Researching People and the Sea: Methodologies and Traditions 3030596001, 9783030596002

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Researching People and the Sea Methodologies and Traditions Edited by Madeleine Gustavsson · Carole S. White Jeremy Phillipson · Kristen Ounanian

Researching People and the Sea “I have been waiting long for such a book. Universities train students in how to carry out social research under ideal circumstances, with the syllabus full of textbook-recipes from which to choose from. Yet, students are often ill-prepared for what they find when trying to implement the research techniques they have learned to the real world. It is therefore important to know what previous researchers have experienced when in the field, and what they had to do to generate their data. In this important book, authors share the lessons they have learned the hard way in order to succeed. In particular, it better equips us for what to expect when entering the world of people who draw their livelihoods from the sea. This reflection helps us, as researchers, to deal with the emotional stress that ensues when things do not work out exactly as planned, which they seldom do.” —Svein Jentoft, Professor Emeritus, Norwegian College of Fishery Science, UiT—The Arctic University of Norway “The book answers the long-standing question about the role of social sciences in marine resources and ocean governance. With transformation and innovation being asked of all scientists today to address the increasing complexity of challenges facing the society, the book provides the best evidence of how well-­ equipped social science, and interdisciplinary, researchers are in tackling them. Unlike other books on social science research methods, this volume offers rare insights about what works, and as importantly, what doesn’t, with thoughtful reflections from trained and experienced researchers, many of them female, early career scholars. For those who like to dismiss social sciences as ‘soft’, the book will change your mind. For those thinking that social science research is easy, you will think twice. For those looking for new ways of approaching societal problems and doing research, the book will delight and surprise you, and will encourage you to enjoy the new journey.” —Ratana Chuenpagdee, Professor, Too Big To Ignore (TBTI) Global Partnership for Small-Scale Fisheries Research and Memorial University

“A ‘must read’ item in the reading list for research training programmes for social scientists of all hues—important, not only as a crucial part of basic training, but also as a timely intervention in the current debates over the expansion of social sciences into new areas.” —David Symes, Reader Emeritus, University of Hull “Marine social sciences occupy the interstitial spaces between the established social sciences (such as sociology, anthropology and human geography), the marine natural sciences (including oceanography and marine biology) and the professional sciences (for example: law, policy and management). The thirteen essays in this book span the straits separating discipline-based text-book methods and the realities of conducting and interpreting interdisciplinary methodology. This is research as social practice, enriched by candid reflection on errors, insights and course-corrections. The authors and editors provide a valuable aid to those navigating this knowledge-archipelago, whether as graduate students, professors or marine spatial planners. It will be especially useful to orientate the many researchers who enter the field from the marine natural sciences. To those working in interdisciplinary teams or commissioning marine social research, it will help build understanding and respect for those who are mapping the myriad relationships between sea and society.” —Edward H. Allison, Professor, Research Chair for Equity and Justice in the Blue Economy, WorldFish, Penang, Malaysia and Research Director, Nippon Foundation Ocean Nexus Center, Earthlab, University of Washington

Madeleine Gustavsson Carole S. White Jeremy Phillipson  •  Kristen Ounanian Editors

Researching People and the Sea Methodologies and Traditions

Editors Madeleine Gustavsson Ruralis – Institute for Rural and Regional Research Trondheim, Norway

Carole S. White Global Environmental Justice Group University of East Anglia Norwich, UK

Jeremy Phillipson Centre for Rural Economy Newcastle University Newcastle upon Tyne, UK

Kristen Ounanian Centre for Blue Governance Aalborg University Aalborg, Denmark

ISBN 978-3-030-59600-2    ISBN 978-3-030-59601-9 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-59601-9 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 Chapters 2 and 3 are licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/). For further details see licence information in the chapters. This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Preface

This book is the culmination of a two-year collaboration, beginning with a call for contributions launched in the late summer of 2018 to take part in a workshop the following year at the biannual MARE (Centre for Maritime Research) conference in Amsterdam. The workshop was the first in the twenty-year history of the conference to give dedicated attention to the methodological practices of its burgeoning marine social science community. During a well-attended conference day, with four consecutive sessions focused on ‘Researching people and the sea’, eighteen authors presented early versions of their papers and received feedback from a panel of discussants. Subsequently, the chapters were developed by authors and editors through several iterative rounds of revisions and, in the end, fifteen reflexive chapters have come to fruition in the pages of this volume. This collaboration was born to rectify the long-standing and surprising absence of a comprehensive publication focused on the explicit discussion of social science methods and methodologies in fisheries and marine research. Such an absence in the literature can be particularly noticeable to students and researchers who may be new to this area of research, and is something we have been conscious of through our own careers as postgraduate students, postdoctoral researchers and now supervisors and research project leaders. To attend to this gap, the volume seeks to provide a novel space to reflexively and openly share experiences and lessons v

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learnt from the field. It is particularly relevant to social science researchers and students seeking to embark on research into people and the sea and to policy makers, practitioners and scientists wishing to understand the social dimension of the marine and coastal environments. We hope the book will encourage other authors and publishers to bring further attention to methodological practices and training needs within the marine social sciences. The editorial team would like to thank the support of Publisher Rachael Ballard and Editorial Assistant Jo O’Neil for their continuous support during the development of this volume. We are indebted to the anonymous reviewers of the original book proposal, to our original discussants at the MARE workshop, and to David Symes for his, as ever, expert critique of our introductory and concluding chapters. Nor would the volume have seen the light of day without the contributions of our authors who, without exception, responded positively and efficiently to our editorial inputs and reviews of draft chapters. This book project had no specific funding; however, we wish to gratefully acknowledge the support of the Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC) under grant refs ES/R00580X/1, ES/R010404/1 and ES/S007024/1 which supported some of our time to work on this publication. Trondheim, Norway Norwich, UK  Newcastle upon Tyne, UK  Aalborg, Denmark  July 2020

Madeleine Gustavsson Carole S. White Jeremy Phillipson Kristen Ounanian

Contents

Part I Introduction   1 1 Researching People and the Sea—Setting the Scene  3 Carole S. White, Madeleine Gustavsson, Jeremy Phillipson, and Kristen Ounanian Part II Experiences from the Field: Adapting Methods, Practices and Reflexivity  21 2 Naked Methodology: Baring It All for a Realistic Account of Marine Social Science 23 Kristen Ounanian 3 Attending to the Rhythms of the Sea, Place and Gendered Cultures in Interviewing Fishers and Fishing Families 47 Madeleine Gustavsson 4 Towards an Ethic of Care Within Fisheries Social Research 71 Natalie Ross

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5 Safety, Ethics and Trust: Reflecting on Methodological Challenges in Fisheries Research 91 Hannah Chiswell, Julie Urquhart, Nick Lewis, Jasmine Black, Paul Courtney, and Matt Reed Part III Windows into Particular Methods: Innovations and Traditions 113 6 Addressing Low Rates of Attendance Within Fisher Focus Groups: Reflections from Inshore Fisheries Research in England115 Rebecca Korda, Tim Gray, Dot Kirk-Adams, and Selina Stead 7 Exploring the Relationship Between Local Ecological Knowledge and Technology Through Participant Observation Onboard Fishing Vessels137 Jeremy Anbleyth-Evans 8 Ecosystems, Communities and Canoes: Using Photovoice to Understand Relationships Among Coastal Environments and Social Wellbeing159 Ana Carolina Esteves Dias and Derek Armitage 9 Using Photographs in Coastal Research and Engagement: Reflections on Two Case Studies181 Merryn Thomas, Erin Roberts, Nick Pidgeon, and Karen Henwood 10 Applications of Archival Sources and Historical Methodologies in Interdisciplinary Coastal and Marine Research209 Alanna Casey

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Part IV Translating Across Disciplines and Policy 237 11 Integrating Social and Ecological Research on the Impacts of Offshore Wind Farms in North America239 Talya ten Brink, Tracey Dalton, and Julia Livermore 12 Imagining the Coast: A Mixed Methods Approach to Elicit Perceptions and Conflicts on the West Coast of Ireland259 Maria Pafi, Wesley Flannery, and Brendan Murtagh 13 Blending Environmental Humanities and Policy Studies: A Narrative Analysis Approach to Hybrid Scholarship on the Coast285 Anna S. Antonova 14 Reflections on Methodological Tensions in Doing Qualitative Research at the Science-Policy-Community Interface309 Ruth Brennan Part V Conclusion 323 15 Discerning Expertise in Researching People and the Sea325 Kristen Ounanian, Jeremy Phillipson, Madeleine Gustavsson, and Carole S. White Index339

Notes on Contributors

Jeremy  Anbleyth-Evans  is a geographer and anthropologist  carrying out a postdoctoral research fellowship at the University of Los Lago, Chile.  Specialised in fisheries, aquaculture and conservation, his work concentrates on ecological, geographic and economic inclusion at the marine coastal nexus. His most recent papers consider local ecological knowledge, participatory marine spatial planning, fisheries, citizen science, indigenous rights and epistemologies in Chile and Britain. Anna S. Antonova  works at the Rachel Carson Center for Environment and Society at LMU Munich as director of environmental humanities development. Her research brings together humanities and social science approaches to examine social, environmental and policy change in the contemporary European context, particularly in coastal landscapes. She was previously a Marie Skłodowska-Curie research fellow as part of the ENHANCE network at the University of Leeds, where she wrote her dissertation on the conflicting narratives about environment and society emerging from the Yorkshire North Sea and Bulgarian Black Sea coastlines. Derek Armitage  is a professor at the University of Waterloo and studies the human dimensions of environmental change (local to global) and emerging forms of environmental governance, with a particular focus on aquatic systems (freshwater and coastal/marine). xi

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Notes on Contributors

Jasmine Black  is a research assistant in the Countryside and Community Research Institute, University of Gloucestershire, UK.  She is working with land and sea management practitioners, publics and policy makers to create more sustainable ways of producing food and enhancing above and below ground biodiversity. She is experienced in face-to-face interviews with these stakeholders across Europe and in Japan. Ruth  Brennan is a marine social scientist at Trinity Centre for Environmental Humanities, School of Histories and Humanities, Trinity College, specialising in ethnographies of coastal communities and environmental governance at the arts-science-policy interface. Brennan’s research offers insights into different ways marine and coastal spaces are conceptualised by users, managers and human-environment interactions, how this relates to natural resource governance challenges and what it means for community engagement. Alanna  Casey  works for the California Coastal Commission in San Francisco, USA. Her research links modern climate change with historical coastal perspectives and management patterns. Hannah  Chiswell  is a rural social scientist in the Countryside and Community Research Institute, University of Gloucestershire, UK. Chiswell has a particular interest in the decision-making and behaviours of farmers and fishers in response to policy. She is a QSR certified NVivo (qualitative analysis software) ‘expert’ and is experienced in a range of methodologies including face-to-face interviews and surveys on complex and sensitive topics. Paul Courtney  is Professor of Social Economy in the Countryside and Community Research Institute, University of Gloucestershire, UK. His research interests centre on social value and the development of psycho-­ social indicators and related methods to capture the impacts of public, private and third-sector activities on society—and on the health, happiness and resilience of individuals and communities. Tracey Dalton  is Professor of Marine Affairs at the University of Rhode Island. Her research covers a variety of topics, all involving human interactions with marine and coastal environments. She holds a BS in

