Environmental journalism award winner! The sailors working to save Britain’s seagrass meadows

Anchored in a quiet loch on the west coast of Scotland, Katherine Knight discovered the seabed was barren mud. She raised a small community and set out to replant the underwater desert with life-giving seagrass

The ragged inlets and wild rocky islands of Argyll are the place that I call home. For almost a decade, I have woven between their tide-swept shores onboard my 50ft steel Bruce Roberts, Narwhal. During that time, there have been significant changes in all of our worlds, from social distancing and the proliferation of mobile phone coverage to the rise of social media. Alongside these, how we relate to the magical underwater ecosystems our boats invite us to explore has also changed. I have witnessed changes that have not only left the oceans altered forever, but have left me forever changed too.

The 15th of June dawned, as many Argyll days do, overcast with the promise of rain. Today’s sail promised to be short but momentous, as my parents were joining me and my partner, Eric, onboard Narwhal. My parents have never been on a sailing boat, despite supporting me as my childhood dinghy sailing evolved into a way of life and a career on the ocean. Today, I would have the chance to share something that means so much to me with the people who mean the most.

We slipped out into the Sound of Jura and were immediately picked up by the wind and tide. The surface of the water was boisterous and white-cap speckled. The flood tide was in confused turmoil, trying to decide whether to run into the jaws of the Corryvreckan whirlpool or rush north up the Sound of Luing. Narwhal bucked and tossed like a horse sensing a storm, dipping her toe rail towards the choppy water.

This was the make or break moment: how would my parents react to this alien experience? “Ooh, this is fun,” beamed my mum from behind Narwhal’s oversized wheel. Clouds boiled up against the dark mass of Jura to starboard. Looking south, we could see rain showers tracking across the sound, a rainbow reaching down to deposit its pot of gold on the Ruadh Sgeir lighthouse.

We bumped through the churning waters of the infamous tidal race, the Dorus Mor. The small rocky islands that constrict the flow rushed past, and we were through into relative calm. With the familiar relief of a sheltered anchorage, we settled into a corner of Loch Craignish. Wind-blown and damp with salt, I sat at the nav table. My numb fingers wobbled the words, “Anchored in Dunvullaig Bay,” into the logbook, unaware that I was writing not just a log entry, but a prophecy for the next chapter of my life.

Discovering an Underwater Desert

The pandemic raced across the world, and we found ourselves tied to the shore. A chance meeting on the pontoon led to Eric and myself first volunteering, and then working, for a community organisation restoring native oysters to Dunvullaig Bay. This was the very place that we had anchored when all was still right in the world. We started snorkelling in the loch and were delighted to discover patches of seagrass.

We also discovered a vast area, the size of 100 football pitches, of completely barren mud. The scene was like an underwater apocalypse movie that went on and on. It was a lifeless desert with its own version of tumble(sea)weed. Local villagers, aware of our interest in seagrass, told us how this huge area was once a lush seagrass meadow.

They recalled pulling up their lobster pots to find them full of seagrass. This quiet Scottish loch was not alone in its condition. The decline in seagrass that we were seeing was being replicated across the country and around the world. Zostera Marina, to give it its scientific name, is one of over 70 species commonly known as seagrasses.

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I am often asked why I love seagrass so much. The best answer I can give is to encourage you to get into the water and experience it for yourself. Needing sunlight to grow, seagrass makes its home in shallow waters. No scuba diving gear is required to savour this magical underwater experience.

At low tide, you can simply float on the surface and disappear into an alternative underwater universe. This is a universe where you are flying weightlessly above the canopy of an otherworldly forest. The vivid green blades gently wave in the current like a wheat field in the wind, in time with the slower heartbeat of the ocean. Light, scattered by the fractured water’s surface, dances wild, pulsating patterns on the smooth green fronds.

The movement of the surface shatters the light into a million sparkles. The light picks out the iridescent purple-tipped tentacles of an anemone. Passive and unassuming, it sits supported in the canopy, a flower among the leaves.

A Varied Ecosystem

But this is no flower; it is a weaponised predator. Its tentacles are tipped not just with iridescence, but with poisoned harpoons which it uses to catch and reel in prey. Watch closely and you might see it reach inside its body and carefully lift out a small clone of itself. It will pop the clone neatly down on an adjacent seagrass blade.

