By James Workman
Fishing is a universal act of faith.
You may be Hindu, Christian, Muslim, or secular humanist. But regardless of your creed, gear or location, if you pursue wild fish, you believe.
In the apprehensive vigil between cast and strike, you’re doing more than waiting. You’re probing forces larger than yourself. You’re seeking elusive answers from life’s mystery. You’re sending silent prayers into the unseen and unknown. But those prayers increasingly go unanswered.
Too often, our empty nets and bite-less lures reflect something deeper than bad luck or poor skill. They signal a broken relationship between people and the depleted waters that once sustained us.
We know compound threats to fish. Warmer, more acidic seas. Polluted runoff. Lost habitats. Above all: overharvesting in a race that removes 90 million tons of seafood too fast for seas to recover. But another, deeper culprit prevents us from healing our waters: distrust.
In the second half of the 20th century fishing pressure mounted, along with efforts to control it. The resulting cascade of mutual distrust – consumer vs. environmentalist vs. seafood harvester vs. angler vs. scientist vs. government -- left everyone alienated. It wasn’t just Gulf of Mexico red snapper, Gulf of Alaska crab, or Gulf of Maine cod. Fisheries were crashing globally, to the point that in 2006 prominent researchers warned of barren seas.
And yet faith persists. It not only can overcome distrust among traditional antagonists, but in many places across America, it already has. Unlikely allies began to realize they had more in common than their roles suggested. Diverse stakeholders saw the old system as a barrier that divided them from each other and from the sacred web of creation.
Even fishermen who “won” under the broken system felt spiritually adrift. “My life was a disaster,” recalled Galveston, Texas based snapper fisherman Buddy Guindon of the old competitive derby seasons. “I didn’t go to my kids’ baseball games. I didn’t go to church.” He wasn’t just losing time. He was losing his way.
Fishermen often viewed fishing as more than an economic resource. “I look at the world from a biblical perspective,” said another Gulf snapper angler Bryant Thomson. He drew parallels with the fishermen in the Scriptures, even if no chapter or verse described fish brought to the point of depletion, like today.
“We were put here on earth to have dominion over these fish in the sea,” Thomson said, reminding us how this was not a license to pillage, but a sacred trust. “No. What God’s dominion means is you’ve been given responsibility to take care of it, which is something that for decades we failed to do.”
Why? After all, for millennia fishermen were nature’s foremost stewards. Look after the fishery and the fishery looks after you. But after WWII industrial power made extracting fish too easy, and prescriptive zero-sum rules – limiting days, gear, vessel, size, volume – made it worse. “If I don’t catch the last fish,” said fishermen trapped in a tragic commons, “someone else will.”
What changed was when stakeholders developed a new system that combined faith, science, and trust into a system of rights-based fishing, known in the U.S. as “catch shares.” Though practiced for centuries by traditional communities from Fiji to Turkey, catch share systems were formally reborn through structured negotiations among U.S. economists, officials, harvesters and environmentalists. The first was piloted in 1968 by Wisconsin in the Great Lakes for whitefish. It was scaled to address overexploited federal fisheries in Alaska, then along the Gulf, Atlantic, and Pacific coasts. It has been carefully integrated with national legislation, and has even been customized for recreational fishing.
Overseas, rights based systems have been adopted and adapted by nations as diverse as New Zealand and Namibia. While versatile enough to meet the needs of people and place, the overall approach aligns nature’s integrity with human incentives to secure bottom-up collaboration by creating a community of responsible guardians for the future.
In a word, it encouraged dominion.
And it worked.
Fishing is a universal act of faith.
You may be Hindu, Christian, Muslim, or secular humanist. But regardless of your creed, gear or location, if you pursue wild fish, you believe.
In the apprehensive vigil between cast and strike, you’re doing more than waiting. You’re probing forces larger than yourself. You’re seeking elusive answers from life’s mystery. You’re sending silent prayers into the unseen and unknown. But those prayers increasingly go unanswered.
