Born to Die: If fish produce millions of eggs – why is there a crisis in the oceans?

PICT0025 The author at 24 in the dry lab. Barbados, WI.

The first time I saw a life begin – was in Barbados.

On that day, rain pounded on the corrugated iron roof above me. Like a Texas cattle stampede, the semi-annual monsoons had pummeled the Lesser Antilles for five days, with no end in site. But I didn’t notice. I was on a mission.

A Masters student in Oceanography. My second year living on the island, working at Bellairs Research Institute of McGill University, I sat on a stool in the dry lab over a microscope. On the microscope stage – a glass petri dish. In the dish, three fish eggs – my crucible of life.

I waited. My dive watch beeped 11:05. Five minutes since I placed the eggs in the dish.

Outside the lab, the gutters thundered with rain roaring through them. The stream of sound called the life in the dish forward.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the orb of light on the stage – where the eggs floated.

Were they be fertilized? Would they divide?

Fresh. Fifteen minutes before, I had plucked them from the Caribbean Sea. My surfboard, net and bucket stood outside the door of the lab.

The eggs had been spawned five hundred feet from where I sat. At the southern most edge of Bellairs reef above my favorite pillar coral, Genus Dendrogyra. One of a few hard corals that feed during the day. It’s tentacles a fine rug of moving threads retracted when you touched them. Then immediately poked out again to feed. I loved to play hide and seek with the coral – but not today.

Above the pillar coral an iridescent bluehead wrasse, a terminal male courted a yellow female. Rising together vent to vent in the water column almost to the surface, they released a stream of eggs and milt. A cloud of pale life hung for a second in the sea.

Then with one swipe it filled my fine aquarium net, with what I hoped would be fertilized eggs. I dumped the contents into a bucket of seawater on the surfboard, and finned hard back to shore.

Dragging the surfboard up the sand trying not spill the contents of the bucket, I ignored the beach vendors’ cries from under the palm trees dripping rain. Their, “Hey missy have a looook. Good t’ings today. Best deal you ever see,” trailed behind me. No time today to look at jewelry – usually tempting for my 24-year-old brain. No – I was on task.

Up the driveway, through the dining hall and kitchen with its scents of Jerk chicken, beans and rice, Anita, the Bellairs’ cook glanced up as I passed the kitchen’s louvered windows. Each day over the past five I’d dashed from lab to sea, and from sea to lab – in the rain. Bajans (the local term for Barbadians) hated rain. I knew Anita thought me crazy, she’d said, “You just one of ‘doz, crazy white girls, who wants to be a doctor of fish. Fancy ‘dat!”

Ignoring Anita’s smirk, I skirted the cats playing in the breezeway, and ran straight to the Dry lab, one of the only air-conditioned buildings on campus.

Over 90% of all fish in the ocean fling their eggs and sperm into the middle of the water. It’s amazing they find each other through the currents and waves. More amazing is that most larvae, the stage that follows hatching, die.

Less than one larva in a million ever make it. At the microscope these thoughts chased themselves in my head, as I watched the eggs in the petri dish.

Would these eggs die too, before they were born?

The rain cooled on my skin in the air-conditioned currents. I shivered. I wanted coffee to warm up – or maybe some jerk chicken. But I daren’t leave. I might miss it again.

Then – under the light – one of the eggs began to divide.

Life accelerated within the 1.5mm diameter (about the size of a period on this page) saran-wrapped shell. One cell multiplied into hundreds. Doubling almost every second. A slim band marking the fish’s backbone appeared cradling a clear yolk. The back bone, just like yours or mine – announced the life to be.

In tropical fish eggs, where water temperatures of 27 to 30 C (80-86 F) stoke the fire of life. It takes only ten hours, for the tube heart to beat. After twenty-four, the pectoral fins flutter. The fish ready to swim, although not yet free. Then the tail twitches, followed by a violent shake that contorts the pin sized body, and from the top of the fish head, complete with black eyes, enzymes spill and weaken the eggshell – until it tears, and a new fish is born into the world.

Twenty-four hours after fertilization this larval fish is ready to die. Either eaten in the ocean full of predators, or of starvation. As a hunter it often fails, unable to swim well enough to catch its prey. When it runs out of yolk, death is often near-by.

Watching fish eggs morph from one cell into a whole living being ready to swim in the ocean in less than a day, fascinated me as a graduate student. It launched my career in science. Urging me to understand why, if fish spawn millions of eggs, we have a global fisheries crisis.

From my work on raising eggs, from coral reef to commercial fish like Atlantic cod, I developed a desire to conserve what is left. To bring back health to the oceans. For the health of OUR oceans and that of human beings is tied tight to each other. Most do not realize this. Most do not even acknowledge that the oceans or we as a species are sick.

There is so much we don’t know about some of the richest places on this Earth, like the Amazon rain forests, or its oceanic cousin, the coral reef – yet in the dense jungle or between the coral polyps may be the knowledge and the ticket to our survival. If we destroy it, we destroy ourselves.

If you want to learn more about what inspired me to become a Marine Biologist, stay tuned for more personal stories. Maybe they’ll encourage you to ask questions – you would not normally ask. Give you the courage to explore your greatest dreams, as I did. Plant seeds for you and your children’s future.

If I can do it, you can too. What are you dying to know about ocean conservation? Or about sustainable seafood? Or about becoming a Marine Biologist? Ask me.