This is indeed an alien world, but one where new life is created and nurtured. Seagrass rewards the careful watcher, as a blade on closer inspection may reveal itself as a pipefish. If you are exceptionally lucky, you might even spot a seahorse. I once saw a Gurnard ‘fly’ on its wide outstretched, electric blue pectoral fins, soaring over the meadow.

I happened upon a cat shark resting, curled up like a kitten on a soft cushion. Whilst immersed in the world of the meadow, I have even felt myself being watched. The vibrant ecosystem supports species of all sizes, and the eyes upon me were the liquid deep brown eyes of a slippery, inquisitive harbour seal.

Search seagrass online, and you will quickly learn about the ecosystem services that it provides. It produces oxygen, sequesters carbon, and protects our fragile coastlines from erosion. I recognise the value of these services, but they feel somehow sterile compared to everything that a seagrass meadow truly is.

We can value seagrass for the services which it provides, but its true value is so much more. Its value is in the wonder of the dance of the sunlight on the canopy. It is in the offer of spending time in an underwater sanctuary. Its value is the knowledge that something as magical as a seahorse exists in our world.

Seagrass is something special, something too special to lose. However, these hidden sanctuaries are slipping out of existence. Estimates suggest that we may have already lost as much as 95% of them.

Seagrass Backers

Across the world, bands of dedicated people are determined to reverse the decline in seagrass. I knew I needed to join their ranks. We decided to do what we could to bring seagrass back to Dunvullaig Bay, which we were increasingly considering home. The community got behind the work, and soon volunteers in, and out, of wetsuits were helping to collect seagrass seeds and plant out shoots.

While we were doing this, other communities around the coast were stepping up to play their part in improving the health of the seas. Beach cleans, oyster nurseries, campaign groups, and other initiatives were sprouting from the shores. These actions were like the pink flowers of springtime thrift, showing that change was happening around our coastline and was gathering pace.

I once saw a man throw litter into breathtakingly beautiful arctic waters because “that’s what we do with litter.” Now, thanks to the collective voices of passionate water users, the government is taking action to clean up our waterways. As a child, I used my pocket money to support the campaign to ban commercial whaling. Now, the whaling is all but extinct, and whales are on the increase.

This is a change from a lack of awareness to community action, and from degrading ecosystems to the restoration of underwater habitats. This change is being driven by passionate and dedicated individuals. It is also being driven by everyday members of the community seeing something in their backyard which isn’t right and wanting to do something about it.

Beluga Whale Song in Svalbard

Voyaging with Narwhal into the icy waters of Svalbard, the song of beluga whales reverberated through her hull and slipped into the subconscious of my dreams. But plastic also knocked against her hull. We picked up what we could, and I returned with a vow to dedicate my time to ocean conservation. I felt forever changed by the magic those beluga whales had left in my unconscious mind.

It is in this way that sailing can help to save the world. The experiences which we sailors have on the water, and share with other people, bring an intimate connection with nature. We value the marine world for the freedom and joy that it brings us. We also value the plunging dive of a gannet, the heart-stopping sight of a whale, or the pod of dolphins on our bow. I had to turn this into action, and I discovered that I wasn’t alone in this mission.

Hope in Dunvullaig Bay

In March 2024, when the swallows were yet to return, this patch of Dunvullaig Bay was bare mud, an underwater desert devoid of life. Working with my diligent team, we had donned our wetsuits day after day, carefully transplanting precious seagrass shoots. We were underwater gardeners, digging new homes with trowels and patting their roots into place with love. Then came the nervous wait: would they grow and thrive or wither and die?

Seagrass restoration is fraught with challenges, and this was the third year we had tried. Today was the day of reckoning: meadow or desert? Tingling with anticipation and trepidation, I positioned my dive mask, checked the seal, and ducked below the surface. Cold water shocked my face, and there it was.

Seagrass, strong and lush and alive. A rainbow of life was unfolding everywhere: fish, crabs, sea anemones. A multitude of life had returned to re-inhabit the wasteland. Nature was showing its resilience, raising its head and saying, “I didn’t need carrying off the field, I only needed a helping hand to get up.”

A caring community and a helping hand had forever changed this world. Sometimes change is bad. Sometimes change is hope.

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