Traditional shellfish operations rely on underwater traps marked with floating buoys. The heavy ropes and lines that attach the buoys to the traps dangle vertically through the water, creating hazards for swimming animals. Once entangled, a whale can swim thousands of miles with fishing lines, nets, or metal tearing into its skin. Entanglement is one of the leading causes of injury and death to whales worldwide. Because of this threat, some fishers have been working with researchers and conservationists to develop an alternative—a technology called “ropeless” or “pop-up gear.” Ropeless gear allows fishers to keep their traps secure on the seafloor—without any vertical lines—until they are ready to retrieve them.

As we approached the first trap site, Volaski showed me how his setup worked. He had chosen gear designed by two West Coast companies, Sub Sea Sonics and Guardian Ropeless Systems, and aimed specifically at affordability: about $1,500 per unit, a fifth of the cost of higher-end models. In this system, a box called a “sled” sits on the sea floor attached by a long horizontal rope (or line) to a set of crab traps. Volaski used an app on his smartphone to trigger the sled to release an orange buoy about the size of a basketball, which soon popped up at the surface with the line in tow. He then maneuvered the boat until the buoy was at the starboard side, and the crew lifted it from the water with a long pole. They attached the buoy’s line to a pulley system, called a pincher-puller, which began reeling in the sled and the seven traps that trailed behind into the boat. It made a horrific whine. To position the traps at the depths where the crabs live, the crew needed more than 200 meters (700 feet) of line.

In the beginning, “all that line coming off at once” was scary, said Harrison-Muñoz. “You get tangled up on it, that’s going to take you right overboard.”

By this point, however, the three men had found a rhythm. Harrison-Muñoz had a carefully choreographed method for turning the rope to make sure it stacked neatly back in the sled as it came aboard. He often persuaded the younger Barrera to do much of the heavy lifting, hoisting each trap onto the deck. “Keeps him off his phone,” Harrison-Muñoz joked. The men sorted dozens of crabs, storing some in a plastic bin and tossing back the smaller ones. One of the traps held a box crab nearly 18 centimeters (7 inches) across, the biggest they had ever caught. The crew repeated this process with a second set of traps near Anacapa Island, then sailed another half-hour to the west side of Santa Cruz Island, the largest of the Channel Islands, where they retrieved and reloaded a third set. The whole process consumed about half of the day, even though Volaski had to set aside his original plan to retrieve a fourth and fifth set of traps when the ocean whipped up intense tidal currents. By the end, everyone’s overalls were dripping from the waist down, and we all reeked of mackerel.

About halfway back to the marina, whitecaps and ripples appeared on the ocean surface. Then dozens of dolphins arced into the air on both sides of the boat. A squabble of gulls hovered above. But Volaski had seen something else. A humpback fluke lifted up a hundred meters away, then sank into the water. Then more whales—10 or 15 swimming in the distance. Then closer. He stopped and turned off the engine. Volaski’s pointed finger followed a shape under the water. We heard the low-pitched blast of a whale spout, its back rounding out just a few meters behind the boat, then immediately beside us. It was examining us. We were almost close enough to touch.

Read the full article at The Fern