  Notes on Contributors 

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Chemistry from Boston College and a PhD in Environmental Science with a policy specialisation from the University of Massachusetts Boston. Ana  Carolina  Esteves  Dias  is a PhD candidate at the University of Waterloo (Canada) and studies the effects of environmental change to the wellbeing of coastal communities and implications to Marine Protected Area governance. Wesley Flannery  is a senior lecturer in the School of Natural and Built Environment, Queen’s University Belfast. His research focuses on issues of power and participation in marine and coastal planning. Tim  Gray is Emeritus Professor of Political Thought at Newcastle University, UK. He switched his focus from political thought to environmental and marine politics about 20 years ago, and has co-authored 7 books and over 70 papers, as well as co-supervising 24 PhD students, on these topics. He continues to supervise and research in a part-time capacity as a senior research investigator, mainly using qualitative methods. He is particularly interested in stakeholder participation in marine environmental decision-making processes. Madeleine  Gustavsson  is a researcher at Ruralis—Institute for Rural and Regional Research in Trondheim, Norway. Before joining Ruralis, she was a research fellow at the University of Exeter (UK), holding an Economic and Social Research Council New Investigator fellowship, researching the changing lives of women in small-scale fishing families in the UK and Newfoundland, Canada. More broadly, her research focuses on marine, coastal and rural issues drawing on social science methods to understand the lifeworlds of people living and working with the sea. Karen Henwood  is a professor in social sciences in the School of Social Sciences, Cardiff University. She has research interests spanning the social science of risk and identity studies. As a qualitative research specialist, her work draws on in-depth, in-situ, longitudinal methods, using a range of lenses to create a more dynamic understanding of how people live with socio-cultural and environmental change.

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Notes on Contributors

Dot Kirk-Adams  is an experienced and qualified community organiser and trainer running Let’s Co-organise which is based in the south east of England. She works with grassroots projects in Brighton and the UK, offering expertise as an associate trainer and trustee of national charity Community Organisers. She organises Brighton and Hove Community Land Trust’s Housing Hub. Her main area of interest is supporting community-­led housing activism though her background is in language study and international work. Rebecca Korda  is a senior marine adviser for Natural England and is investigating how power and relationship mapping techniques used by community organisers can be transferred to fisheries. She holds a PhD with Newcastle University examining the internalised resilience strategies of the English small-scale fleet. Her interest in this area is particularly focused on how agencies can strive to improve fisher’s participation in their marine environmental decision-making processes. She has over ten years’ experience working not only for fisheries management agencies directly but also within an advisory capacity. Nick Lewis  is a research assistant in the Countryside and Community Research Institute, University of Gloucestershire, UK. Lewis has a wealth of experience across a diverse range of research topics, including both agricultural and fisheries research. He is experienced in survey design, quantitative data analysis and interviewing in the social sciences. Julia Livermore  is a supervising marine biologist with the Rhode Island Department of Environmental Management’s (RIDEM) Division of Marine Fisheries. She oversees the RIDEM’s portion of offshore wind permitting and conducts analysis on the effects of wind development on biological resources and fisheries. She studied biology and environmental studies at Bowdoin College and received a Master’s of Coastal Environmental Management from Duke University. Brendan Murtagh  is Professor of Urban Planning in the School of the Natural and Built Environment, Queen’s University Belfast. He has researched and written widely on contested places, participatory practice and social economics.

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Kristen  Ounanian is an associate professor at the Centre for Blue Governance at Aalborg University, Denmark. Her research interests centre on coastal communities in transition, spanning topics such as fisheries dependence, cultural heritage and impacts of fisheries policies and Blue Economy initiatives. Ounanian completed dual doctoral degrees at Aalborg University and the University of Rhode Island, comparing coastal communities in northern Denmark and New England. Maria  Pafi is a PhD student in the School of Natural and Built Environment, Queen’s University Belfast. Her research focuses on coastal landscapes, coastal tourism and contestation and it is funded by the Cullen Fellowship of the Marine Institute of Ireland. Jeremy Phillipson  is Professor of Rural Development at the Centre for Rural Economy at Newcastle University, UK. As Director of the National Innovation Centre for Rural Enterprise, Phillipson’s research interests span the development needs of rural economies and fishing communities, processes of expertise exchange within rural land management, and on the integration of social and natural sciences in resource management. Early in his career he was the researcher and network manager of the European Social Science Fisheries Network. Nick Pidgeon  is Director of the Understanding Risk Research Group at Cardiff University and Professor of Environmental Risk. His research looks at public engagement, communication of, and decision-making for environmental and technological risks. Matt Reed  is a sociologist in the Countryside and Community Research Institute, University of Gloucestershire, UK, with research interests in how and why social change takes place around food. He is working with farmers, fishers and citizens investigating how together they can produce change in socio-ecological systems. Erin Roberts  is an interdisciplinary social science researcher at Cardiff University, whose research interests lie in the affective and emotional connections between people and place, how these relationships relate to health and wellbeing, and their role in shaping socio-ecological transitions.

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Notes on Contributors

Natalie Ross  is a scholar in feminist social geography and psychoanalysis. Her research focuses on fisheries policy making and the everyday lives of people living and working in fishing communities. She recently taught as a lecturer at the University of Manchester on feminist research methodologies and everyday geographies. Selina Stead  is Head of the Institute of Aquaculture at the University of Stirling and the UK government’s Chief Scientific Advisor for the Marine Management Organisation. Stead’s research specialises in international marine food security with a particular emphasis on fisheries and aquaculture. She has published widely on marine science policy, coastal governance, biodiversity conservation and marine protected areas. Talya ten Brink  is a marine policy and Geographic Information Systems (GIS) specialist with the Greater Atlantic Regional Fisheries Office, National Marine Fisheries Service, National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA). She researches marine and coastal socio-ecological systems. Her chapter was prepared while she was a PhD candidate in the Department of Marine Affairs at the University of Rhode Island, and was funded by a Rhode Island Sea Grant Fellowship. She holds a Masters of Science (Dipl. Ing.) in Urbanism at Delft University of Technology, Netherlands, and studied Landscape Architecture and Ecological Restoration at the University of Washington, Seattle. Merryn  Thomas’ interdisciplinary research, at Cardiff University, focuses on public perceptions of environmental issues and human-nature relationships. Her recent work on the CoastWEB project used in-depth ‘mobile interviews’ to better understand the connections between coastal habitats and human health and wellbeing. Julie Urquhart  is an environmental social scientist in the Countryside and Community Research Institute, the University of Gloucestershire, UK. Urquhart is interested in human-environment relationships in natural resource management, particularly in fisheries, forestry and agriculture. She is an interdisciplinary researcher with a focus on research that has applied policy relevance and the public understanding of environmental challenges.

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Carole S. White  is a research fellow in the Global Environmental Justice Group at the University of East Anglia, UK, and a senior social researcher at the UK Government Department for the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs.

List of Figures

Fig. 3.1 Fig. 8.1 Fig. 8.2

A typical interview location by a fishing cove Steps of Photovoice Canoe as an ecosystem service and symbol of social wellbeing. (a) Three locals from Almada competing as a group in a canoe race (photograph by Odaury Carneiro, submitted by a research participant from Almada). (b) Collaboration between three fishers taking the canoe out of the water at Almada (photograph by Odaury Carneiro, submitted by a research participant from Almada). (c) Three fishers returning from the sea with their canoe at Almada (photograph by Odaury Carneiro, submitted by a research participant from Almada). (d) Canoe race at Almada (photograph by an adult woman from Almada). (e) Canoe painting process at Picinguaba (photograph by a young man from Picinguaba). (f) Canoe representing Puruba bass fishing close to a river mouth (photograph by an adult man form Puruba). (g) Panoramic picture from a member of Almada of paired canoes for canoe race (Sete Fontes Beach) (photograph by Odaury Carneiro, submitted by a research participant from Almada). (h) Teenagers and children (photograph by an adult woman from Almada). (i) Participating in a canoe race at Almada (photograph by an adult woman from Puruba)

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Fig. 9.1 Fig. 9.2 Fig. 9.3

Fig. 9.4 Fig. 9.5 Fig. 9.6 Fig. 9.7

Fig. 10.1

Fig. 10.2 Fig. 11.1

Fig. 12.1 Fig. 12.2 Fig. 12.3 Fig. 13.1

List of Figures

Selected images from the SeaChange Exhibition © Merryn Thomas187 The SeaChange exhibition © Merryn Thomas 187 Different levels of engagement offered different insights in the CoastWEB photo elicitations. From left to right: lighter touch engagement where participants used solely stack photographs, through to the most involved level where participants went out purposely to take photographs for the project. (Dedicated photographs) 190 Bill’s archival photograph of Cocklers on Laugharne marsh. (Reproduced with kind permission from the archives of Lady Emma McGrigor) 192 Stack photograph of Pendine beach © Merryn Thomas 194 Stack photograph of a marsh at sunrise © Merryn Thomas 195 Severn Crossing at Aust © Merryn Thomas. Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II; Lens: EF24–105 mm f/4 L IS USM; ISO: 250; Focal length: 24 mm; Exposure: 1/40 sec at f/16; Captured on 30th September 2014, 17:20 pm 200 A portion of coastline in Colonial National Historical Park before (left) and after (right) the space was graded by Civilian Conservation Corps workers in 1935 (‘Narrative Reports Concerning CCC Work in NPS Areas’ 1935) 225 Raised munition supports in a casemate at Fort Pickens in 2016227 Map of the BIWF Demersal Fish Trawl Study Area, where APE refers to the Area of Primary Effect (impact), REFE refers to the Reference East area (control), and REFS refers to the Reference South area (control) 244 Tourist experiences (adapted from: Pafi, Flannery and Murtagh 2020) 270 Example of integration across QUAL-QUAN showing how tourist typologies resonate at the local level 271 The final research design 273 Gergana Mitova reads a plaque in the ‘Symbiotic’ exhibition on the history of salt on the Bulgarian Black Sea coast, near Burgas. The exhibition was recommended to me by a participant and its textual materials helped inform my understanding of other participants’ narratives of salt flats 293

