You Can’t Inherit a Licence You Can’t Afford

Artificially Generated Image, No lobsters were hurt when generating this image.

In a time when coastal communities across the globe are watching their fishing villages vanish and their wharves fall silent, one place stands out as an outlier: Maine, USA. While many countries—including Australia—have seen steep declines in small-scale fishers, generational handover, and community-based access to the sea, Maine has managed to keep its young people connected to the water, and its fishing villages very much alive.

In Maine, children as young as eight years old can apply for a student lobster licence. With a limited number of traps, they begin learning the ropes early—hauling pots before school, keeping logs, and absorbing the quiet discipline that comes with a life at sea. For many, it’s not a novelty; it’s the first step in a real career. If they complete their 1,000-hour apprenticeship before the age of 18, they can transition directly to a full commercial licence, bypassing the long waitlists and licensing bottlenecks that lock others out. No expensive buy-ins. No trading of paper. Just experience, commitment, and community connection.

That’s the heart of Maine’s approach. Licences aren’t commodities. They’re tied to the people who fish them. They can’t be leased out or speculated on by investors who never set foot on a boat. This owner-operator model protects not just the resource, but the integrity of the profession. It ensures that the next generation has a way in—not just through inheritance or wealth, but through work.

The state is divided into zones, each with its own local council made up of working fishers. These councils set rules, decide on entry numbers, and manage their patch of ocean according to the conditions they live and breathe. The result is a system where fishers aren’t just subjects of regulation—they’re stewards of it. This localised, cooperative approach doesn’t just improve compliance; it builds a culture of responsibility that runs deeper than any regulation.

Meanwhile, in Australia, the story is unfolding in a very different way. Our licensing systems increasingly favour investors over workers. Access is consolidating, prices are soaring, and many long-time fishers are struggling to hold on, let alone pass on their knowledge. For young Australians, commercial fishing isn’t even a consideration. And why would it be? The cost of entry is often prohibitive, the red tape endless, and the political climate hostile. If they do make it, it’s rarely by design—it’s in spite of the system, not because of it.

Maine shows us that it doesn’t have to be this way. That fisheries management can do more than count fish and limit effort—it can foster communities, mentor young people, and preserve a way of life. It can balance sustainability with opportunity, and make room for the next generation without compromising the last.

What’s happening there is not a fluke. It’s the result of deliberate choices—policies that prioritise small-scale operators, mentorship structures that support new entrants, and a refusal to hand over the ocean to boardrooms and buyouts. While no system is perfect, Maine’s focus on people—on maintaining continuity between the past and the future—is keeping its coastal communities intact.

Australia still has time to learn from this. We still have working harbours, local knowledge, and young people who might choose this life if given half a chance. But we need to act. Because when a generation walks away from the water, they don’t just take their boats—they take their stories, their stewardship, and their sense of place. And once that’s gone, no amount of policy can bring it back.

Maine’s waters are still busy. Its wharves still echo with the sound of traps and boots. Its youth still see fishing not as a relic, but as a future. It’s a reminder that when you keep the door open, people will walk through it. And that maybe, just maybe, the sea has room for one more generation—if we’re willing to make space.