Too often, our empty nets and bite-less lures reflect something deeper than bad luck or poor skill. They signal a broken relationship between people and the depleted waters that once sustained us.
We know compound threats to fish. Warmer, more acidic seas. Polluted runoff. Lost habitats. Above all: overharvesting in a race that removes 90 million tons of seafood too fast for seas to recover. But another, deeper culprit prevents us from healing our waters: distrust.
In the second half of the 20th century fishing pressure mounted, along with efforts to control it. The resulting cascade of mutual distrust – consumer vs. environmentalist vs. seafood harvester vs. angler vs. scientist vs. government -- left everyone alienated. It wasn’t just Gulf of Mexico red snapper, Gulf of Alaska crab, or Gulf of Maine cod. Fisheries were crashing globally, to the point that in 2006 prominent researchers warned of barren seas.
And yet faith persists. It not only can overcome distrust among traditional antagonists, but in many places across America, it already has. Unlikely allies began to realize they had more in common than their roles suggested. Diverse stakeholders saw the old system as a barrier that divided them from each other and from the sacred web of creation.
Even fishermen who “won” under the broken system felt spiritually adrift. “My life was a disaster,” recalled Galveston, Texas based snapper fisherman Buddy Guindon of the old competitive derby seasons. “I didn’t go to my kids’ baseball games. I didn’t go to church.” He wasn’t just losing time. He was losing his way.
Fishermen often viewed fishing as more than an economic resource. “I look at the world from a biblical perspective,” said another Gulf snapper angler Bryant Thomson. He drew parallels with the fishermen in the Scriptures, even if no chapter or verse described fish brought to the point of depletion, like today.
“We were put here on earth to have dominion over these fish in the sea,” Thomson said, reminding us how this was not a license to pillage, but a sacred trust. “No. What God’s dominion means is you’ve been given responsibility to take care of it, which is something that for decades we failed to do.”
Why? After all, for millennia fishermen were nature’s foremost stewards. Look after the fishery and the fishery looks after you. But after WWII industrial power made extracting fish too easy, and prescriptive zero-sum rules – limiting days, gear, vessel, size, volume – made it worse. “If I don’t catch the last fish,” said fishermen trapped in a tragic commons, “someone else will.”
What changed was when stakeholders developed a new system that combined faith, science, and trust into a system of rights-based fishing, known in the U.S. as “catch shares.” Though practiced for centuries by traditional communities from Fiji to Turkey, catch share systems were formally reborn through structured negotiations among U.S. economists, officials, harvesters and environmentalists. The first was piloted in 1968 by Wisconsin in the Great Lakes for whitefish. It was scaled to address overexploited federal fisheries in Alaska, then along the Gulf, Atlantic, and Pacific coasts. It has been carefully integrated with national legislation, and has even been customized for recreational fishing.
Overseas, rights based systems have been adopted and adapted by nations as diverse as New Zealand and Namibia. While versatile enough to meet the needs of people and place, the overall approach aligns nature’s integrity with human incentives to secure bottom-up collaboration by creating a community of responsible guardians for the future.
In a word, it encouraged dominion.
And it worked.
From coast to coast, fishermen’s prayers are being answered. In the U.S., catch shares have helped rebuild over 50 depleted fish stocks and reduce the number of overfished populations from 92 to 21. Abroad they’ve delivered similar recoveries, from Iceland’s full fleet rebound to rights-based systems in Mexico, Belize, Japan, and parts of the EU that have stabilized or grown fish populations and revenues. The system is helping rebuild spawning biomass to levels not seen in decades while cutting waste, bycatch, and crew injuries.
For Buddy and Bryant in the Gulf of Mexico, catch shares transformed their red snapper and grouper populations from “chronically overfished” during seasons measured in days, into sustainably managed fisheries with year-round access, larger and more abundant fish, and steadily rising revenues.
