Baby Seal Trapped Inside a Storm-Damaged Floating Fish Pen

A storm-damaged floating fish pen off the coast of Maine is a system of nets and frames, built to hold fish, to give them a pen, to keep them in coastal water, a pen that, in normal use, floats level, holds fish, gives a boundary, a pen that, when a storm damages it, when its net twists, when its frame rocks, becomes a web, a web that can wrap, that can hold, that can turn a seal into a parcel in water, a parcel that cannot unwrap itself. For a baby seal, a small, grey, famously gentle mammal, a breed that swims, that floats, that rests on water, that is built for coastal water, not for struggling against nets, that pen became a trap not because the seal was careless, but because a fish pen net, once twisted, does not stay politely twisted, it tangles, it wraps, it holds, and a line that is looped, that is tight around a body, can turn a float into a hold, a hold that a seal cannot swim through, cannot push through, cannot do any of the things that would get it out of a pen on its own, no matter how gentle it is, no matter how small it is for a baby, no matter how much it wants to be out, to be in open water, to be a seal again, in coastal water that is clear, not in a pen, not in net, not with a line looped around its body, not in a place where fish pens are supposed to hold fish, not seals, not baby seals that should be in open water, with mothers, with futures that are, for seals, defined by swimming, by floating, by open coasts, not by pens, not by nets, not by lines that loop bodies.

The seal pup had not gone looking for trouble. Baby seals go where coastal water goes, they swim, they investigate pens, they float near frames because that is what seal pups do, they check, they float, they make sure the world is as it should be, and a storm-damaged floating fish pen off Maine, with its twisted net, its rocking frame, its looped line, is exactly the kind of place a seal pup will investigate, will swim into, will discover, too late, that a net that looked like water is actually a wrap, that a pen that looked like a boundary is actually a hold, that a frame that looked like a support is actually a rock, a rock that moves a pen with waves, that makes a rescue a task done on a moving dinghy, in coastal water that does not stay still, in a current that does not wait, a place where a small, grey body can float, can try to swim, can wait, in the way seal pups wait, by floating, by watching, by hoping, in the way seal pups hope, that the world outside the pen will change, that net will be cut, that hands will come, that a soft board will arrive, that safety will arrive, in the form of rescuers who understand pens, who understand seals, who understand that a pup in a pen needs help, not just calling, needs a dinghy, specialist cutting tools, a soft support board, not a pull, not a force, but a guiding, a coaxing, a voice that says, in tone, that outside a pen is safe, that a board is safe, that people are safe, that a coast, even a Maine coast after a storm, can be a place where a seal is rescued, not trapped.

A baby seal trapped inside a storm-damaged floating fish pen is a pup in danger from the pen itself, from its twisted net, which can wrap, which can hold a body, which can press, which can make swimming harder, which can turn a float into a struggle, from its looped line, which can hold, which can block a swim, which can become a second, tighter trap inside a softer trap, a line that holds a body even after net is cut, a line that must be removed, carefully, on a soft board, without pulling, without injuring a body that is already held, already stressed, already vulnerable to pressure, to twisting, to a sudden pull against net that does not give, from its rocking frame, which can shift, which can move a pen with waves, which can make every cut a negotiation with water, and from the simple fact that a baby seal in a pen cannot cut net, cannot remove a line, cannot do any of the things that would get it out of a pen on its own, no matter how gentle it is, no matter how small it is for a baby, no matter how much it wants to be out, to be in open water, to be a seal again, in coastal water that is clear, not in a pen, not in net, not with a line looped around its body, not in a place where fish pens are supposed to hold fish, not seals.

A marine animal rescue team by dinghy arrived, with specialist cutting tools and a soft support board, because a fish pen rescue is not one person’s work, it is a team’s work, a work of holding, of cutting, of supporting, of watching a pup’s body while a pen moves with waves, a work that requires hands on a frame, hands on net, hands on a line, hands on a pup, all at once, all coordinated, all steady, because a frame, once held, must be kept held, must not rock further, must not be allowed to shift onto a pup that is halfway out, onto a body that is halfway free, onto a pup that is, for a few seconds, in the most dangerous place of all, halfway between trapped and free, halfway in a pen, halfway out, a place where a wave, a shift, a rock, can turn freedom into a new trap, into a new wrap, into a pup that was almost out and is now wrapped again, worse than before.

