Scuba divers in training often experience a kind of tunnel vision. The hiss of each breath, the squeeze of a drysuit, the tug of cold Pacific water—all of it narrows their focus to survival. Divers keep their eyes fixed on gauges and gear, barely noticing the world around them. With time, the tunnel widens. Shapes sharpen into rockfish, abalone, or kelp fronds swaying in the current. They become more aware of fellow divers. Slowly, the underwater world opens.
In early September, eight stewardship divers—including Coastal Guardians and stewardship staff from six First Nations—experienced firsthand this undersea widening of view. They had gathered at the Hakai Institute on Calvert Island for a five-day scientific diving workshop designed to build their confidence in underwater research protocols.
The workshop aimed to build scientific diving skills and develop a new kelp monitoring protocol for use by the dive teams that currently support a range of activities across British Columbia’s coastline, from archaeological exploration to clam, seagrass, and kelp surveys.
The training was funded by WWF-Canada, the Pacific Salmon Foundation, Fisheries and Oceans Canada, and Environment and Climate Change Canada. The participants, selected by their nations, have all recently received commercial or scientific dive certifications.
Led by instructors from the Kelp Rescue Initiative, the Hakai Institute, Reef Check, and Thalassia Environmental, the week was about refining scientific skills: learning to lay transects, identify marine species, and collecting standardized data that can be compared across regions.
For Markus Thompson, an instructor with Thalassia Environmental, the workshop was the natural evolution of years spent surveying kelp and seagrass beds with Coastal Guardian crews using kayaks and drones. He says that from above the water, it was hard to tell why some kelp beds were doing better than others.
“We were missing more than half the picture,” says Thompson.
The first dives were like learning a dance with a new partner. Divers crowded close, shoulders bumping, as they tried to lay transect lines and count kelp stems while maintaining buoyancy. At first, divers were unsure about their ID skills, but their confidence grew each day.
“I have never actually dove in a giant kelp forest or even a bull kelp area, so it was super cool to experience that for the first time,” says Mariyah Dunn-Jones from the Pacheedaht First Nation. Participants were given a daunting list of 12 understory kelps and 30 invertebrates to learn to ID over the course of the training. “By the end of it. I felt quite confident about that list of organisms,“ she says.
Standardized methods—like counting kelp stipes along a 30-meter transect or identifying urchins, abalone, and sunflower stars for population surveys—will allow First Nations to compare results across British Columbia coastlines. That consistency could prove critical for managing ecosystems under pressure from climate change, shifting predator populations, and increased industrial activity.
The Haida Nation is considering reopening a traditional abalone harvest. For Aiden Moraes with the Haida Fisheries team, the ability to identify marine species accurately has immediate practical applications.
“It's really good to be able to tell people what's down there, and to just be mindful of how much you harvest," he says.
At home in Haida Gwaii, Moraes often dives in “urchin barrens”—areas devoid of kelp and kelp forest creatures where urchins have taken over. Calvert’s abundance stunned him. "The biodiversity here is crazy," he says. "It's overwhelming in a good way. This is what we could have at home if we just monitor and take care of areas."
For Carter Burtlake, who works for the Huu-ay-aht First Nations, the workshop was an extension of his work as a marine stewardship coordinator and youth leader. “Sharing my love of the ocean with others is something that’s near and dear to my heart,” he says.
The training was structured as much around community as data collection. Guardians shared meals, swapped stories of their territories, and imagined future collaborations.
“Thinking about coming together with a group that knows those lands and waterways so well to collect that baseline data and understand how our coast is changing—that can be really powerful,” says Burtlake.
“There were comments from some of the trainers asking if the Indigenous divers had known each other before, because they looked like they’d been friends for years,” Thompson says. “They’d only known each other for a few days.”
As the week wound down, the divers took the lead on a final kelp survey. Confidence showed in the way they moved—buoyancy under control, data sheets filled, species identified with ease. For the new network of Indigenous divers, the tunnel vision of early dives had given way to something broader: a clearer picture of ecosystems, a stronger sense of one another, and a vision for future stewardship across territories.