Faith is reciprocal. In the Gulf, commercial and recreational red snapper fishermen always got excited to catch the biggest red snapper for the cooler or the taxidermist. They still do. Only now, after taking a photo for bragging rights, these “trophies” are lowered back, alive, to spawn future generations.
Time after time, research shows how collective stewardship has replenished depleted fisheries, empowered coastal communities, and built ecological resilience. Declared a “national disaster” in January 2000 after decades of overfishing, the West Coast groundfish fishery rebounded under catch shares, with total biomass climbing more than 50 percent, several species rebuilt years ahead of schedule, and revenues rising 70 percent between 2011 and 2017.
What’s more, behind every scientifically documented, statistically significant recovery lies a quiet conversion of an individual heart. My new book with co-author Amanda Leland, Sea Change: Unlikely Allies and a Success Story of Oceanic Proportions tells the arc of Buddy Guindon, who first opposed, then embraced this new form of dominion. Buddy, and many others like him, went from treating the ocean like a pinata to defending it from extractive exploitation.
Reflecting on his journey from overfishing to stewardship, Buddy recalled the parable of the disciples, frustrated and exhausted after a fruitless night at sea. Jesus tells them to try again, to cast their net on the other side of the boat. They did, and hauled in a miraculous catch.
It may be a stretch to call Buddy a “fisher of men.” But he answered a call nonetheless. For decades he spread the word of catch shares, offering as exhibit A his own redemptive arc.
For many fishermen and ocean stewards, that parable is more than a metaphor. It's a roadmap for rebuilding trust, restoring fisheries, and recovering our spiritual connection to the fullness of creation.
What would it mean for you to help reimagine and restore dominion over the wild nature you love?
For Buddy and Bryant in the Gulf of Mexico, catch shares transformed their red snapper and grouper populations from “chronically overfished” during seasons measured in days, into sustainably managed fisheries with year-round access, larger and more abundant fish, and steadily rising revenues.
Faith is reciprocal. In the Gulf, commercial and recreational red snapper fishermen always got excited to catch the biggest red snapper for the cooler or the taxidermist. They still do. Only now, after taking a photo for bragging rights, these “trophies” are lowered back, alive, to spawn future generations.
Time after time, research shows how collective stewardship has replenished depleted fisheries, empowered coastal communities, and built ecological resilience. Declared a “national disaster” in January 2000 after decades of overfishing, the West Coast groundfish fishery rebounded under catch shares, with total biomass climbing more than 50 percent, several species rebuilt years ahead of schedule, and revenues rising 70 percent between 2011 and 2017.
What’s more, behind every scientifically documented, statistically significant recovery lies a quiet conversion of an individual heart. My new book with co-author Amanda Leland, Sea Change: Unlikely Allies and a Success Story of Oceanic Proportions tells the arc of Buddy Guindon, who first opposed, then embraced this new form of dominion. Buddy, and many others like him, went from treating the ocean like a pinata to defending it from extractive exploitation.
Reflecting on his journey from overfishing to stewardship, Buddy recalled the parable of the disciples, frustrated and exhausted after a fruitless night at sea. Jesus tells them to try again, to cast their net on the other side of the boat. They did, and hauled in a miraculous catch.
It may be a stretch to call Buddy a “fisher of men.” But he answered a call nonetheless. For decades he spread the word of catch shares, offering as exhibit A his own redemptive arc.
For many fishermen and ocean stewards, that parable is more than a metaphor. It's a roadmap for rebuilding trust, restoring fisheries, and recovering our spiritual connection to the fullness of creation.
What would it mean for you to help reimagine and restore dominion over the wild nature you love?
James Workman is with Amanda Leland the co-author of Sea Change: Unlikely Allies and a Success Story of Oceanic Proportions, a true story of redemption, resilience, and renewal beneath the waves. He lives in California and has worked with communities of faith, fishermen, and policymakers to bridge conservation and cooperation.