List of Tables

Table 7.1 Table 10.1 Table 10.2 Table 12.1

Participant observation of fishing techniques Case study site selection criteria Archives visited and collections referenced Overview of methods

142 216 218 268

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List of Boxes

Box 2.1  Excerpts from Dissertation Proposal, Written in January 2013 Box 2.2 Full Vignette Text Displaying All Possible Dimensions and Levels Box 5.1 Recommendations for Safe and Ethical Research in the Fisheries Industry

25 27 108

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Part I Introduction

1 Researching People and the Sea—Setting the Scene Carole S. White, Madeleine Gustavsson, Jeremy Phillipson, and Kristen Ounanian

1.1 Setting the Scene Attention to and interest in the world’s marine environment and resources has grown both politically and academically over the past decade. Oceans and coasts have risen to the top of international and national government C. S. White (*) Global Environmental Justice Group, University of East Anglia, Norwich, UK e-mail: [email protected] M. Gustavsson Ruralis – Institute for Rural and Regional Research, Trondheim, Norway e-mail: [email protected] J. Phillipson Centre for Rural Economy, Newcastle University, Newcastle upon Tyne, UK e-mail: [email protected] K. Ounanian Centre for Blue Governance, Aalborg University, Aalborg, Denmark e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 M. Gustavsson et al. (eds.), Researching People and the Sea, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-59601-9_1

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agendas. They have sparked the interest and imaginations of researchers and the public at large. The prolific number of conferences, courses, initiatives and networks dedicated to understanding and managing interactions of people and the sea is testimony to this trend. As the community of researchers engaged in what is often referred to as the ‘marine social sciences’ grows, there is an ever-present need for training and capacity building in both theoretical and methodological practices. Recognising that in the social sciences context is everything, this book focuses on the particularities and challenges of applying social science approaches to the study of people and the sea. Now that calls for social science expertise are increasingly being made and heard, there is concomitant imperative for marine social science capacity to be nurtured and developed. At the heart of this need are methodological practices: how to design and undertake research in this context. After all, it is through these practices that knowledge is generated, new theory is developed and evidence is constructed that informs policy and practice. This edited book’s primary contribution, therefore, rests on its in-depth assessment of social scientific practices within the marine and coastal realm. As many of us recognise, articulating the issue to be addressed is one of the first steps in any research endeavour. A dual discourse has recently emerged, where coastal and marine ecosystems are perceived as both needing protection and as spaces for sustainable development and economic growth (Arbo et al. 2018; Bennett 2019). Arguments for marine conservation, motivated by the globally urgent challenges of biodiversity loss and climate change (e.g. UNFCCC 1992; UN Convention on Biological Diversity 2004; IPCC 2019; Garcia and Rice 2020), sit alongside growing enthusiasm for the continued development of tourism, deep-sea mining and marine energy and the potential they offer for revenue generation from previously untapped resources (e.g. European Commission 2012). It is therefore a crucial time for the social sciences to become more engaged and contribute to answering vital questions that concern people and the sea, as highlighted by the recent ‘Manifesto for Marine Social Sciences’ (Bavinck and Verrips 2020). Understanding how people use, relate to and interact with coastal and

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marine environments has never been so important, with social scientists able to bring into view a host of vital considerations pertaining to issues of inequality, wellbeing, social relations, gender, governance, values and knowledge, inter alia. However, the study of people’s interactions with the sea is certainly nothing new. Such interactions have long been addressed in the social sciences, particularly in fisheries (Symes and Hoefnagel 2010; Urquhart et al. 2011), where a long tradition of work exists among anthropologists (e.g. Tunstall 1962; McCay 1978; Acheson 1981), sociologists (e.g. Neis 1992), political scientists (e.g. Kooiman 2005) geographers (e.g. Symes 2006) and others. However, with most government and research institutions by default focussing on fisheries and the marine domains as technical and biological concerns, it has followed that the findings and conclusions generated by the natural or economic sciences have dominated evidence-based policy discourse. It has fallen to social scientists themselves to argue for their important contribution to knowledge, to demonstrate their value and legitimacy, in an attempt for their work to be recognised and respected alongside natural scientists and economists (Jentoft et al. 1998; Symes 1999; Urquhart et al. 2014). The tide has now started turning in this respect. As the UN Decade for the Oceans starts (2021–2030), there are calls for new understandings, approaches and solutions to be developed that will address the complexities and unknowns of the marine world (Bennett 2019; Claudet et al. 2020) and with this, a recognition of the need for social science expertise and interdisciplinary research collaboration involving social scientists (Phillipson and Symes 2013). Amid the urgency for answers or policy solutions, and substantive input from the social sciences, is also a need for critical reflection on how social science knowledge is produced, in what can be a rewarding, but challenging field of study. There is real risk that without essential training, experience and learning on methodological practices, the opportunity to grow and strengthen the contribution of the marine social sciences will be missed. Worse still, ‘light touch’ methodological approaches may be implemented to serve agendas that conflict with rigorous and critically informed social science approaches. They risk misusing or co-opting

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social science to justify instrumental interventions around regulation and behaviour change for conservation or other purposes (McKinley et al. 2020). However, responding to an increased demand for social sciences in marine topics is not enough. This must be matched with a development in capacity within the social sciences, and in equipping social scientists to engage effectively in wider interdisciplinary collaborations, if they are to address the real-world challenges facing society. To a large extent, that development in capacity starts with research design and methodology. Learning from and innovating methodological practices is vital for social scientists, whose research methods in themselves impact and create social realities (Moon and Blackman 2014; Flyvbjerg 2012). However, practical experiences in deploying social science approaches and methods in researching people and the sea have rarely come under the spotlight. Methodological learnings, including the successes, trials and tribulations in conducting research and using methods in this context, are only occasionally discussed or published (Moon et al. 2019). Typically, they remain hidden away in field notes and unpublished doctoral manuscripts, with the opportunity for shared learning and capacity building that comes from doing research thereby missed. Although institutional challenges remain, the demand for social science expertise is growing and broadening to encompass a wider range of marine, coastal and maritime challenges, sectors and policies. As Arbo et al. (2018) suggest, the need to build on the fisheries social science tradition and re-orientate and strengthen capacity to critically engage in a concerted focus on marine sustainability and blue growth has never been greater. It is more than ever necessary to take stock and give space for reflection and shared learning about how social scientists generate and produce research insights, with a view to better equipping researchers working in this growing field.

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1.2 M  ethodological Challenges: Key Questions and Themes To develop and grow the social science contribution to our understanding of people and the sea, the challenge is not only to expand the horizons of our field of enquiry, but also ensure that we build essential capacity that includes methodological learning and innovation. Over the course of our careers, we each develop a methodological toolbox accompanied with research skills. These research skills include reflexivity and adaptability, which are built through experience, training and learning from carrying out research. In this volume our aim is to take a rare step in bringing together and sharing that learning from a range of research topics and geographical locations. Our exploration of the traditions and practices of researching people and the sea is guided by three themes. The first theme embraces reflections on ‘doing social research’, including the process of data collection in the field. The second theme delves into case examples of specific methods to highlight how these are innovated or adapted in specific research contexts. The third theme picks up on increased calls for interdisciplinary work and policy engagement when studying people and the sea. A consistent thread that runs throughout the book is that of ‘innovation’ in practices, methods and approaches. Our first theme is entitled ‘Experiences from the Field: Adapting Methods, Practices and Reflexivity’. It focuses on the experiences of doing fieldwork, and the innovation and flexibility required during the process of data collection. In other words, this theme explores innovation in research practice. Through this theme we ask, ‘What are the challenges and experiences of doing social science fieldwork in marine and fisheries settings?’ Conducting social science in these settings can be particularly challenging—especially when it comes to the practicalities of doing fieldwork and making choices in relation to the myriad of potential methodological approaches. The process of fieldwork can be messy in nature, requiring the researcher to be adaptable and flexible, in response to what they experience and observe. This is where the researcher innovates and realigns their chosen pathway.

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For instance, practical or ethical considerations may come to the surface only when the fieldwork has begun. Such types of challenges may be familiar to those researching the social and occupational practices of fishing and fishing communities, though even in this context methodological insights are rarely brought to the surface. Many coastal fishing communities are isolated, hard to reach and suspicious of outsiders, particularly when mistrust of governing and research institutions has evolved over time. Building rapport and trust is therefore crucial, as well as finding ways to ask questions with care and sensitivity. The positionality of the researcher is also an important consideration in fieldwork: How will the researcher be perceived and viewed by those they are researching? How will this influence how people respond and behave and, as a consequence, the research findings? Furthermore, doing fieldwork in coastal and marine settings is often associated with a large degree of uncertainty associated with the changing environment and weather, that those who depend on the sea experience day in, day out. Where and when can the researcher best engage with those they are interested in studying? Much of this may be beyond the realm of the researcher’s control, and they must find their own ways to manage the unknown and how this may interact with their research plans. In this first theme of the book, we therefore focus on the experiences of fieldwork, and in particular on the reflexivity and adaptability that accompanies any scientific endeavour. In addition to the peculiarities of working in a marine context, this theme reflects on the common issues experienced through planning and conducting field research; including issues around research design, positionality, ethics, safety and ensuring that the resources available can match the scope of the research. Our second theme focuses on innovation through particular case study research methods. We explore how innovation occurs in both what could be considered ‘conventional’ social research methods, and through those that have taken inspiration from other disciplines. ‘Windows into Particular Methods: Innovations and Traditions’, asks ‘How can innovation in social research methods generate new insights and knowledge?’ Here, we emphasise that creativity and learning in designing and, critically, deploying methods can be used to generate new knowledge and insights. Innovative approaches and methods are increasingly called for

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by funders, with the implicit motivation of finding new insights rather than reproducing tried and tested ‘traditional’ methods that may yield the same or ‘already known’ results. While radical methodological innovation is undoubtedly welcome, it is equally significant to consider the vital innovation necessary in those ‘everyday’ research practices when researchers immerse themselves in the field. Innovation in methods can therefore be realised in multiple ways (Taylor and Coffey 2008). In this theme, we highlight two approaches to introducing innovation into methods: firstly, adapting conventional social science methods in-situ (i.e. in the field), in order to generate new ways of thinking about or doing research, and the necessary creative adaptation of methods in their context. Secondly, innovation through creating new methods or adapting methods from other disciplines, and applying them to the marine or fisheries domains. Finally, the third theme concerns ‘Translating Across Disciplines and Policy’, which involves innovation in communicating research and exchanging expertise. It concerns the hybridity required when conducting interdisciplinary research and when engaging with policy. We ask ‘How can knowledge be translated across disciplines and into policy?’ In addition to the increasing role and call for social sciences alongside contributions from marine and fisheries science, interdisciplinary research has become more popular and is emphasised frequently as a requirement in many funding calls. Furthermore, there are demands from funders for research to deliver policy impact and to evidence this. Interdisciplinary perspectives offer the possibility of improving understanding of major socio-technical challenges in the marine and coastal environment, in order to find solutions and new insights into complex problems. There has been more and more cross-fertilisation of ideas from different disciplines within the social sciences and increasingly with those from the arts and humanities. Yet these trends come with their risks and challenges for the social sciences, which need to be recognised and addressed, particularly in learning to speak to and engage with disciplines that are epistemologically different and in ensuring an ‘upfront’ rather than ‘end-of-pipe’ role within the research design (Lowe et al. 2013). A further ‘translation’ problem comes with attempting to apply the research we conduct into policy. This often presents a challenge for many

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researchers who are faced with the communication and language barriers that exist between academia and other institutions with a mandate to implement the necessary change that may be highlighted through research (Ota and Just 2008). Publishing and communicating research findings are not enough—a sustained effort to engage with policy at crucial times is often necessary in order to build trust and translate research effectively in such a way that it has potential to impact policy. However, constraints on researchers mean that this is a further challenge that can only be tackled effectively with development of skills and dedicated resource.

