When the Boats go Quiet

How policy sank a fleet and community before the tide ever did.

Once, in a rugged coastal harbour, a humble fishing fleet bobbed at anchor. The boats were all shapes and sizes—some just big enough for a man and a dog, others run by families who’d fished those waters for generations. They worked in the estuaries, close to shore, and out among the reefs when weather allowed.

They weren’t getting rich, but they made an honest living. Their catch fed more than just their own families. Their prawns went to the co-op. Their bream filled the esky at the fish and chip shop. Their crabs ended up in local cafés, while schoolkids stared through glass at the fishmonger’s window before picking out dinner. The work was honest, seasonal, and stitched tightly into the fabric of the town.

Then one day, a government official arrived from the capital in a fresh shirt and city shoes. He carried a folder marked Fisheries Reform – Commercial Viability Framework.

He gathered the fishers by the slipway and made an announcement.

“We’ve identified inefficiencies,” he said. “Some of you are not commercially viable under the new metrics. From this point forward, your operations must meet profitability thresholds, invest in scalable infrastructure, and prove long-term yield competitiveness. The goal is to modernise the sector.”

A murmur passed through the crowd.

“What do you mean we’re not viable?” asked old Mick, whose wild-caught flathead had fed three generations through the town’s takeaway.

The officer gestured to his folder. “We’ve modelled optimal industry outcomes. Many of you fish below the minimum economic yield. You don’t process at scale. Your operations are low-volume, high-labour. That’s inefficient.”

“But my business feeds half this town,” said a fisher. “I supply the co-op, the monger, the pub, the café, even the school tuckshop on Fridays.”

“None of that changes the numbers,” the officer replied. “You may wish to consider leasing or selling your quota to a larger operator. Economies of scale are the future.”

And so, the reforms came. Licences were consolidated. Quotas were hoarded like gold. Paperwork multiplied. Entry became unaffordable. Compliance costs outpaced catches.

One by one, the small boats vanished from the harbour.

The co-op closed. The fish and chip shop started ordering frozen imports trucked in from overseas. The monger’s window sat empty by lunchtime. Tourists still came, but now they ate “battered hoki” that had never seen an Australian tide.

Government reports showed fewer fishers, greater efficiency. But no one could buy fresh local snapper without driving 100 kilometres.

One morning, a boy stood by the sea with his grandfather, staring at the silent jetty.

“Why doesn’t the fish shop sell your fish anymore?” he asked.

The old man adjusted his weather-worn cap. “Because someone behind a desk decided I wasn’t viable."

"And now, no one around here can taste what the ocean gives us.”

The Moral

Commercial viability isn’t found in a spreadsheet—it lives in every connection between the boat, the dock, the monger, the shop, and the plate. When reform ignores the human economy that sustains local communities, it doesn’t just sink boats—it drains the lifeblood from coastal towns.