The bodycam from a dinghy looked at the seal pup near the pen in the opening seconds, and the image it gave was the image of a small animal in a place of net and water. The seal pup floated close to the pen, its grey coat wet, its head up, its body in water, its whole posture a study in a gentle animal trying to be free, trying to swim, trying to move through net that was too twisted, too wrapped to allow a body through, a pup that had tried, that was still trying, that would keep trying, in the way seal pups try, with gentle persistence, with a refusal to give up that is famous in the species, but that, against net, was not enough, was never going to be enough, because net does not yield to swimming, net yields only to tools, to teams that cut it, slowly, controlled, strand by strand, until an opening becomes wide enough for a body, for a board, for a pup to be moved out, to be placed on a rescue deck, to be checked. A rescuer on the dinghy kept his voice low and calm, and spoke to the pup in the pen, the way people speak to seals when they want them to wait, to trust, to believe that the world beyond net is a world that wants to help, that has cutting tools and boards, that has a way out, that has safety waiting, not just net and a twisted frame and a looped line, but open water, a rescue deck, a check, a future that is not in a pen.

“Hey, little one… I see you in there. Hang on, we’re going to cut this net for you.”

The pup’s head turned at the sound, just slightly, toward the voice, toward the rescuer who was speaking to it from the dinghy, and it did not stop trying to swim, because seal pups do not stop trying just because a voice tells them to, because a gentle animal’s instinct is to move, to float, to solve a problem by effort, even when effort alone cannot solve it, even when net holds, even when a line holds, but it paused, just briefly, between movements, as if the voice had told it that waiting was itself a kind of work, that floating still while a frame was held was a job, and that it was good at its job, that it had been doing its job, floating in a pen, waiting, swimming, for as long as the pen had held it there, for as long as it had needed to wait, and that waiting, while not as active as swimming, was still work, still a task, still something a pup could do well, could do with patience, could do until a better job came along, which was, in this case, a cut, an opening, a move out, a job that involved moving, not just waiting, a job that would take it from a pen to a deck, to safety, to a check, a job that a pup, given a voice and a cut, would do gladly, would do with the gentle trust that seal pups bring to people, especially to people who are helping, especially to being with open water again.

From three to seven seconds, a staff member held the net frame steady, while a teammate lifted part of the net above the water. The frame’s holding mattered, because a frame that is not held can rock, can shift, can press harder onto a pup, can close a cut that was just made, can turn a rescue into a new trap, and a frame held steady while net is lifted is a frame that will stay where it is, that will not rock further on a pup halfway out, a frame that, for the duration of the rescue, would be as steady as a doorway, even though it was a fish pen frame, even though it was storm-damaged, even though it was in coastal water, a frame that, once held, allowed net to be lifted, net that had twisted, that had held a pup in, that, once lifted, created a wider path, a path that a pup could actually move through, a path that led out, not a path that led deeper into a pen, a path that was, for a few minutes, a doorway, a way out, a path from inside a pen to outside, from net and a line to open water, from a Maine fish pen to safety.

The pup watched the frame hold, watched the net lift, watched the rescuers’ hands, and its body, which had been tense and swimming, became a little less tense, a little more focused, as if the frame’s holding itself were a job, as if a lift were a task, as if a pup, given a holding and a voice, could do nothing else but move, could do nothing else but swim, body by body, toward an opening, toward a board, toward safety. The rescuers spoke to each other in short, clear sentences, sentences that left no room for misunderstanding beside a fish pen, with a pup inside it, with a frame to hold, with net to lift, and they spoke to the pup in longer, softer sentences, sentences that were not commands but reassurances, sentences that said, in tone, that the frame was held, that the net was lifted, that there was no hurry, that the pup could take all the time it needed, because time, beside a fish pen, is a thing that can be given, as long as the frame stays held, as long as the net stays lifted, as long as the rescuers work steadily and the pup watches and learns that leaving is possible, that a frame can be held, that net can be lifted, that a way out can appear, even in a pen, even after a storm, even off Maine, even for a baby seal that has been floating close to a pen.

Between seven and twelve seconds, net was cut around the trapped area. A specialist supported the animal on a soft board and removed the last looped line. That last line was the climax of the rescue, the moment when a nearly completed cut became a place of new difficulty, not because the net had closed, but because a line remained, a line that the cut had not removed, a line that stood between the pup and open water, between the pup and a rescue deck, between the pup and a future that was, for a seal, defined by swimming, by floating, by open coasts, not by pens, not by nets, not by lines, not by lines that loop bodies, not by pens that, however well-intentioned, however cut, still hold a pup, still loop a body, still require hands to remove a last line, to support a pup on a board, to move a pup out, body by body, into open water, into safety, into a future that is not a pen, not net, not a line, but open water, a rescue deck, a coast, a home. And underneath that last line was the deeper climax the team had been briefed on: the pen frame rocking while the team cut the net section holding the seal’s body, a frame that did not stay still, that moved with waves, that rocked, that made every cut a negotiation with water, that made a line removal a task done on a rocking frame, a task that required hands to hold a frame, hands to cut net, hands to support a pup, all at once, all while waves rocked, all while a frame moved, a rock that, for a pup, must have felt like a world moving, like a pen shifting, like a reason to freeze, to panic, to scramble, to turn a controlled cut into a sudden movement, into a pup that wedges itself tighter, into a rescue that becomes a new trap.