1.3 Introducing the Book Chapters The book brings together thirteen accounts and reflections on studying people and the sea in order to address the gap between what is learned from social science methods textbooks, guides and anthologies, and the conditions encountered in the field and the planning, troubleshooting and manoeuvring often required for success. Some chapters provide insights on the deployment of methods in the specific context of studying people and the sea, some fold in experiential insights and others wrestle more with interdisciplinary work and expectations of social science. The overall aim of the collection is to focus attention on how research on people and the sea is conducted, what knowledge is produced through this process and how this work is embedded in place-specific, discipline, institutional and policy contexts.

1.3.1 E  xperiences from the Field: Adapting Methods, Practices and Reflexivity This theme includes four chapters which focus on ‘in the field’ experiences from doing fieldwork in fishing communities. Each chapter engages directly with how to use and adapt well-established qualitative methods while in the field in response to matters that arise, particularly within a fisheries context. The authors reflect on both the successes and failures that come with doing research. As each chapter highlights, it is through

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learning from apparent methodological breakdowns, and by continuously and critically reflecting on the fieldwork process, that researchers generate new insight and learn to adapt. Before embarking on fieldwork, researchers usually undertake a period of careful planning, whether it be designing interview guides, piloting questionnaires, or considering sampling and other elements of the research design. However, as researchers embark on their much-anticipated fieldwork, most will find that their plans need to be adapted as they are faced with the practical reality of the field. Ounanian discusses such an experience in Chap. 2, in detailing how and why she adapted her doctoral project from a mixed-method research design to a mono-method qualitative approach. She highlights the importance of adapting wellthought-out plans to local contexts, how to deal with ‘failure’ and the importance of recognising the resource limitations of a research project in terms of time and money. Ounanian’s chapter shows how experimentation and methodological ‘breakdowns’ can be a creative learning process which can lead to better research outcomes. Researchers often encounter everyday practical and ethical issues that they need to respond to quickly once fieldwork has begun. Gustavsson, in Chap. 3, discusses the ethical challenges she encountered in the context of interviewing fishers and fishing families. In particular, she highlights how being sensitive to the gendered nature of fishing cultures was particularly important in her study aimed at gaining deeper insights into women’s fishing lives. She emphasises her experiences in researching hard to reach communities, highlighting the need to show flexibility in fitting research around the rhythms of fishing. In Chap. 4, Ross highlights the need to proactively consider and prepare for sensitive topics when interviewing fishers, where the uncertainty and dangers associated with fishing livelihoods lead to pressures and anxieties in fishing communities, which can result in caution and suspicion when speaking to researchers. In particular, she pays attention to the relationship between the researcher and participants, and how applying a feminist ethics of care approach in her study of Scottish fishing communities helped her reflect on and identify where care was situated within the research encounter. She discusses how different forms of caring shaped the knowledge produced within the fieldwork.

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As well as showing care and respect for research participants, the wellbeing and safety of the researcher must also be ensured, particularly when conducting fieldwork in remote communities. Chiswell et al., in Chap. 5, focus on researcher safety and reflect on how the material and social context of fishing presents specific health and safety considerations. This issue is seldom discussed openly in the literature, and is an area for much-­ needed reflection around ways to mitigate risks. As for other issues raised under this theme, risks to the researcher may arise suddenly and unexpectedly during fieldwork. When they do, researchers often find themselves improvising strategies to address these. However, giving some thought to such risks and strategies in preparation for the field enables researchers to better anticipate situations and respond more effectively when they develop. Finally, several of the chapters in this theme engage with the important issue of positionality, and dealing with outsider status. In particular, they highlight the implications of the gender of researchers in shaping knowledge production. How the researcher is viewed and perceived by those they are researching will influence what activities a researcher can engage in and how they interact with their participants; which inevitably influences the insights that will be generated from the study. While researchers can develop different strategies to respond to and mitigate the impact on their research, sometimes to their advantage in opening up certain topics and research activities, the chapters show how positionality also introduces certain limitations. Above all, what the chapters in this theme collectively highlight is the need for research to fit-in with, and be attentive to, the local context in which it is placed. This necessitates reflexive and skilful researchers who are willing to learn and who are able to adapt, whether it is Ounanian’s rethinking of her project design and choice of methods or the responsiveness shown by Gustavsson to gendered power relations in couple interviews. Although these chapters focus on research in fisheries, they highlight the necessary reflexivity and innovation in research practice that should also be relevant to research projects in broader marine contexts, whether it be work on mariculture, wind farm development or marine governance.

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1.3.2 W  indows into Particular Methods: Innovations and Traditions The five chapters under this theme focus on examples of innovation in specific methods. They include experiences in the application, and necessary adaptation, of ‘everyday’, tried and tested methods in marine and fisheries contexts, as well as insights into the deployment of novel approaches drawn from other disciplinary traditions. In Chap. 6, Korda et al. reflect on their experience of low attendance at focus group discussions with inshore fishing communities in England and question whether and how focus groups, a common social science method, could have been better planned to ensure greater success. They explore how low participation rates may be linked to deep-rooted issues within fishing communities linked to previous encounters and suspicions with the fisheries governance system, and the often uncertain and demanding nature of fishing work. Reflecting on their experience, they propose how to encourage more inclusive and better participation, while also highlighting the need to remain adaptive and to combine focus groups with other methods to overcome some of the challenges that can be encountered. Taking the example of Participant Observation, Anbleyth-Evans in Chap. 7 explores how this approach can be applied to understanding how different fishing types relate to changing technology and fisher knowledge. While participant observation is an important way to build trust between researchers and fishers, it can also elicit the ways of knowing, and the epistemic frameworks of fisher skippers and crew members. Participant observation allows for active reflection and discussion with fishers over how traditional and modern technologies create conservation challenges, as well as how they can be resolved. Social science approaches in researching people and the sea are also increasingly taking inspiration from other fields. In this vein, two chapters in the volume draw from the arts and humanities and experiment with the use of visual methodologies. Dias and Armitage, in Chap. 8, deploy Photovoice in Brazil to understand participants’ relationships to coastal ecosystems and implications for social wellbeing in coastal

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communities. Thomas et al., in Chap. 9, discuss their experiences from two UK-based research projects that used photographic imagery to explore how images can contribute to the production of knowledge as well as coastal engagement. The data generated from visual methods often brings to light insights that may not emerge from verbal accounts alone. For instance, Dias and Armitage found that their methodology highlighted the symbolic importance of canoes for social wellbeing, as a symbol for networks of support and obligation in the community. Meanwhile, Thomas et  al. discuss how different types of images in their photo-­ elicitation exercise revealed novel insights into people’s relationship to the coast. However, visual methods come with their own challenges. Images are constrained by time and space. Moreover, manipulations of images can influence how people cognitively and emotionally engage with them, bringing potential biases. In both chapters verbal narratives are found to be important alongside images, with the combination of approaches allowing for a richer understanding and engagement of participants. Finally, Casey, in Chap. 10, takes a historical approach to study the management of cultural resources in the context of climate change, using archival methods, combined with key informant interviews across multiple case study sites. She reflects on some of the key challenges around using historical methods: they can be messy and time consuming, lack interaction, and there can be difficulties around knowing what will be relevant. However, combining both methods facilitated connections from the past to the present, informing management of coastal and maritime cultural heritage. Casey discusses strategies for making effective use of archival data, such as drawing on the experience and expertise of archivists. Collectively, these chapters provide windows into how specific methods can be applied in research into people and the sea. They show how conventional methods, such as focus groups in the case of Korda, have to be adapted in conversation with the particular context under study. Chapters, such as those by Dias and Armitage and Thomas et al., demonstrate how relatively novel methods too have to be adjusted to better fit the particular context. The chapters reflect on the application of methods and how they interact with the research context. The types of insights that emerge from these reflections are key for furthering the field of research on people and the sea.

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1.3.3 Translating Across Disciplines and Policy This theme includes four chapters that discuss the innovation in methodological practices required for translating across disciplines and with policy and practice. Discussions centre around experiences in doing interdisciplinary research, combining different data sources and, in particular, the epistemological tensions that arise when doing so. Chapters under this theme therefore go beyond a focus on the research process or particular methods, to reflect on wider contemporary challenges and opportunities researchers face in conducting interdisciplinary projects and producing research ‘impact’. Though there may be many benefits, undertaking interdisciplinary research also often comes with challenges, particularly when it comes to bringing different data together that have been collected from contrasting disciplinary standpoints. Ten Brink et  al., in Chap. 11, discuss lessons learned through a project that combined ecological data with qualitative social data generated through interviews with commercial and recreational fishers, to study the impacts of the first offshore windfarm in the US.  Although the project consisted of a multi-disciplinary team, with different disciplinary expertise represented, the chapter reveals the challenges and opportunities that emerged when seeking to integrate the project’s qualitative and quantitative data sets and, critically, in the framing of the research and social science input. Ten Brink et al. emphasise the need to invest in approaches that are interdisciplinary rather than multi-disciplinary, and which are truly collaborative. Similar issues were encountered by Pafi et al., in Chap. 12, who combined a quantitative tourist survey with qualitative data from a participant-­ led interactive focus group, in their examination of how tourist and local communities imagine the coast on the west coast of Ireland. They highlight the challenges around the complexity of integrating data and, in particular, the implications in terms of time and resources when working with, and combining, these two methodological traditions. Additionally, the authors unpack the epistemological differences at play related to both methodology and frameworks for valuing the coast. While coming from a social science perspective, this chapter demonstrates the diversity of

