KING OF FISH
Orri Vigfússon has been a stalwart protector of wild salmon
Orri Vigfússon, the Icelander who founded t he North Atlantic Salmon Fund, has announced he is slowing down. Nothing will affect the protection of wild salmon as much as even a faltering in Vigfússon’s legendary pace and drive.
He has relentlessly pursued a mission with which his name has become synonymous. It was he who in the 1980s recognised the damage being done off Greenland by the winter fishery for fattening salmon, both American and European springers, by small offshore boats. He saw what the long-line salmon capture off the Faeroes could do to European salmon and grilse, and he understood the impact of the multiple indiscriminate net fisheries around Ireland and Britain.
Others recognised this too, but Vigfússon’s response was the canny one because he understood that the solution was commercial. His key concept was that all participants had a genuine right to the fishery. If Inuits with no alternative income netted salmon which bred in Europe, why shouldn’t they? They had a right, like mackerel fishers off Scotland, to harvest a migrating crop. He viewed them not as poachers, but as stakeholders.
Vigfússon used business reasoning, paying fishermen and netsmen for capping
‘Vigfússon understood that the solution was commercial and that all participants had a genuine right to the fishery’
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the catch, and helping them to develop new fisheries. Some British wild salmon interests wanted these rights bought out in perpetuity but Vigfússon knew that would not work. It offended, too, his sense of himself being a fisherman, from a fishing heritage. So he sat in fuggy overheated halls in unpronounceable places listening and talking, making offers and counter-offers. He was indefatigable.
In the course of defending his champion fish he shook the hands of American presidents, appeared in a photo of a salmon-rod wielding Putin, and met Nicola Sturgeon, capturing her attention by detailing the revenue Iceland earns from sport fishing.
No-one went to his paper-strewn office in Reykjavik. He did the travelling. He committed the air-time. If he was un-histrionic as a public speaker, it didn’t matter. ‘Orri is here’, people comforted themselves. Quietly humorous, he doggedly stuck to his subject: how can we save more salmon?
His message was never muddled, for he was the sole conduit. There was no team. He carried no bulky files. It was in his head. If he promised the money, it would arrive. At the point of committing, he did not have it but – and this is the astonishing bit – he knew he could raise it. For Vigfússon, acquiring the money was secondary, a detail. He never failed to pay. His backers were often American.
As a deal-maker he is responsive and flexible. There is no background angle, no forbidden zone. If it helps wild salmon he is there, in the frame.
Policies and initiatives have poured out of his office in Reykjavik for thirty years. Although they derive from him only, he vets his ideas with a trusted circle of international helpers. That way he avoids mistakes.
Above all, he knows every detail of salmon survival. He is aware in real-time of temperature movements in the north Atlantic. He is fed information by fishing boats. Do you know when the capelin breeding season starts and finishes? Orri does…
When he understood the damage caused by parasitic sea lice he went on the offensive against salmon farming with undimmed intensity. Now, typically, he is in dialogue with salmon farmers. How can we help wild salmon? It could help you, and it will help me.
When you meet him you feel he has been on a long journey. He is the most successful conservationist spanning more than one country in contemporary times. Slowing up for Vigfússon may have a different meaning than for the rest of us. But even mild deceleration will be felt.