For Nancy Wadden, fishing is more than a livelihood. After 35 years on the Atlantic, she remains tied to an industry under strain.Jess Deeks
Nancy Wadden’s alarm goes off at 2:30 a.m. During lobster season, she’s usually leaving the harbour by 4 a.m., her 38-foot Cape Island boat slicing into the dark Atlantic waters off eastern Cape Breton, N.S. By the time most people are pouring their first coffee, she’s hauling traps – 275 of them, one by one – hoping the ocean has been generous overnight.
“To me, it’s not a job,” she says. “Fishing gets into your blood. It’s who I am.”
Ms. Wadden is a fourth-generation fish harvester from Port Morien, a small coastal community east of Sydney, N.S. She’s been fishing for roughly 35 years, working lobster primarily, along with snow crab and halibut.
But the work Ms. Wadden loves is facing rough tides. Fishing remains one of Canada’s most dangerous occupations and it’s an industry increasingly short on newcomers. Long hours, rising costs, safety risks and prohibitively expensive licences have made it harder for the next generation to see a future on the water – even as fishing continues to anchor much of the economy and culture across Atlantic Canada.
Ms. Wadden, who’s 58, didn’t always plan on this life. She left home for Ottawa in her early 20s and took a job at Canadian Tire, but quickly realized city life wasn’t for her.
“You can’t take the East Coast out of the girl,” she says.
Fishing reeled her back.
She grew up around boats, docks and rope, even if her grandfather believed women didn’t belong on deck.
“He was worried you’d fall overboard,” she says. “Things were different then.”
When she returned home and began fishing full-time, the industry was overwhelmingly male. It didn’t faze her. She had grown up learning from her uncles, both lifelong fishers.
“It was second nature to me,” Ms. Wadden says. “I didn’t care what anyone thought.”
Her boat, Nancy and Teresa, once belonged to her uncle. When he brought it into the harbour decades ago, it was among the largest there. Now, surrounded by bigger, newer vessels, it’s one of the smallest – a reflection of how the industry has changed, pushing toward size, power and capital.
On a typical day, she and her two crewmates haul traps steadily through the morning, lifting wooden cages that can weigh up to 150 pounds when wet. The work is repetitive, physical and unforgiving.
“I have aches in my body,” she says. “Arthritis is not my friend.”
The job’s dangers are constant, even on calm days. An average of 11 commercial fishers die each year, according to the Transportation Safety Board of Canada. Despite a decline in the number of active fishers and vessels, the fatality rate has remained steady, leading the agency to classify commercial fishing as one of the country’s most hazardous occupations.
For Nancy Wadden, the physical toll of fishing is outweighed by the joy and meaning she finds on the water.Supplied
Richard MacLean, executive director of Fish Safe Nova Scotia, says the perils are baked into the job. Fish harvesters work on moving platforms, handling heavy gear in cold, unpredictable conditions. Rope can snag a foot. A sudden wave can knock someone off balance.
“You just don’t know what’s going to happen from moment to moment,” says Mr. MacLean, whose organization provides safety training for fisheries across the sector. “And you’re often far away from help.”
He points to a tragedy in Gloucester, Mass., last month, when seven fishers died after their vessel, the Lily Jean, sank.
“It’s far safer than it was 50 or 100 years ago, but it’s still a job many young people today may not want to partake in,” he says. “It’s still dangerous, and accidents can happen.”
Mr. MacLean says the industry’s future depends on creating safer working environments to attract a new generation of harvesters. But he notes there’s been a cultural shift. Nova Scotia now mandates personal flotation devices on fishing vessels, part of a broader safety push after years of drownings at sea.
The average age of fish harvesters in Nova Scotia is currently in the late 50s, he says, leading to an uptick in crews bringing defibrillators aboard.
“You could be in prime heart-attack age if you’re hauling lobster traps or nets,” Mr. MacLean says. “There’s a chance, of course, for that.”
Ms. Wadden has seen what happens when caution slips. Years ago, in a neighbouring port, fishers ignored a worsening forecast to haul the last of their traps. Two people died when their boat went down.
“One death is one too many,” she says.
Even so, catastrophe doesn’t factor much into her thinking. “You can’t live in fear,” she says. “If you did, you wouldn’t do anything.”
Her lobster season runs from late spring into summer – safer than winter fisheries, where ice, freezing spray and brutal winds raise the stakes dramatically.
Still, she’s learned when to cut losses. Five traps left in the water aren’t worth risking lives.
There’s comfort in numbers. On fishing days, all 32 boats from her harbour head out together. Sometimes they’re working practically side by side, essentially a safety net stretched across the water.
The industry itself is under strain. Climate change is warming the waters, prompting regulators to shift lobster seasons earlier in hopes of protecting stocks. Costs are rising – fuel, gear, maintenance – while prices don’t always keep pace. Lobster remains a luxury product, sensitive to global supply and demand.
“Fifteen dollars a pound is great,” she says, quoting a fellow fisher. “But $15 a pound when there’s no pounds is no good to me.”
Beyond economics, bigger structural threats loom. Corporations are increasingly moving into fisheries traditionally dominated by independent owner-operators, driving up licence values and squeezing out young fishers hoping to buy their own boats. Offshore wind development poses another concern, particularly in areas where fishing grounds overlap with proposed turbine sites.
“We’ve been here for hundreds of years,” Ms. Wadden says. “We’ve proven we’re sustainable and profitable. And the worry now is we’re being pushed aside.”
Despite it all – the fatigue, the aches, the risks and the uncertainty – she keeps going back. On setting day, when traps are stacked high and nerves sit in her throat, she feels it most acutely. Then the season settles into rhythm. The ocean becomes her office again.
“There’s a calmness to being out there,” she says. “They say if you love your job, you never work a day in your life. That’s how I feel.”
Asked how long she plans to fish, Ms. Wadden doesn’t hesitate.
“Until I can’t get in or out of the boat anymore.”