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epistemologies within the social sciences (e.g. positivist and constructivist approaches) and how these divisions need to be recognised and sometimes reconciled. Such tensions can also occur between disciplines which appear to be much closer epistemologically, for instance between the social sciences and humanities. In Chap. 13, Antonova reflects on the use of narrative analyses within two case studies, on the Bulgarian Black Sea and Yorkshire North Sea shores, through a blended environmental humanities and social sciences approach. To conduct the narrative analysis, she draws on multiple data sources such as interviews with participants, historical documents and media and literary texts. However, she reflects on how her ‘hybrid scholarship’—combining two distinct but close disciplinary approaches—encountered both epistemological and institutional challenges. Antonova points to ways in which to conduct narrative analysis within hybrid and interdisciplinary contexts, as well as how to overcome some challenges related to interdisciplinary research at the coast. Brennan, in Chap. 14, brings forward considerations that can emerge around working at the policy-research interface. She reflects on what engagement with policy means in practice and the kinds of resources (time, perseverance, etc.) that it requires. Brennan’s research is informed by feminist approaches and methods and she identifies how these, combined with an engaged researcher approach, contribute to three methodological tensions in her work at the policy-research interface: between process and outcome, between engaged research and advocacy, and between doing applied policy research and critical theoretical research. Taken together, chapters under this theme highlight potential challenges, strengths and considerations that go into research that blends and hybridises methodological approaches, disciplines and epistemologies. Particular focus is placed on how knowledge and approaches translate across traditions—be that across disciplines or between research and policy. In the concluding chapter, in Chap. 15, Ounanian et al. focus in on collective learnings and insights cutting through the book chapters and across the three themes. In particular, they highlight the importance of considering the ‘hands around the methods’—that is, the skill and expertise that go into deploying methods and methodologies in researching people and the sea. The chapter closes with a reflection on where the tradition in this field is headed.

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1.4 Final Remarks The interest in social sciences in the study of people and the sea is ever-­ expanding. This book takes the unique step of bringing to light insights from research practice from which new researchers—whether new to social science research, or new to the marine and fisheries context—and experienced researchers alike can draw lessons for their own ongoing and future work. With wide-ranging examples presented in the collection, the book’s pages are filled with reflexive, practical and ethical considerations for studying people and the sea. At the heart of the book lies the ambition to encourage methodological innovation and experimentation—be that in adapting everyday social science methods to the specific circumstances and contexts of this field of study, or exploring ‘hybridity’ in methodological approaches. Thinking creatively and critically about methodology and methods in the growing field of ‘marine social sciences’ will be crucial to strengthening capacity and ensuring not just better social science, but also a more relevant and impactful response to the many challenges facing people and the sea.

References Acheson, James M. 1981. Anthropology of Fishing. Annual Review of Anthropology 10: 275–316. Arbo, Peter, Maaike Knol, Sebastian Linke, and Kevin St. Martin. 2018. The Transformation of the Oceans and the Future of Marine Social Science. Maritime Studies 17 (3): 295–304. https://doi.org/10.1007/ s40152-018-0117-5. Bavinck, Maarten, and Jojada Verrips. 2020. Manifesto for the Marine Social Sciences. Maritime Studies 19 (2): 1–3. Bennett, Nathan J. 2019. Marine Social Science for the Peopled Seas. Coastal Management 47 (2): 244–252. https://doi.org/10.1080/0892075 3.2019.1564958. Claudet, Joachim, Laurent Bopp, William W.L. Cheung, Rodolphe Devillers, Elva Escobar-Briones, Peter Haugan, Johanna J.  Heymans, et  al. 2020. A Roadmap for Using the UN Decade of Ocean Science for Sustainable

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Development in Support of Science, Policy, and Action. One Earth 2 (1): 34–42. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.oneear.2019.10.012. European Commission. 2012. Blue Growth Opportunities for Marine and Maritime Sustainable Growth. Brussels. https://eur-lex.europa.eu/legalcontent/EN/TXT/PDF/?uri=CELEX:52012DC0494&from=EN. Flyvbjerg, Bent. 2012. In Real Social Science: Applied Phronesis, ed. Todd Landman and Sanford Schram. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Garcia, Serge M., and Jake Rice. 2020. Assessing Progress towards Aichi Biodiversity Target 6 on Sustainable Marine Fisheries. Technical Series No. 87. Montreal: Secretariat of the Convention on Biological Diversity IPCC. 2019. IPCC Special Report on the Ocean and Cryosphere in a Changing Climate. In ed. H.-O. Pörtner, D.C. Roberts, V. Masson-Delmotte, P. Zhai, M. Tignor, E. Poloczanska, K. Mintenbeck, A. Alegría, M. Nicolai, A. Okem, J. Petzold, B. Rama, and N.M. Weyer. https://www.ipcc.ch/site/assets/ uploads/sites/3/2019/12/02_SROCC_FM_FINAL.pdf. Jentoft, Svein, Bonnie J. McCay, and Douglas C. Wilson. 1998. Social Theory and Fisheries Co-Management. Marine Policy 22 (4–5): 423–436. https:// doi.org/10.1016/S0308-597X(97)00040-7. Kooiman, Jan. 2005. In Fish for Life: Interactive Governance for Fisheries, ed. Maarten Bavinck, Svein Jentoft, and Roger Pullin. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Lowe, Philip, Jeremy Phillipson, and Katy Wilkinson. 2013. Why Social Scientists Should Engage with Natural Scientists. Contemporary Social Science 8 (3): 207–222. https://doi.org/10.1080/21582041.2013.769617. McCay, Bonnie J. 1978. Systems Ecology, People Ecology, and the Anthropology of Fishing Communities. Human Ecology 6 (4): 397–422. https://doi. org/10.1007/BF00889417. McKinley, Emma, Tim Acott, and Katherine L.  Yates. 2020. Marine Social Sciences: Looking Towards A Sustainable Future. Environmental Science & Policy 108: 85–92. Moon, Katie, and Deborah Blackman. 2014. A Guide to Understanding Social Science Research for Natural Scientists. Conservation Biology: The Journal of the Society for Conservation Biology 00 (0): 1–11. https://doi.org/10.1111/ cobi.12326. Moon, Katie, Deborah A. Blackman, Vanessa M. Adams, Rebecca M. Colvin, Federico Davila, Megan C. Evans, Stephanie R. Januchowski-Hartley, et al. 2019. Expanding the Role of Social Science in Conservation through an Engagement with Philosophy, Methodology, and Methods. Methods in Ecology and Evolution 10 (3): 294–302. https://doi.org/10.1111/2041210X.13126.

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Neis, Barbara. 1992. Fishers’ Ecological Knowledge and Stock Assessment in Newfoundland. Newfoundland and Labrador Studies 8: 155–178. Ota, Yoshitaka, and Roger Just. 2008. Fleet Sizes, Fishing Effort and the ‘Hidden’ Factors Behind Statistics: An Anthropological Study of Small-Scale Fisheries in UK. Marine Policy 32 (3): 301–308. https://doi.org/10.1016/j. marpol.2007.06.006. Phillipson, Jeremy, and David Symes. 2013. Science for Sustainable Fisheries Management: An Interdisciplinary Approach. Fisheries Research 139: 61–64. Symes, David. 1999. European Social Science Fisheries Network: Final Report. FAIR C7950070. https://www.ncl.ac.uk/media/wwwnclacuk/centreforruraleconomy/files/ESSFIN%20Final%20Report.pdf. Accessed June 2020. ———. 2006. Fisheries Governance: A Coming of Age for Fisheries Social Science? Fisheries Research 81: 113–117. Symes, David, and Ellen Hoefnagel. 2010. Fisheries Policy, Research and the Social Sciences in Europe: Challenges for the 21st Century. Marine Policy 34 (2): 268–275. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.marpol.2009.07.006. Taylor, Chris, and Amanda Coffey. 2008. Innovation in Qualitative Research Methods: Possibilities and Challenges Cardiff School of Social Sciences Paper: 121. ISBN No: 978-1-904815-84-6. Tunstall, Jeremy. 1962. The Fishermen. London: Macgibbon and Kee. UN. 2004. Integrated Marine and Coastal Area Management (IMCAM) Approaches for Implementing the Convention on Biological Diversity. Management. Montreal: Secretariat of the Convention on Biological Diversity. UNFCCC. 1992. United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change. United Nations 1992 FCCC/INFORMAL/84 GE.05-62220 (E) 200705. Urquhart, Julie, Tim Acott, Matt Reed, and Paul Courtney. 2011. Setting an Agenda for Social Science Research in Fisheries Policy in Northern Europe. Fisheries Research 108 (2–3): 240–247. https://doi.org/10.1016/j. fishres.2010.12.026. Urquhart, Julie, Tim G. Acott, David Symes, and Minghua Zhao, eds. 2014. Social Issues in Sustainable Fisheries Management. Dordrecht: Springer and MARE publication series.

Part II Experiences from the Field: Adapting Methods, Practices and Reflexivity

2 Naked Methodology: Baring It All for a Realistic Account of Marine Social Science Kristen Ounanian

2.1 Introduction Like others, I could have submitted an immaculate version of my PhD methodology, skirting the realities of revised plans and smoothing over the imperfections, but such an action would perpetuate unrealistic expectations for other social scientists. Writing openly about the challenges of a research project introduces a vulnerability, especially for a (then) doctoral candidate looking for acceptance into the ranks of academia. Nevertheless, baring it all reveals what research really looks like. Adapted from that work, I describe the evolution of my PhD research and expose the miscalculations and course corrections often glossed over. The chapter delineates the initial formulation of my PhD research design and methodology and why the original data collection and analytical framework did not hold. It pushes the envelope to include reflections and realizations, to give a more realistic portrayal of what happened en route to

K. Ounanian (*) Centre for Blue Governance, Aalborg University, Aalborg, Denmark e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 M. Gustavsson et al. (eds.), Researching People and the Sea, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-59601-9_2

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the study’s conclusions. Such transparency can hopefully reassure fellow researchers and create a space for more reflective and reflexive discussions of social science research in applied marine and fisheries contexts. First, I outline how the project was conceived as a mixed methods approach with both qualitative and quantitative methods, including a testable hypothesis. I then recount the series of realizations of why it was best to eliminate the quantitative component—a questionnaire using the Factorial Survey Approach (FSA)—and how the project evolved into a qualitative macroethnography or multi-site ethnography. Secondly, I reflect on the ‘bricolage’ in this project and explain how the emancipation from the mixed methods framework, and my embrace of an inductive qualitative epistemology, ushered the project to its ultimate success. Finally, I consider our collective tendency in the (social) sciences to conceal the imperfections of field research, thus obscuring the insights gained from situations when things do not go according to plan.

