As the cod returns and old conversations resurface, those on the water and those in government wrestle with a question that still lingers beneath it all: have we truly learned from what was lost?
By Pam Pardy
In New-Wes-Valley, where the fishery still hums with life, Edgar Hunt doesn’t speak in hypotheticals. He speaks from what he has seen.
“I’ve been fishing ever since I was… I don’t know… barely a teenager, I suppose,” he says.
Now in his early fifties, Edgar is still at it. Still on the water, still paying attention. And what he sees right now worries him.
The conversation circling the Newfoundland and Labrador fishery is not new. It’s an old echo, one that carries the weight of memory, loss, and lessons learned during the cod moratorium.
Edgar remembers that, too. Everyone here does, he adds. Which is why the idea of dragging, especially on or near spawning grounds, doesn’t sit right with him.
“My take on it,” he says, “the FFAW is not going to fight this dragging issue.”
He does not say it lightly. Nor does he say it with anger. It comes out more like frustration, shaped by years of watching how decisions get made and who they serve.
He points to competing interests within the fishery itself. Offshore fleets, inshore harvesters, and plant workers. All tied together under the same umbrella, but not always pulling in the same direction.
“There are still fishermen in Newfoundland that wants to put the draggers back into the cod fishery their own self,” he explains. “Some want a cod quota they can trawl for.”
And that, he believes, is part of the problem. Because from where Edgar stands, the province has already come too far to risk repeating history.
“We’ve invested so heavily in getting this cod fishery back up and running,” he says. “And what destroyed it once will go and destroy it again.”
It is a blunt assessment. But it is grounded in something deeper than opinion. It is grounded in lived experience.
Edgar has been part of the effort to rebuild. Years ago, through federal funding aimed at strengthening the fishery, he invested in an autoline system. A modern hook and line method designed to catch fish more sustainably, one at a time, without damaging the ocean floor.
“We proved that we can catch fish with hook and line,” he says. “And it’s good fish.”
He speaks with pride when he talks about quality.
“On my grade slips, I got 90-95 percent Grade A fish.”
That matters. Not just for market value, but for the long-term health of the fishery. Because, unlike dragging, a hook and line does not tear through the bottom. It does not indiscriminately scoop up everything in its path.
“It’s zero damage,” he says simply.
And yet, despite that, he sees pressure building to move back toward faster, heavier methods.
“They don’t want to see fish coming up one at a time,” he says. “They want to load their boat in a day or two.”
That push for speed, for volume, is something Edgar cannot reconcile with what he knows about the ocean.
“There’s a reason why all that cod congregate in December, January, February,” he says. “That’s where they spawn. You can’t be at them. Leave them alone.”
For him, this is not just about cod. It’s about the entire ecosystem. He recalls being part of a study years ago with scientists from the Marine Institute, including Dr. Paul Winger. Cameras were attached to trawl gear and sent to the ocean floor to capture what really happens during dragging.
What they saw stayed with him.
“It turned my stomach,” he says.
On the screen were crab grounds, once healthy, now torn apart. The seabed carved into ridges. Crab crushed, scattered.
“When it gets finished, it’s like a potato garden,” he says.
That image has never left him.
“Ever since he showed me that video, I cannot get it out of my mind.”
It’s that memory that fuels his stance today. Because, from above the water, dragging looks harmless enough. Boats moving slowly, quietly, across the surface. But below, he says, is another story entirely.
Meanwhile, on the federal level, the conversation sounds different. Joanne Thompson, Minister of Fisheries, Oceans and the Canadian Coast Guard and Member of Parliament for St. John’s East, carries her own understanding of what is at stake. She, too, lived through the cod moratorium. She saw firsthand what it did to families and communities across the province.
“Let me be very clear,” she says. “I never want to see that happen again.”
For her, cod is not just a resource. It is identity. History. Survival.
“Cod is part of who we are,” she says. “It’s tied to our history, our culture, and the survival of so many coastal communities.”
That understanding shapes how she approaches decisions. She speaks about the balance between science and lived knowledge, emphasizing that both must guide the future of the fishery.
“We’ve already learned the hard way what happens when you ignore either one,” she says.
In 2024, northern cod moved out of the critical zone, allowing for the reopening of a carefully managed fishery. One, she notes, looks very different from the past.
Today’s management includes dockside monitoring, daily reporting, at-sea observers, patrols, and satellite tracking. Measures designed to ensure the stock is protected.
Her department, she explains, continues to prioritize inshore harvesters, Indigenous communities, and those whose livelihoods depend directly on the fishery.
At the same time, she acknowledges there’s a place for offshore and midshore fleets in maintaining a stable and economically viable industry.
“These decisions do not come without extensive consultations,” she says, noting that a wide range of perspectives are considered alongside scientific advice.
Looking ahead, her focus is clear.
“This fishery has to last,” she says. “We need the next generation to see a future on the water.”
It’s a message rooted in responsibility. In caution. And in that way, it’s not entirely at odds with what Edgar is saying. Both talk about sustainability, about protecting what remains. But where policy speaks in systems and oversight, Edgar speaks in what he sees happening right now.
He talks about fish being dumped. About small fish caught and discarded. About pressure from large offshore operations.
“I know what’s going on,” he says. “I got friends on those boats.”
He does not frame it as an accusation so much as reality. And when he talks about the future, his concern stretches beyond the water.
“We got it brought back now to where it is,” he says of the cod stock. “But we’re not even going to give it a chance.”
In his own life, he has already made difficult decisions based on that uncertainty. He comes from a long line of fishermen. Generations who knew no other way of life.
“My grandfather was one of the first crab fishermen in Newfoundland,” he says. “Their fathers were fishermen. That’s all we know.”
But for his own children, he chose a different path.
“I drove them away from the fishery as much as I could,” he says.
One son is now in nursing. The other works with the Coast Guard.
“They still come back,” he admits. “It’s in their blood.”
But the stability is not there. Not enough to rely on.
And that, more than anything, may be what ties all of this together. The question is no longer just about fish, but whether the fishery can still be something you build a life on, and whether the lessons of the past are strong enough to guide the future.
I reached out numerous times to the FFAW to speak on these concerns. Calls were made. Emails were sent with no response.
And so the voices that remain in this conversation are the ones still willing to speak. A harvester who has seen beneath the surface. A minister trying to chart a responsible path forward.
Both carry the weight of what Newfoundland and Labrador has already been through. And both, in their own way, are asking the same quiet question. Have we learned enough to get it right this time?