The rescuer who had spoken at the start spoke again, still low, still calm, talking the pup through the last line, the way people talk to seals when they want them to wait, just a moment longer, while a last line is removed, while a board is held, while a path is made clear, so that the way, which had been almost open, can become fully open, can become a doorway, not a lined gap, not a promise with a line in it, but a path, a way out, a rescue deck, open water, a future that is, for a seal, defined by swimming, by floating, by open coasts, not by pens, not by nets, not by lines that loop bodies.

“Easy, little one… net’s cut, just one loop left. We’ll remove it on the board, then up you come.”

A pup pulled past a last line can be injured, can have a body twisted, a flipper caught, a small, grey frame hurt by a sudden pull against net that does not want to release, and the team did not pull. They removed the last line on a soft board, they held the frame steady, they let the pup’s own swimming carry it forward, once the line was truly removed, once the net was truly cut, once the opening was, finally, an opening, not a lined gap, not a promise with a line in it, but a doorway, a way out, a rescue deck, open water, a coast, a home. The pup moved forward, slowly, body by body, toward the board, toward the rescuers’ hands, toward the world outside the pen, its small, grey body moving with the careful, deliberate gait of a young animal that has decided, finally, that moving forward is safer than staying, that a board is better than net, that a rescue deck, even a rescue deck held by strangers, is better than a pen, that a doorway, even a doorway opened by rescuers on a dinghy, is better than a pen built for fish, that leaving, even after a last line looped its body, is better than staying forever in a pen, off Maine, far from open water, far from safety, except for rescuers who would hold frames, who would lift nets, who would cut lines, who would move a pup out, gently, when it was ready, at its own pace, in its own time.

In the final seconds, the seal was brought onto the rescue deck for checking, clear of the pen, clear of its net, clear of its line, out onto a deck that was open, that was clear, that was not a pen, that was, for a pup, the world as it should be, a world of open water nearby, of people, of a deck where a pup could be examined, given rest, given time, to become, again, a pup that is not in a pen, a pup that is on a deck, a pup that is safe, moved onto a deck, not dragged, not pulled, but supported, held, placed, gently, onto a deck, where it could lie, could breathe, could be checked, could be a seal again. The rescuer who had moved it held it close, his voice now warm with relief, spoken to the pup and to the coast as much as to anyone, because the pup that had floated close to a pen was now out, safe, on a deck, on its way to a check, to safety, to a future that was not in a pen, because the rescue that had almost failed at a last looped line had succeeded, because patience had won over haste, because a low, calm voice had won over a pull, because net, however twisted, however wrapped, can be cut, can be lifted, can be removed, if hands hold it, if a voice guides it, if a pup believes that moving is safe, and does move, body by body, until it is out, until it is safe, until it is home.

“There you go… out of the fish pen, little one. Safe now, you’re on the deck.”

It would be checked for any injury from the pen’s net, for a body strain, for stress from floating in a twisted pen, for the general condition of a baby seal found alone, and, if it was fit, kept safe, given a deck, given rest, given a future that was not a pen, not net, not a line, but a coast, open water, a home, where pups do not need pens held, where fish pens are for holding fish, not for trapping seals, where a baby seal can be a seal again, in open water, not in a pen, not in net, not with a line looped around its body. The pen, its net to be repaired, its frame to be reset, its coastal area to be cleared, stayed off Maine, a storm-damaged pen with a story in it, a reminder that coasts, even coasts as ordinary as a Maine fish farm coast after a storm, are places where pups can become trapped when pens twist, and that trapped pups need people with dinghies, cutting tools, boards, steady hands, and voices that speak low and calm into water, that do not pull a pup past a last line, to bring them back to open water. The pup that had floated close to its pen was out, safe, because a marine team, with a frame held, net lifted, net cut, a last line removed, and a voice that waited, that spoke low and calm into water, that did not pull a pup past a last line, had given it back open water, and open water, for a pup that has been in a pen, is everything, is a coast, is a deck, is a future, is freedom from net, is life without a line looped around its body.