2.2 E  volution from Mixed Methods to Qualitative Macroethnography 2.2.1 The Initial Mixed Methods Research Design The project centred on a multiple case study design comparing coastal communities undergoing transition and manifestations of fisheries dependence in the regions of Northern Jutland, Denmark, and New England, United States. At the start of the project, and like many researchers embarking on their studies, I struggled to contain its scope. I wanted to not only look into changes in fisheries policies but also set them in the context of wider economic, social, and cultural changes. I feared going into the communities with preconceived ideas of important drivers or relevant issues, but finding that these were not salient. To avoid such a top-down research agenda, an inductive approach best suited the project. Although I could identify my alignment with inductive approaches, at that juncture I struggled to write a proposal with solely qualitative methods. As an interdisciplinary PhD student, who drew primarily from social science, I was hesitant to do solely qualitative research for reasons I further elaborate later.

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I settled on a mixed methods approach (Creswell 2014), interviewing key informants and community residents to build a survey instrument for wider distribution. To provide evidence of the initial motivation and structure of the research project, which would ultimately be amended midstream, I include excerpts from my dissertation proposal in Box 2.1. Box 2.1 Excerpts from Dissertation Proposal, Written in January 2013 The empirical work will begin in Denmark with roughly eight to ten interviews in the three case communities and their two larger municipalities in order to vet relevant drivers of change generated initially through literature. The final component of the empirical methods is a survey of residents in the American and Danish communities. As with many surveys, the purpose is to broaden from the case-specific narratives and identify patterns in preferences and opinions among participants with shared characteristics. Furthermore, the various strategic scenarios developed in the second stage will provide a means by which to elicit preferences in a more concrete and tangible way as opposed to single dimensions. While the Danish cases will provide the material to develop the survey and its vignettes, interviews with community members will be included for the American cases to understand local context, identify shared experiences and themes, and develop a research relationship that will improve response rates for the survey. I hypothesize that a community’s mode of fisheries dependence will influence its adaptation strategies during periods of economic and social transition. To explore and test this hypothesis I will answer the following research questions: 1. How does fisheries dependence manifest in coastal communities today? 2. How do different types of coastal communities cope or navigate change during economic and social transitions?

The interviews were to identify themes and discern which social, cultural, and economic phenomena were most relevant. I conducted the semi-structured interviews with key informants in each community, following an interview protocol focused on fisheries management, local engagement with fisheries, and change within the community. In turn, the survey would allow me to test the outlined hypothesis that a community’s mode of fisheries dependence would influence its adaptation strategies during periods of economic and social transition. It consisted of a

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questionnaire of residents in the American and Danish communities. As with many surveys, the purpose was to broaden from the case-specific narratives and identify patterns in preferences and opinions among participants with shared characteristics. The survey would provide a means of comparing communities at the aggregate level, but also enable insight into divisions within communities or linkages of groups across communities, in order to develop a typology of fisheries dependence. In addition to covering participant demographics, relationships to the fishing industry, and personal values concerning openness to change and traditionalism (Schwartz et al. 2012; Stern et al. 1998), the survey featured vignettes, brief narratives of particular events or circumstances, to address the two central themes of fisheries dependence and transition. Moreover, the vignettes followed an innovative method, the FSA, which I will elaborate on below. The survey was available in both English and Danish and totalled seventy-eight individual questions. There were six case study sites: three cases in northern Denmark (Hirtshals; Løkken; and Thorupstrand) and three parallel cases in the United States (New Bedford, Massachusetts; Provincetown, Massachusetts; and Cutler, Maine). At the start of the research I was living and studying in Aalborg, Denmark; I was scheduled to return to Rhode Island, United States, in fulfilment of my PhD in July 2014. Disentangling what drives people’s decisions poses challenges in social science research because certain social phenomena are often correlated. Take, for example, the relationship between housing property values and the performance of local school districts, which makes it difficult to determine the motivations for neighbourhood preference (Wallander 2009; Heise 2010). Additionally, research participants are not always conscious of the reasons behind their choices or the weight of one reason over another (Wallander 2009). The FSA allows researchers to elicit positive beliefs, normative judgements, and/or intended actions, by independently manipulating the level or magnitude of a select number of dimensions or independent variables within a set storyline or vignette (Wallander 2009; Rossi and Anderson 1982). In my research it offered the prospect to be able to randomly and orthogonally vary dimensions and their levels in order to uncover relationships to dependent constructs of fisheries dependence and transition (Taylor 2006). Furthermore, the use of vignettes provided a means to gauging survey participants’ judgements and avoided social desirability bias in the responses (Wallander 2009).

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2.2.2 Applying the FSA: Realizations in the Field FSA offered a potentially exciting and innovative means to investigate the concept of fisheries dependence. My intention was to present survey respondents with a brief, fictional description of a coastal community in which I would independently vary certain characteristics (or dimensions). I based those variables on the initial findings of the interviews in Northern Jutland. Upon reading the vignette, respondents were first asked to determine whether they considered the described community to be fisheries dependent and then to prescribe the best coping strategy under the circumstances presented in the vignette. Rather than presenting complete real-world examples, where geographic connections, level of fisheries engagement, and community economic health are often intertwined, FSA allowed me to vary the levels and dimensions independently. I could both connect the dimensions in the vignettes to the respondent’s assessment of whether the described community was dependent or not and examine if there were patterns or correlations between community attributes and the suggested coping strategy. To make this more concrete, Box 2.2 includes the vignette with all dimension levels in brackets.

Box 2.2 Full Vignette Text Displaying All Possible Dimensions and Levels Quahaugansett is a community on the coast of New England with a history in fishing and maritime trades. It takes [less/more] than forty-five minutes to drive from here to a major city. The community is [well/poorly] located as a land-sea transportation hub. In the past, Quahaugansett has had an active fishing fleet, but the number of boats has shrunk over the years. Residents of the community prefer that their fishing fleet be [comprised of small-scale boats for sustainability reasons/active and visible because they enjoy visiting the harbour/profitable and economically productive regardless of vessel size]. However, the fishing fleet is under pressure due to [lack of profitability/BLANK] [lack of interest from young people/BLANK] [other job opportunities outside the fishery/BLANK]. Many of the local maritime businesses [struggle to stay open/thrive] because of the level of business generated from the fishing fleet and other sectors. Apart from fishing, Quahaugansett has developed [one other industry/many other industries] with [little/large] success.

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The participants were then asked to prescribe what the community should do under the circumstances, if they lived there, with the following options: If you lived here, what do you think the community should do? A.  Expand the fishing industry by encouraging new recruitment of the fleet B. Maintain the fishing industry as it is currently C. Adapt by letting fishing continue on its current path, but seeking other economic opportunities as they arise D. Abandon fishing to pursue other industries/activities E. Accept that things are changing and nothing can be done other than to leave the community F. None of the above, please specify: ____________________________

With this question, I used literature and information gained from the initial interviews, to draw a spectrum of responses ranging from full embrace of fishing—Expand the fishing industry by encouraging new recruitment of the fleet—to the complete retreat (and admittedly, hopelessness) embodied in the final option—Accept that things are changing and nothing can be done other than to leave the community. In between those embrace and retreat poles, three options covered strategies of maintaining, adapting, and abandoning fishing. Doing an FSA study requires multiple versions of questionnaires with independently generated combinations of dimensions and vignettes. In my example, with 8 dimensions with 2 levels and 1 dimension with 3 levels, the object universe1 is 768 (2^8 × 3^1). Due to 3 dummy variables (presence of a condition or not), the total number of legitimate vignettes reduced from 768 to 672. Each survey included 5 vignettes totalling 135 unique surveys. Due to the demographics of the communities (e.g. age and occupation), paper and pen questionnaires were chosen over an online version. In addition, programming the randomization and

 The object universe represents the full set of possible combinations of dimension levels and is calculated by multiplying the number of levels for each dimension. 1

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distribution of the vignettes would have required complicated coding in an online survey. In addition, some questions were included in the survey to assess the degree of traditionalism and openness to change in the communities. Recognizing later that these questions offered little insight, I wished I had chosen to eliminate them from the survey. It would have shortened its length, which was inevitably necessary. Oftentimes, there is a fear when designing a survey that one will omit a critical question—or ten critical questions—and thus everything (and the kitchen sink) ends up being included. While there were other issues with the survey, I would have advised myself that less is more and to keep the survey simpler, especially when the vignettes were the most important part. The survey was reviewed and tested by a group of persons from a coastal community in Northern Jutland, which was not one of the three cases. In addition, two colleagues with ties to the communities of Hirtshals and Thorupstrand reviewed and commented on the questionnaire. Apart from small text edits in the vignettes, from the pilot testing it seemed that some explanation of the vignette might help respondents better handle the questions. With a strategy of seeking residents in the communities through meetings and local organizations, I prepared a brief presentation to walk participants through an example of the vignette to help them better understand what they were being asked to do. Soliciting participants to do the survey proved very difficult. Concerned with low response rates and difficulties in procuring addresses for people living in the communities, I decided that distribution at a community forum would be the best approach. In Hirtshals, we invited participants to an open meeting advertised with the help of local contacts and organizations in the community. At the first (attempted) meeting, with support of four different local institutions, only two people came (the parents of a fellow PhD student). That was disheartening. I regrouped, took another month to spread the word, and hit the streets posting flyers in shop windows. I even did a radio spot with the local radio station (speaking Danish—not my native language), encouraging people to come to the meeting and the local news website ran two stories on the meeting. And when the (second) meeting came around, there were about thirty people in the audience.

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At the meeting, I presented the project to those gathered and explained the survey’s format walking through an example vignette. Due to this procedure, I had the chance to observe the participants completing the survey. From that experience came some notable observations. First, people needed a minimum of twenty minutes to complete the survey and in some cases almost a half hour. Secondly, aware that some in the audience were fishermen, I could see those individuals struggling to read the vignette paragraphs, looking over to one another in solidarity. This was not an issue of rolling eyes or indications that the survey questions were senseless, but rather that I had vastly overestimated the population’s comfort reading and responding to written questions. The room was silent. It was as though I was administering an exam. I felt guilty. In addition to witnessing the challenge some members had completing the survey, I also realized that disseminating the surveys through these town meetings was time, labour, and resource intensive. Hirtshals was the community where I was best connected to key local leaders, with the ability to rally support from local institutions. I made some initial efforts in Løkken, but it was clear that I did not have sufficient support. Furthermore, at that particular time in late spring, people in the community were preparing for the onslaught of tourists and summer activities, hence a meeting about a research project and survey was not a high priority. And so, my strategy shifted to working through the contacts and distributing the survey as a snowball sample. Of course, this change had methodological implications, but having weighed the options and implications, this decision at least allowed me to reach people to complete the survey. Nonetheless, the success was minimal and those that did fill it out were largely over sixty years old. In addition, my stay in Denmark was coming to an end. I decided to put the survey on hold and re-evaluate. Sometimes in research, decisions are made for you. Months passed after I had returned to the United States and the survey remained in limbo. I needed to evaluate the data I had from the Danish cases, which were predominately from one case site. Most concerning was that answers to the question, ‘If you lived here, what do you think the community should do?’ showed little variation in distribution regardless of the dimensions in the vignettes. Additionally, ‘Part IV: Values’ showed little or no variation and would likely not be insightful for drawing any conclusions.