Komodo Dragon of the Sea: Fish names that hide the truth

Two features describe the deep oceans of our planet. Dark and cold (4℃ or 39.2 ℉ )

Light from the surface never reaches this realm and deep ocean currents keep the sun’s heat from the depths.

Credit: NIWA, New Zealand/CenSeam, Census of Marine Life

Life crawls, creeps, plods and paddles here. No stream-lined tunas of the surface stir these waters.
Depth gives way to emptiness compared to the surface, where abundance used to reign –

Before we fished it out.

But there are still fish in the deep.
For how long? We don’t know. Commercial fishing introduced fish from the deep to restaurant plates tables in 1980.
Served as specialities they have a huge customer following. Maybe fewer would want to eat these deep-sea fish – if they knew their real names.

Take a look at this story:

“Roast lamb”, was my thought, as I entered the restaurant and squeezed between the intimate tables, wrapped round a brick fireplace complete with roaring fire – typical of a Manhattan bistro in December. I sat in the chair pulled out for me by my dinner companion and sank into the mood of the evening.

White clothed, low lit, and odors that melted my palette – this room spoke of a delight yet to come. But I wasn’t here for the roast lamb. This restaurant’s speciality was the fish.

I sipped the wine after the maitre de left our table having poured our choice into glasses. A delicate Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand. Young but sassy. Perfect with fish.

The waiter approached. White serving cloth draped his left forearm and said, “May I tell you the specialties of the day?”

Seeing two nods, he continued, “Very well then…I can tempt you with a fillet of…” he hesitated,

“Slimemouth. The flavor is delicate, but full. This fish is our speciality today, flown fresh from the Tasman Sea between Australia and New Zealand.”

“Don’t you mean Orange Roughy?” I said,

Orange Roughy

Orange Roughy (Hoplostethus atlanticus)

“Yes, that is its other name,” said the waiter.

“Thanks no. That fish is an endangered species.”

The waiter maybe used to nature loving East Coasters said , “Alright then…perhaps, some Patagonian Toothfish?”

Chilean seabass 600x212

I took out my iPhone. Swiped to the Seafood Watch app from Monterey Bay Aquarium to check the status of the Patagonian Toothfish.
In deep-ocean fisheries, changes in the status of a species can be rapid, altering day to day. The app keeps me updated.
Allows me to give you, the reader, better information.

“Do you know where the Toothfish, also called the Chilean Sea Bass, was caught?” I asked.

“I believe, Chile,” the waiter said consulting his notes, which impressed me. Most waiters have to go and ask the Chef. This guy was sharp.

Consulting the seafoodwatch app, I read that Chilean Sea Bass was sustainably fished only if caught either at Macquarie, Falkland, or in the Heard or McDonald Islands. All in the southwest Atlantic Ocean. But not from Chile.

I didn’t lecture the waiter. Get him in trouble, just because he told the truth. Called the fish by their real names. But I might have a word with the proprietor about where he sourced his fish…something anyone can do. You don’t have to be a fish doctor.

I said, “No thank you to the Chilean Sea Bass”.

No reaction, just an,”I see. Well then, what you would like as your entree. Perhaps roast lamb?” His pencil poised over his pad, ready to write “lamb”.

I said, “No thank you…I think we both have decided to take the fresh farmed salmon from Maine.” I saw my dinner companion nod his agreement.
But, the waiter’s eyebrows shot up. I couldn’t tell whether it was surprise or approval.Then he retired to the kitchen to place the orders.

Tarragon and rosemary billowed out as the kitchen door swung open and then closed behind the waiter’s straight, starched, black vested back.

“No Orange Roughy today?” my dinner companion asked…

“No…do you know that Orange Roughy is caught deep, more than 600 meters, that’s 2000 feet – half a mile down in the Tasman Sea. We know less about the deep sea than we know about Mars. Do you know how long it takes for Orange Roughy to spawn the next generation?”

My companion shook his head – he was used to my lectures.

“At least twenty years. Longer than it takes a human. But it’s estimated they live for over a 150 years. They grow very slowly. The fishery in New Zealand is not managed well and most are caught before they can reproduce, so the populations are fast disappearing. Also they’re caught with bottom trawls that destroy the habitat for other sea animals. Unfortunately, because of its wonderful taste 40% of all Orange Roughy caught come to the US market.”

I paused, trying to remember, and said, “It’s like in the movie The Freshman, with Marlon Brando and Matthew Broderick…when they’re about to eat the endangered Komodo Dragon – the last of its species. Well the Orange Roughy is like the Komodo Dragon* of the sea. On the verge of extinction. If, like the waiter, we would offer the fish in restaurants and grocery stores as the “Slimemouth” – instead of “Orange Roughy” – it might not be such an appetizing choice – consumer demand would decrease and the fish might have a chance to recover.”

The waiter returned with our farmed Atlantic Salmon from Maine, perfectly prepared. We began to eat.

As to the future of Orange Roughy? No one knows what taking fish from the deep will do to waters naturally life-limited.

But you can make the right choices to help conserve endangered fish and maybe ensure their future. Download the Seafood Watch app ( and consult it next time you go out to eat.                                    

Stay well-informed by coming back to my site to read more about the best fish choices …and to conserve our oceans

Do you have a fish recipe you’d like me to post?…PLEASE SHARE, but only if doesn’t use Orange Roughy or Chilean Sea Bass!


* Note. – The current status of the Komodo Dragon remains “vulnerable”, due to illegal poaching and tourism.