A Lion’s Mane jellyfish floats past a slope of old sediment somewhere beneath the Arctic ice, in water so chilly and dark it seems almost unreal. The scene is described almost reverently by researchers who have spent years lowering cameras into that black water. It’s peculiar down there. Silent. Almost nothing on the surface is stable in this sense. The scientists who first mapped this ecosystem are now publicly concerned that it might be destroyed before most people even realize it exists, following decades of slow, laborious discovery.
It’s not a dramatic warning. After years of observing a slow problem develop, researchers often speak in a measured, almost reluctant manner. Over a million square kilometers of ocean floor are now covered by exploration licenses, and a few governments and private businesses have been covertly preparing for industrial-scale deep-sea mining for the past ten years. There is currently no commercial activity taking place. Nowadays, the word “yet” is very useful when speaking with marine biologists.
The devices being developed for this purpose are not subtle. These massive tracked vehicles are made to bulldoze, vacuum, and grind the seabed in an effort to find rare metals and polymetallic nodules. Given that the same minerals are portrayed as being necessary for electric car batteries, it is somewhat ironic to refer to this sector as green. It’s similar to setting fire to a library in order to print the next book. It appears that investors think the economics will eventually support it. Many scientists are not bothering to conceal their discomfort, and they are less convinced.
Because there hasn’t been much time to study the ecosystem, the Arctic case is unique and possibly more urgent. Filter-feeding organisms cling to slopes that may have been untouched for tens of thousands of years. A redwood would appear impatient compared to the speed at which sponges grow. Speaking with those who have actually participated in these expeditions gives me the impression that we are going to make decisions about a place we hardly know. In a recent paper, one researcher stated unequivocally that they believe it is impossible to achieve no-net-loss of biodiversity in deep-sea mining.
Nodule fields, seamounts, and hydrothermal vents are examples of potential mining zones that have been mapped for years by the National Oceanography Centre, which is in charge of most British research. Although the names of their projects, such as SMARTEX and TRIDENT, sound almost cinematic, the work itself consists primarily of long stretches at sea, sediment cores, water samples, and slow biological surveys. The image that emerges from all of that information is unsettling. Animals that have spent millennia acclimating to clean, still water could be choked by sediment plumes from mining that drift for miles. Machinery’s light and noise would punch into an environment that has essentially never experienced either.
The chemistry is another issue. Materials that have been locked away since long before any human civilization existed run the risk of being released if the seabed is disturbed. It is truly unknown what happens to fisheries far from the mining site, the food web, and water quality after that. The International Seabed Authority’s regulators are still working on the regulations. Meanwhile, the mining companies are not holding out.
The asymmetry is difficult to ignore. A few years of permitting on the one hand, and years of meticulous science on the other. As you watch this happen, you get the impression that the Arctic deep is going to be used as a test case to see if the last century of extraction has taught us anything at all. Depending on the scientist you ask, the response can range from quietly depressing to cautiously optimistic.