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I considered removing sections of the survey and reworking the response options for the vignettes, but months kept passing and I had made few new discoveries as how to remedy the multiple problems—dissemination, the vignettes, and overall length—of the survey. Moreover, the complicated nature of analysing the vignette data appeared as an even more formidable challenge. The standstill on determining what to do about the survey also arose from the difficulty of organizing the data from the vignettes and identifying a suitable way of regressing the dimensions. Each participant answered two questions for each of the five vignettes, as well as other questions in the survey. Thus, organizing the dataset required a panel data approach because each vignette essentially represented a different observation, as would be the case in a time series or longitudinal study. Based on the type of dependent variable represented in the vignette judgement, different statistical and regression techniques could have been applied, including analysis of variance, multiple regression, logistic regression, and simple means comparisons of dimensions (Wallander 2009; Heise 2010). In addition to the information generated from the dimensions in the vignette and the associated dependent variables, with demographic information from each participant this information can also be used to illuminate relationships. Atzmüller and Steiner (2010) highlight different analysis possibilities with FSA in terms of respondent-level and vignette-­ level effects. They explain that a ‘quantitative vignette study consists of two components: (a) a vignette experiment as the core element, and (b) a traditional survey for the parallel and supplementary measurement of additional respondent-specific analysis of vignette data’ (Atzmüller and Steiner 2010, 128). Jasso (2006) similarly explains the method’s three, multiple order equations that cover decisions, positive beliefs, and normative judgements, further highlighting the onion-like layers throughout. These layers require further problem-solving and planning for the analysis to begin. In summary, in addition to the mounting difficulty of getting people to fill out the survey, it became clear that once the data were procured, analysis would not be straightforward, nor would preliminary results be immediate. Furthermore, the cases covered in the literature had fewer

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than nine dimensions. It became apparent that I had added difficulty and complexity on top of trying a method for the first time. Meanwhile, a growing amount of qualitative data required coding and analysis.

2.2.3 R  ather Than Saw Off Your Foot, Get New Shoes: Adopting a Multi-case Ethnographic Approach Although the survey required attention in terms of content and dissemination, the project was not at a standstill. I finished interviewing twenty-­ six persons related to the three Danish communities—more than initially intended—and moved back to New England for doctoral studies and fieldwork in August 2014. I began interviews in New England in January 2015 and began to recognize the richness of the qualitative data and the time necessary to do justice to the interviews in the inductive, grounded theory approach I intended (Glaser and Strauss 1967). I faced a methodological trade-off. I had a survey that was not functioning as planned; I could put more effort and resources to it, but with the caveat that the results may not be compelling in the end. Moreover, with finite resources and time, attention to the survey would pull effort away from the qualitative analysis. On the other hand, the interviews were richer, but also broader thematically than anticipated, and required time to analyse the findings as a result of an open, inductive approach. Nonetheless, the push of the survey and the pull of the interview data were in the same direction. Once it became clearer that doggedly pursuing the survey risked undermining the interviews, the project became a qualitative study, not a qualitative-quantitative mixed methods design. Ultimately, letting go of the survey and the attempt at using FSA in a novel setting was difficult, but the recognition that the qualitative material deserved the spotlight eased the decision. As the title of this section recommends, I decided that rather than saw off my foot because the methodological shoe did not fit, I would find new shoes, or a new research framework, that would allow me to run to the end of the project without discomfort. With the decision to eliminate the survey, out went the overall framework of the project, namely the hypothesis to be tested. The

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project became an example of inductive science, not an effort to use inductive approaches in the initial stage to inform a more deductive instrument like the survey. Becoming an entirely qualitative project enabled me to examine the narratives at play in the communities. In order to incorporate the various themes uncovered in the interviews, the project remained focused on the manifestations of fisheries dependence and the concept of transition, but also covered emerging themes such as authenticity. In its final, evolved form, the project became a multiple case study design, exploring the topics of fisheries dependence and transition through qualitative methods. The interviews represent the principal method of data collection, but were supplemented by written materials and media produced by/for the communities or organizations in those communities related to fisheries, tourism, or other maritime sectors. In addition to semi-structured and informal interviews, I also visited all the communities in this study on a few different occasions. Participant observation is a fixture of many ethnographic accounts, but the level of participation may vary from researcher to researcher or project to project (Spradley 1980). I primarily practised passive participation, characterized by lower degree of interaction with locals, where the researcher maintains an ‘outsider’ role (Spradley 1980). Except for the Cutler case, I was able to visit all the communities in different seasons, to gauge the winter quiet and the summer hyperactivity and in some instances the shoulder seasons of fall and spring. Although ethnographic work often situates the researcher for an extended period of months in a single place, often a small village, I did not live in the communities I studied. I embodied the ‘commuter’ researcher in respect to participant observation methods (Musante 2015). Consequently, the depth of my knowledge of each case is not as great as if I had stayed for extended periods living among the people I interviewed. However, the experiences travelling to those locations, walking the streets, and attending festivities, all inform this work, just as they would for a more traditional ethnography. Many of these communities hold festivals and events that relate to the fishing industry and I attended some of those occasions, writing field notes of my observations and experiences. In many instances, I conducted interviews in people’s places of business or their homes, and thus got a

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glimpse into what Goffman (1959) would call the backstage of their work and lives. Additionally, I collected documents—in print and digital format—from newspapers, self-produced materials, books, plans, tourism brochures, websites, and social media that were relevant to the research. Moreover, some of the rhetoric and discourses employed in plans and materials offered another means of understanding the ongoing narratives of these communities around fishing, change, and economic development. At times, six cases seemed daunting and ill-advised, but the connections to be made to similar cases in two different national contexts2 strengthened the work and helped extend conclusions beyond what they would have been from a single case study. This work may be called a ‘macroethnography’ because its extent reaches to multiple communities (Spradley 1980). Finally, because of the delineated interest in fisheries dependence and transition, the project represents a topic-oriented ethnography as opposed to accounts with a more general interest in the culture of a place and/or its people (Hymes 1978  in Spradley 1980). Therefore, to call the final project an ethnography stretches the bounds of the method slightly, but the project still encapsulated many of the strategies and tenets of ethnographic research.

2.3 Post-hoc Reflections 2.3.1 Pressure to Prove Methodological Bilingualism At the risk of sounding like an evangelist, I am a believer in mixed methods. At the start of the project, I found it difficult to design a study, especially one that included a survey, without speaking with community members first about the issues salient to them. Additionally, I was not disciplined enough—nor confident enough in a qualitative-only study— to recognize that the plan to interview and survey six communities was  I worked in both Northern Jutland and New England because of my unique circumstance of being a dual doctoral student, enrolled at both Aalborg University and University of Rhode Island, located in each respective region. One of my central motivations in doing this PhD was to compare these two regions and build a typology of fisheries dependence, necessitating more than a single case. Full elaboration of the project is available in Ounanian (2016). 2

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overambitious. Conceptually I stand by my plan to include a survey to test my hypothesis connecting mode of dependence and orientation towards change. However, my faith was tested and I decided that my grand ideals of having a mixed methods PhD thesis would not come to fruition. A survey can only provide insight if people fill it out. Aside from concerns of statistical power, effect size, and response rate, without sufficient numbers of people completing the survey, analysis would provide little if any findings. I felt disappointed that the work I had done on the survey—its development, its translation, the meeting in Hirtshals, and so on—would not furnish results for the dissertation. In a number of respects, I stand by the ambition to do a mixed methods project and to incorporate an innovative survey technique. A move away from ‘either/or’ thinking towards ‘and/more’ perspectives (Flyvbjerg 2006) will only strengthen social sciences contributions to resource policy and the study of communities undergoing change. By advocating an ‘and/more’ approach, Flyvbjerg (2006) encourages social scientists to let questions lead methodological choice and encourages a plurality of methods. Nonetheless, mixed methods studies require financial support, time, and researcher capacities to develop instruments, collect data, analyse the results, and synthesize the findings, that are likely greater than those studies falling under a single epistemological paradigm. There is encouragement, or perhaps pressure, to become a methodologically bilingual social scientist able to employ both quantitative and qualitative methods, and the PhD thesis represents a primary forum to demonstrate one’s abilities as a researcher. However, the expectation/ambition—self-imposed or not—to ‘do it all’ also primes fledgling researchers to feel pinned into initial thinking when confronting an (inevitable) methodological crisis. It can feel that changing course and deviating from the original plan is a defeat or a result of a personal deficit. Additionally, the pressure to prove oneself as methodologically bilingual especially confronts marine social scientists, or even environmental social scientists more broadly, because of the dominance of inquiry on the natural and physical dynamics of the environment and their ecology. As the term marine social science gains popularity, we must reflect on its meaning and the particular combination of marine with social science.

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As an alumna of the University of Rhode Island’s Department of Marine Affairs, to which four other authors in this volume are affiliated, my preference is for marine affairs as a term that encapsulates the study of people—individuals through to their collective institutions—and their use of and relationships to oceans, coasts, and marine environments. My preference stands with marine over maritime,3 the latter of which I confine to shipping, navigation, and naval activities, whereas the former encapsulates the environments where myriad cultural, social, economic, and political concerns are enacted. This long aside is to recognize that many of us converge, or are being corralled, under the marine social science tent, taking different pathways to its destination, but likely with a shared experience confronting questions over methodological rigour, whether from positivistic and quantitatively driven economists and natural scientists, or from ‘pure’ disciplinarians of anthropology, geography, history, political science, sociology, and so on. Marine social scientists traverse in multiple worlds, academic and applied, and thus the pressure to demonstrate depth and breadth of one’s science literacy can be formidable.

