hawai‘i from elsewhere.
We were drilling that day on Sand Island—formerly an Army internment camp in WWII, now a busy industrial complex—when we received a call about a rogue ghost net spotted in Hanauma Bay. A regular visitor to the park spotted it in on one of his swims out into the bay; apparently, he had been making the same swim every day for the past sixteen years. The net was drifting in a part of the bay known as Witch’s Brew—a massive whirlpool of water where strong open-ocean currents slam into hundred foot cliffs and are then rebounded around and back until the next set rolls in. Visitors to O‘ahu’s most popular snorkeling spot rarely ever venture beyond the reef and out into the bay due to these currents, and we received that exact briefing from the park staff when we arrived.
We were met by Kayley—an HMAR volunteer that recently accepted a new position in the Hanauma Bay Education Program—who briefed us on the underwater topography of the park. She pointed out on a map that the net was spotted in a depth of between fifteen and thirty feet of water, a task that normally wouldn’t be an issue for your average free diver, but—combined with powerful swirling currents against tuff rock walls—well, it seemed we had our work cut out for us. But other than the vague descriptions our public caller gave us and the general whereabouts of the net from Kayley, we didn’t have much more information to work off of, which meant that we would have to locate the net either thirty feet underwater or somewhere at the surface and bring it back to shore.
I have to admit, though, the views didn’t suck. Hanauma Bay is one of the most beautiful beaches I’ve ever been to. It sits on O‘ahu’s east side, and it is the result of one of island’s final volcanic eruptions from over 32,000 years ago. When we began our swim out, we passed over some of the largest fish I’ve seen in all my dives around the island. Local regulations limit fishing activity and over-tourism—both were issues that the park had struggled with in the recent past—so the fish that call the bay home grow to their full size and live longer than most on other shores around the island. And if you take your head out of the water for a moment, you’ll look up and see that you are surrounded by a crescent-shaped ring of impressive cliffs made out of ancient volcanic ash. When entering a sacred space like this and taking in all these sights and feelings, I can’t help but think about the living history—both natural and human—I have just entered into and how being here—even if only short-lived—will impact the preservation of its beauty. In the grand scheme of things, removing a single ghost net from the ocean won’t change the world or have any substantial impact on ocean pollution everywhere, but it will prevent the marine animals living there today from becoming entangled or snared. I’m reminded of the impact that the little efforts have when I look to their local repercussions, which I think anyone—even if you don’t live near the ocean—can resonate with when making environmentally conscious choices.
Not far into our paddle out, gorgeous shallow water reef systems gave way to deeper, colder rifts and valleys. The glassy surface eventually turned choppy, and the fish were harder to spot. It reminded me of a dive I attempted just a couple weeks prior on the windward side when the waves suddenly grew so strong they started to smother my snorkel, and I had to gasp for air between sets in order to breathe. These waves were only marginally more manageable.
We eventually rounded the corner around Witch’s Brew. Saltwater swashed as it flowed with the circular shape of the cauldron, tossing us back and forth as we tried to survey the area. Each stroke against the waves required twice the amount of effort to only move half as far, which was then followed by a surge that thrusted us further into the bay. As the name would suggest, Witch’s Brew felt like some maniacal melting pot of currents, the net being the main ingredient we sought for in the stew.
As we pushed further along Hanauma Bay’s southern wall, I saw straight in front of me a tangled clump of bright green monofilament netting floating among a ton of organic material caught in the middle of the whirlpool. I yell to the others behind me over the roaring of the waves that I have a visual and wave them over. We crowd the net from each side, the four of us each taking a corner of tangled netting and plastic debris. There were large rope segments as thick as my wrist accompanied with small stringy parts that, if we weren’t careful, we could easily get caught in. Among the mass of rope was what possibly remained of some kind of black, plastic crate and little sergeant majors swimming in and out of it. There was no telling how long this net had been floating near shore for, but small creatures had already begun living inside of it.
It took nearly twice as long to get back to shore than it did to find the net. We swam over a mile with nothing but fins and snorkels as we dragged the huge mass through the water. When the waves settled down and the visibility cleared, I let go of the net briefly to swim out to take some photos. They say that everything appears bigger underwater because of how water molecules refract the light, but it truly felt like this monster covered a large surface area when it was completely spread out in calmer waters. I could only imagine the entanglement threats the net could pose had it made its way closer to the reef.
On our way in, so many snorkelers gave us confused looks as we hauled the net over the reef, careful not to let it catch on the corals. I wonder if they thought us some aquanauts who found buried treasure at the bottom of the ocean. Either way, I knew it was my job to document the mission, so once we passed through the reef, I took off from the group to grab my camera that the Hanauma Bay staff were safekeeping for me. The MDP crew and Kayley got to work untangling the net and guiding out the small fish that were swimming in and out of it; I worked around them all the while capturing the amount of debris we had collected.
We got a lot of questions and cheers from onlookers. They say that finding a ghost net is like striking gold in the conservation community, but I didn’t really care too much about whatever attention this success was going to give us. I cared more about my team and I’s efforts to do something right. Together, we potentially saved at least a dozen sea turtles, a shark, or even a school of fish. We removed around thirty pounds of debris that would have otherwise slowly disintegrated and turned into microplastics had someone not removed it from the ocean. Not only would those microplastics have been ingested by the very fish the net originally intended to catch, but we—by eating the fish—would go on to ingest them, too. So, it was never about any shot of our story making into the press or even to get a good photo; it was about the indescribable sense of community I felt when a group of strangers all came together to work for something greater than themselves.
In my experience with cleaning up the debris that enters our oceans, I’ve had a lot of thought about the origins of ocean waste. Ghost nets, in particular, enter the ocean for a variety of reasons, but they typically all stem from one central reason: poor etiquette. In other words, instead of commercial fishing boats discarding their used or broken nets properly, they toss them out to sea; it’s a sort of “out of sight, out of mind” mentality. And when you think about it from the fisherman’s perspective, it makes sense to them in a lot of ways. Like I mentioned earlier, a single net isn’t going to destroy the ocean, which is why—I can imagine—a quick, convenient discarding of used fishing gear seems justifiable from the perspective of the commercial rig. After all, a single net isn’t going to cost them much if they reach their quotas. But what happens when the majority—if not all—of commercial boats follow this practice? What if they all turn it into a repeated practice, and thus making it a habit? Given the broad demand for fish worldwide, if all suppliers treated the ocean as a landfill, they would—ironically—run out of fish to catch. So in the end, no one benefits from poor waste etiquette. It’s a continuous cycle of neglect that only gets solved through intentional, proactive measures. In other words, the damages of the big man’s actions should never be the responsibility of the little guy to bandage up. A continuous reliance on the quiet voices to drive meaningful change on the behalf of the biggest players in the industry is an unsustainable cycle that will ultimately do more harm than good.
View the full photo gallery here:
This story was published with the approval of Hawaii Marine Animal Response, who played a critical role in providing proper debris removal procedures and communication support. If you are interested in learning more about HMAR's mission and operations around Hawaii, visit their website here.
Thank you to the Hanauma Bay Education Program for assisting us in this mission.
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Love this! I’m so proud of you taking action to make a difference in this world and following your passions.
I sure love and appreciate your service mindset! Both you and Tony will change the world one small step at a time.