From Kent Narrows to the Po Delta: one crab, two very different stories
I live near Kent Narrows, Maryland—but I’m from Emilia-Romagna, where the Po River fans into the Adriatic. In both places, water shapes identity and work. Yet the same species tells two opposite stories. Here in the Chesapeake, the blue crab is a heritage fishery struggling through one of its lowest population counts on record. Back home, that same crab has become an invasive predator devouring clams and mussels, threatening a hundred-million-euro industry.
This shared fate captures what I work on every day: how markets and ecosystems intertwine. The solutions that help watermen in Maryland—responsible aquaculture, demand for invasives, better habitat data—are the same tools that could turn crisis into opportunity in the Po Delta. Two estuaries, one crab, and a reminder that economic recovery and ecological balance are the same story told in different tides.
I live a few minutes from Kent Narrows, Maryland. I grew up on the other side of the Atlantic, in Emilia‑Romagna. Two working estuaries—Chesapeake Bay and the Po Delta—now share a twist of fate that ties directly to my work in the blue economy and market systems.
The Chesapeake today (a quick pulse check)
In 2025, the Chesapeake tells a complicated story. The Bay-wide Winter Dredge Survey estimated just 238 million blue crabs—the second-lowest count since monitoring began in 1990. Among them, only 108 million were spawning-age females, far short of the 196-million target scientists set as a benchmark for a healthy population. The slump echoes in the docks and picking houses: the 2024 commercial harvest totaled just 42.5 million pounds, well below the long-term average of roughly 59 million.
Yet amid this decline, oysters offer a glimmer of resilience. The 2023–24 Maryland season brought in over 430,000 bushels of wild oysters, while oyster aquaculture quietly reached a record 94,286 bushels—proof that farming and restoration efforts are starting to pay off. Down at Kent Narrows, that recovery still feels tangible. The old pilings are busy again, and Harris Seafood, Maryland’s last full-time, year-round oyster shucking and packing house, keeps its doors open—an enduring symbol of a waterfront that, against the odds, continues to work.
Harris Seafood, Maryland’s last full-time, year-round oyster shucking and packing house
…and the Po Delta right now
In my home region, the same blue crab (Callinectes sapidus) is an invasive species that is ravaging clam and mussel farms. Italy appointed a national special commissioner in 2024 as estimated damages climbed to ~€100 million, with the Po Delta (Goro/Scardovari) at the epicenter.
Scientists and regional data document hundreds of tons of blue crabs removed in 2023 from Po Delta lagoons (e.g., ~556 t July–Oct 2023; ~749 t across the Delta), and by September 2025 officials reported over 2,200 t captured in the Delta alone. Impacts on aquaculture include near‑total clam losses in some plots and high predation marks on shells.
Why this matters to me
My career centers on making market systems work for people and ecosystems. Standing on the Kent Narrows bridge at sunrise and remembering Goro at dusk, the lesson is the same: ecology and economics are inseparable. Poor recruitment and habitat stress depress Maryland crabbers’ incomes; invasive crabs turn Emilia‑Romagna’s clam and mussel value chains upside down.
What happens in the Chesapeake and the Po Delta reminds us that markets can either accelerate decline or drive recovery—and that they can do both across oceans. The solutions that work here can travel there.
In Maryland, the most direct act of stewardship is to buy recovery, not decline. Choosing farm-raised or responsibly harvested oysters sustains the Bay’s rebound and keeps year-round jobs alive in places like Kent Narrows. Demand fuels restoration; every shucked oyster represents cleaner water and a maintained dock.
We can also eat the problem. In the Chesapeake, that means embracing blue catfish and other non-natives; in Italy, it means the granchio blu—our own blue crab turned invader. Regions in the Po Delta are already turning removals into revenue, and policies that channel public procurement—school meals, hospital menus—can make “removal” a steady livelihood instead of an emergency expense.
Aquaculture, on both sides, needs insurance against shocks. De-risking through blended finance—for predator exclusion gear, seed insurance, or salinity-proof infrastructure—keeps small cooperatives afloat when nature turns against them. And because trade can tell powerful stories, traceable, cross-market channels could link Chesapeake oysters and Italian blue crab on the same menu, their origins clearly labeled, showing how consumption and conservation can align.
Finally, none of it works without investment in habitat and data. Reef building, submerged-vegetation protection, and robust stock assessments aren’t luxuries—they’re financial protection for coastal livelihoods..
Mnemba’s Fishing Communities: Holding on to a Changing Sea
As the sun rises over Mnemba, Mozambique, fishermen prepare their boats while women wade through the shallows, searching for shellfish. The sea has always provided, but now, the fish are fewer, the reefs quieter. Illegal fishing and environmental changes have left their mark, yet the community persists—casting nets, weaving baskets, and diving for octopus in the seagrass beds. Their connection to the ocean is unbreakable, but for how much longer?
In June 2024, I found myself once again in Mnemba, Mozambique, camera in hand, on assignment for the Wildlife Conservation Society (WCS). I had been all over Mozambique before, living and working in different corners of this beautiful country. I had visited Mnemba before too, but this time, something felt different.
Maybe it was the golden light stretching across the water at dawn, painting the fishing boats in amber hues. Maybe it was the rhythmic sound of the waves, a heartbeat pulsing through every moment. Or maybe it was the people—the men and women of Mnemba’s fishing communities, who, despite everything, still smiled, still welcomed me, still treated me as one of their own.
Before the first sliver of sunrise broke the horizon, I was already walking barefoot along the shore. The scent of salt and damp nets filled the air. Around me, the fishermen were at work, their hands rough and calloused as they secured lines and checked their gear. Some worked in silence, their focus unshaken. Others laughed, voices carrying over the lapping waves.
But the men were not the only ones working. The women moved with quiet strength and steady purpose, weaving nets, carrying baskets, and preparing the day's catch. Further down the beach, a group of women waded knee-deep in the shallows, scanning the seafloor for shellfish. One of them, an elder named Amina, greeted me with a knowing smile. "The sea is our life," she said, hands sifting through the sand. "But it is not the same sea my mother knew."
She told me how the catches were smaller, how they now had to walk farther to find food. Her daughter, barely sixteen, worked beside her, learning the trade passed down through generations. Yet even as they labored, they laughed, their resilience as unwavering as the tides.
Later, I followed a group of spear fishermen slipping into the shallow waters. Their movements were fluid, practiced, as they swam through the seagrass beds, spears poised, searching for octopus and reef fish. Seagrass, often overlooked, is one of the most important marine habitats, sheltering juvenile fish and providing food for countless species. The fishermen dove deep, disappearing beneath the surface, only to emerge minutes later, triumphant with their catch.
Underwater, I captured the reefs in all their textured beauty—intricate coral formations twisting and sprawling like underwater forests. The colors were impressive, the structures vibrant, but something was missing. The reef fish, once darting between the corals, were almost entirely gone. On some large coral bommies, there were evident signs of bleaching. The ecosystem felt eerily still as if life had slowly drained away.
Over 90% of Mozambique’s annual fish landings come from small-scale fishers, but their catches have declined by nearly 30% in the past 25 years. Illegal and unregulated fishing—much of it from foreign fleets—drains the country’s fish stocks, leaving local fishermen struggling to compete.
Despite everything, they worked. For their children, for their community, for a future they refused to let slip away.
The tide comes in, the tide goes out, and the people of Mnemba continue their quiet, unrelenting fight for the sea that has sustained them for generations. The ocean has changed, and it will continue to change. The question is whether, years from now, there will still be enough left for those who know it best.
