DYRØY— A farmed salmon spends most of its life swimming in circles — first in a tank on land, then in a netted enclosure at sea. These cages of sorts are about 50 meters across, restricting movement while ensuring rapid growth. After about 18 months, the fish are harvested, filleted and shipped worldwide. But every now and then, a few manage to escape. Occasionally, a couple hundreds get out. And in early February, off Norway’s Dyrøy Island, some 27,000 farmed salmon broke free at once.
Late one night, amid strong winds and high waves, a critical seabed anchor at the Storvika V fish farm failed. The floating ring at the water’s surface began to tip, eventually submerging one side of the cage. It took the operators hours to fix the problem — enough time for thousands of salmon to slip into the open sea. The farm is run by Mowi, the world’s largest producer of farmed salmon. Of the 105,000 fish in the enclosure, a quarter found their way out, making this the region’s largest escape event to date.
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At first, one may think that the salmon have won their freedom. But in Norway, farmed salmon on the lam are cause for alarm, as they pose a serious threat to wild salmon populations: When wild salmon swim upriver to spawn, escaped farmed salmon often follow. Their offspring grow quickly, like farmed fish, but lack the natural instincts needed to survive in the wild. With wild salmon populations already at historic lows, every breakout is a blow to conservation efforts. To try and contain the damage, Mowi has placed a bounty on its fish at large: 500 Norwegian kroner (about 43 euros) per salmon caught.
“Impossible” task
One week after the escape, Arne Mathisen sits in the wheelhouse of his fishing boat, the engine humming, the air thick with the scent of fish and diesel. “Catching 27,000 fish? That’s impossible,” he laughs. “Absolutely impossible.” But he’s game to try.
On this Monday morning, Mathisen, 54, is on his way to check his nets. From the dock near Sørreisa, it takes him an hour to reach the fishing grounds, further south in the fjord. In winter, he mostly catches pollock and cod.
It’s not just about the money. It’s exciting to fish for salmon at all.
Salmon, however, is a different kettle of fish. Strict regulations have protected Norway’s wild salmon since the 1980s, when overfishing pushed them to the brink of collapse. These days, anyone who wants salmon buys it at the supermarket. Now, with Mowi’s bounty in place, local fishermen have a rare opportunity to legally catch salmon again.
“It’s not just about the money,” Mathisen says. “It’s exciting to fish for salmon at all.” For him, it’s a first.
A race against time
Mathisen recalls what his grandfather told him: Salmon tend to stay close to shore and swim near the surface. A few days after the escape, he rigged a lighter net with floating buoys and set it in shallow water. The next morning, he hauled in six salmon. The day after, three more. “Maybe today we’ll get 40 or 50,” he says. “Or maybe just 10.”
He’s not the only one trying to cash in on this great escape. More than 30 local boats have cast their nets. Some fishermen are just in it for the fun, while others see a real financial opportunity. While pollock fetches only 5 euros per fish, Mowi’s bounty represents more than eight times that, meaning that a successful haul could be a game changer.
Mowi itself has also hired three local boats to catch the runaways. There’s no risk of accidentally catching wild salmon — at this time of year, they’re far out in the Atlantic.
“Look, another one!” Mathisen shouts, pulling a shimmering, hefty salmon from the net. It’s fully grown — 5 kilograms (11 pounds) ready for harvest. Farmed salmon are easy to spot: more spots than their wild counterparts, ragged fins from a life in captivity. Mathisen grips the fish, unhooks it, and tosses it into a bucket. Moments later, another one lands on the deck. In total, three salmon were caught in his 280 meters (300 yards) of net. “I’d hoped for more,” he admits.
The bigger picture
To collect the bounty, fishermen must bring their catch to designated drop-off points. In Sørreisa, Mathisen himself serves as a collection hub at Mowi’s request. Every evening, his phone rings — one fisherman arrives with six salmon, another with seven. Two retired men recently caught 14 in total. Mathisen logs the numbers and sends them to Mowi. The company lets him keep the fish; he could sell them for extra income, but instead, he gives them away. Friends pick them up for smoking. At home, his family eats sushi bowls.
It’s an ecological disaster in the making.
Despite these efforts, numbers remain low: In the first week, fishermen caught only 400. The second week added another 250. By Monday night, the total stood at just 656 — that’s 656 out of 27,000.
Where are the rest? “Usually, escaped salmon stay near the farm for a day,” says Mowi spokesperson Ola Helge Hjetland. “But bad weather delayed the fishermen for two days. By then, most had already swum out to sea.” The remaining fish may return to the coast later — to spawn in the rivers, mixing their genes with wild salmon. It’s an ecological disaster in the making.
Fines and future
Mowi faces hefty fines for the incident. The company, which farms an estimated 60 million salmon in Norwegian waters, aims for “zero escapes.” But with another 65,000 young salmon lost just two months ago, that goal seems far off.
Genetic mixing with farmed salmon has already been detected in two-thirds of Norway’s rivers. In some, wild salmon populations near extinction.
That’s why every farmed salmon caught matters. Mathisen and his fellow fishermen will keep casting their nets — despite knowing full well that most of the escapees are already long gone.
