Legoe Bay sits on the western side of Lummi Island, the long, low strip of land that Bellinghamsters see when they look across the water from downtown. Being something of an Indoor Girl, I never expected to go anywhere near a commercial salmon fishery, but when Ian Kirouac of Lummi Island Wild invited me on a tour of one of their reef netting rigs I could not resist. What, I wondered, was so special about this way of catching fish? We pushed off the beach in Legoe Bay in an aluminum skiff on the hottest day in August. The sun glinted off the waves as we aimed for a line of small platforms set on pontoons floating not far from shore.
Photograph by Nicole Kimberling
Only one rig was manned that day, but these fishermen are engaged in conservation, rather than commerce—Jeff Jacobsen and Bob Cicinotta are out counting fishes for the Pacific Salmon Commission. These numbers are critical to ensuring enough salmon return to the Fraser River for each species to endure and remain plentiful.
Salmon are born in freshwater rivers and lakes, then spend their adult lives at sea before returning to their birthplace to spawn and, ultimately, perish.
“The migrating salmon come up through the Rosario Strait.” Kirouac pointed southward to the body of water between Lummi and Orcas Islands. “Then they cross Legoe Bay on their way north to finish their life-cycle by spawning in the Fraser River. Hopefully, some of them run into our rigs on the way.”
Photograph by Nicole Kimberling
So what is reef netting? It’s when fishermen, using underwater lines and long, floating ribbons, create the perception of a reef underwater in order to coax migrating fish upward toward the surface, then direct them over a net, where they can be caught.
This method was developed by the indigenous Coast Salish Peoples, who originally used eelgrass and cedar to create their illusory reefs. Not much has changed since then. I was excited to step onto a rig and see for myself what it’s like to work on the water. My first impression was the shocking quiet.
The second was how easy it would be to fall into the water. The platforms are small—only a couple of yards wide and maybe 15 feet long. They’re arranged in pairs with a small net strung between them, underneath the waves. On each end of the floating deck sits a tall ladder, around 12 feet high, where the fishermen take their positions to look down through the glassy summer water to spot their target fish so they’ll know when to pull their net.
Photograph by Nicole Kimberling
Kirouac invited me to climb up and see the view and… Friends, I did try, but I only made it to the 10-foot rung before the rocking of the platform and dizzying height forced a humiliating descent. Kirouac stood up top, fearing no fall, pointing out salmon jumping far across the bay.
“You live a crazy life,” I remarked. Kirouac only laughed.
During the times that they are allowed to take salmon, the reef netters are on those ladders for hours, peering into the mesmerizing waves and waiting.
Photograph by Nicole Kimberling
When salmon arrive, the fishermen give the call, and with the help of solar powered motors the net is pulled and the fish inside are hauled into a smaller holding tank—the size of a large bathtub. There the reef netters are able to reach in and individually release every fish that they didn’t mean to catch keeping only the target fish and eliminating bycatch.
When all they have left in the tank are salmon, they lift the fish out, cut a gill, and put them into slush ice immediately. The fish never struggle for hours in a gill net or thrash on a line, so the meat is free from adrenaline, which gives the product a sweet, mild quality—and the fish arguably one of the most humane deaths in the industry.
Photograph by Nicole Kimberling
This is a catch counted in hatch marks, rather than tons. There’s even a whiteboard showing the number of sockeyes and pinks caught this year to prove it.
“A big ocean-going vessel will catch in one day what we catch in an entire season, but they also measure their bycatch in tons,” Kirouac tells me. “Reef netting is truly sustainable. And we’re the only people in the world doing it anymore. It’s unique in the world and it’s happening right here in Legoe Bay.”
Photograph by Nicole Kimberling
At the end of the excursion, I asked Kirouac what, more than anything, he wanted readers of Bellingham Alive to know. His answer was unhesitating, “Taste. Trust. Truth. The taste is the best in the world and you can trust that we are telling you the truth about sustainability.” 3131 Mercer Ave., Ste. 105, Bellingham, 360.366.8786, lummiislandwild.com