2.3.2 Methodological Bricolage Even with the support of my PhD supervisor to eliminate the survey and restructure the project’s methodology, I was still concerned that those evaluating my work would be sceptical of the findings or my core abilities to conduct rigorous social science research. My concern largely came from the idea that research designs ought not to change in the middle of fieldwork or data collection. As I was working out how to write my methodology, I was inspired by the following to write a reflective methodology: The structures of the research handbooks have to be reconciled with accounts of how research is actually carried out. Lower’s (1977) analysis of the accounts in Hammond demonstrate that, with one exception, the proj David Symes underlined this difference in understanding of the terms maritime and marine among American and European scholars in a presentation in 2010  in connection to the EU Common Fisheries Policy reform process. 3

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ects embarked upon by these distinguished researchers all reached a point of disruption where the original plan, the original project, the original rationale for the research suffered a breakdown, precipitating a crisis and requiring activities of what Lower calls theoretical “patchworking” or theoretical “bricolage” in order to repair the breakdown and to present an appearance of coherence in the work. Of course, if research is recognized to be a journey into the unknown rather than a task which can be fully specified and planned in advance, then such breakdowns look less surprising, and we can look (Lower suggests) at the patchworking as the injection of a creative element into the process. (Gherardi and Turner 2002, 84–85)

I had initially thought that the methodological problems I encountered were due to my own inadequacies; perhaps I had not been disciplined or clever enough to recognize that the FSA would not work in this context or that I could drown in the qualitative data alone. However, Gherardi and Turner (2002) enlightened me and helped me recognize one of the dirty secrets of research: not every research project goes exactly according to plan. ‘Bricolage’4 is indeed a fitting description of the process or means by which I produced a meaningful PhD thesis, and subsequently published journal articles, based on a diverse range of qualitative data that I had collected and analysed through grounded theory (Glaser and Strauss 1967). The intention of a collage is indeed to produce a meaningful picture using multiple sources and perhaps materials or media that are not commonly combined. The process requires one to recognize scraps or remnants and rework these, or put disparate images and patterns alongside each other, to produce a meaningful image. Of course, social science, just like any science, differs from art, and seeks to adhere to principles of replication and validity. But those principles are often achieved through the explicit writing up of data collection methods and modes of analysis, not in steadfastly following a previously set-out plan.  A French term, bricolage refers to the process of creating or constructing a piece of art, craft, or literature from a diverse range of things that happen to be available, or a work created by such a process. In French, the verb bricoler translates to ‘fiddle, tinker’ and, by extension, ‘to make creative and resourceful use of whatever materials are at hand (regardless of their original purpose)’ (http:// www.informationbricolage.com/information/). 4

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2.3.3 Concealing Imperfections Obscures Insights Following a theme of this chapter and the quotation presented from Gherardi and Turner (2002), the perception of defeat when something does not go according to the original plan emerges from the propensity of social scientists to sweep these roadblocks and alterations aside and report only the successes and the final form of the research design in write ups of methodology. However, we can find solace in Nietschmann (1979, 1): Field research can be a profound human experience. Yet the accounts of many studies are written as if the investigation had taken place in a vacuum—as if the researcher suddenly had been teletransported to the site and, by means of clairvoyance or immaculate conceptual perception, had faultlessly initiated and completed the research project in one binding flash of academic ingenuity. Let me tell you, it usually doesn’t work this way, especially in foreign settings. Even though they are exorcised from articles and books, there are awkward, stumbling, agonizing, often humorous personal accounts and problems that give each research experience a special character and texture.

As earlier alluded, social science research faces concerns and calls for methodological rigor, especially in situations where natural science colleagues have either simplistic views of the field (e.g. ‘Social science is just talking to people, which anyone can do’) or they can be sceptical towards findings (especially in qualitative work) because such works may lack explicitly detailed methodologies or elucidation on data collection and analysis. Nevertheless, post-positivist social science, with its varied epistemologies and related methodologies, may be difficult to understand for natural science colleagues without prior exposure or appreciation that there are legitimate differences in epistemology and how research can be carried out. Therefore, I echo the calls from Gherardi and Turner (2002) and Nietschmann (1979) to say that increased transparency in the way the research was carried out, without glossing over the points of crisis or course corrections, will be meaningful to those working within, alongside, and outside the discipline.

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Furthermore, while social science is a science and not an art, the recognition of creativity and the creative process embedded in research deserves reflection. Famed dancer and choreographer, Twyla Tharp (2003) outlines a typology of failure in her book, The Creative Habit, and the paired remedies for such failures: • Failure of skill? Then get to work • Failure of concept? Then get out when you can • Failure of judgement? Be mindful that your name is on the final product and you will answer for the lack of execution of unpopular decisions • Failure of nerve? Get over feeling foolish • Failure through repetition? Resist, do new things • Failure from denial? Deal with it and change it In the evolution of my project, I recognize almost all of these failures. As difficult as it is to admit it, there was an element in the failure of skill in my limitations on how to organize and analyse the FSA data. Nonetheless, the deeper failures of the project were more in line with failures of concept, nerve, and denial. With the failure of concept in the FSA and the mixed qualitative-quantitative methods design, I could have ignored the signs of trouble and found myself in a failure of denial, largely because of a failure of nerve. It was necessary to both get over the feeling of being foolish and deal with the problems and make changes. Tharp (2003, 221) writes of the importance of finding a ‘win-win change’ where ‘you have to hack out something that doesn’t work and replace it with something that does’. Reading Tharp three years after the completion of my PhD and in preparation for this chapter makes me even more confident that changing course was the right decision. Without the humility to admit to miscalculations, over ambitious plans, or failures of all sorts, we as social scientists risk settling into rote ways of doing research (i.e. failure through repetition). Especially in applied contexts like those of the marine domain, the field may not progress, or at least not as quickly as it could, with such reflections.

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2.3.4 A  Reflexive Approach to Researching Coastal Communities Seeing this chapter as part of a volume on reflective and reflexive methodologies in research on people and the sea, I close with points specific to undertaking research in coastal communities. In his feedback to this chapter (and using an apt metaphor for this volume), Jeremy Phillipson advised me to look beyond methodological failure, ‘No skipper sees every empty haul as a failure, so why should we as researchers’! Indeed, there are insights to be gained through absence. I begin with insights on the use of FSA in the particular context of the fishing community and amongst a wider population. FSA questionnaires are often presented to professionals familiar with the task of making a particular decision or judgement based on differing circumstances (e.g. nurses (Taylor 2006) and social workers (Wallander and Blomqvist 2008)), or to groups of graduate students, who have the earned reputation of doing just about anything in exchange for food. In contrast, employing this approach for a public, heterogeneous audience presented challenges in both recruitment and the quality of the answers provided. I tried to overcome some of those issues by walking through an example vignette with the group assembled in Hirtshals, but again with the realization that it was costly to continue with these meetings, and there was a risk that the vignettes would not be properly understood. Additionally, as illustrated by the Hirtshals meeting, the vignettes required a comfort with reading paragraph length texts (five in succession), which could be expected of professionals, but less so for the general population (Sauer et al. 2011). In addition to the limitations of FSA specifically, the overall dissemination of a survey to a general population (i.e. residents in a community) requires serious resources for a meaningful response rate. In my experience, it felt that people were increasingly resistant towards answering questions (especially closed questions) in a questionnaire and seemed more inclined to speak in an interview. Of course, there are reasons to use a survey and ways to make it succeed, but as people’s data and opinions are mined more and more by commercial entities, I believe there is a

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growing reluctance among the public to engage with such instruments even for non-profit research. Fishers can be especially frustrated by questionnaires, particularly if they suspect their answers will be used against their interests or if the questions and response options conflict with their understandings and experiences of the situation. In contrast, I found that people were curious and interested towards me and my project. They appreciated the forum that an interview provided both to answer questions I prepared and to expand and extend the discussion on what was meaningful to them. Credible accounts require multiple sources, which are addressed through the different modes of data collection, but interpretive social science also encourages researchers to state their own biases and experiences for the reader to judge the account. This is especially important when using methods of observation as ‘the place from which the observer observes’ influences what is seen and thus reported (Musante 2015, 272). Although discussing the limitations of participant observation, Musante’s (2015) point that fellow scholars should not ask whether a researcher is biased, but rather ask how the researcher is biased, has relevance to this qualitative study. Similarly, in the hermeneutic tradition, prejudice, understood as one’s own experiences, cannot be avoided and thus is an integral part of knowledge (Schnegg 2015). Moreover, the encouragement to be open about one’s perspective, personal attributes, education, and ontological perspective are important features of accounts from the field (Musante 2015; Bernard 2006). To that end, I can assess the lens through which I see, even as I try to wipe the glass clean of unintended bias. I grew up in a small suburb of Boston, which makes me a New Englander but one with somewhat different experiences than those who grew up, lived in, moved to, or worked in New Bedford, Provincetown, and Cutler. Being an American puts me further outside of the experience of the Danes, but having lived in the country for four years at the time of research coloured the account differently than one written by a Danish citizen or someone who had just arrived. Lastly, my experiential profile fits the footloose, educated young woman living out the ‘mobility-as-opportunity discourse’ discussed in the literature (Norman and Power 2014). Thus, compared to the desire to remain in the same community from childhood, as voiced by some in

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these interviews, I represent in some ways the opposite, which requires reflexivity. Nonetheless, I would be remiss not to admit that like many researchers, I study places, societies, and cultures that I personally find captivating. Reflexivity is paramount as the impartial, objective scientist of positivism gives way to the ‘passionate participant’ of constructivism (Guba and Lincoln 1994).

2.4 Conclusion As stated at the outset, this chapter aimed to outline the progression of discoveries and pitfalls that contributed to my project’s evolution. When I began the research, I intended to employ mixed methods, combining initial qualitative interviewing and a closed, structured questionnaire to answer the research questions and test my hypothesis. Nonetheless, there was a point, or perhaps a period of disruption, that forced me to re-­ evaluate the initial plan, jettison the quantitative component and the hypothesis, and embrace a fully qualitative work. The structure of a multiple case study design and the data collection methods of interviews and field observations remained from the original plan. Nevertheless, the emphasis on the qualitative data also allowed a broadening of themes and an interpretive epistemology in the work. My hope is that those who have read this chapter come away with an understanding of what I did in the field, how I treated the data, and my epistemic orientations and limitations that result in the discussions and conclusions of the dissertation. In addition to those conventional insights of a methodology chapter, the detail outlined in this chapter also serves to portray an honest account of social science research in the field. The ‘disruptions’ I recount are not anomalies in the pursuit of social science research. However, oftentimes such breakdowns do not receive elaboration in methods sections or chapters, making them de facto non-existent. In bringing the ‘disruption’ and ‘bricolage’ to light, I hope that those undergoing their own moments of crisis in their research will be relieved to know such things happen and the key is to carry onward.

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Acknowledgements  I wish to thank my co-editors, Madeleine Gustavsson, Carole S. White, and Jeremy Phillipson for their collegiality and camaraderie in this process. This chapter improved through constructive comments and edits from each of them at various points of its development. Finally, I would like to thank members of my PhD committee who were especially supportive of the original dissertation chapter’s concept and development.

References Atzmüller, Christiane, and Peter M.  Steiner. 2010. Experimental Vignette Studies in Survey Research. Methodology: European Journal of Research Methods for the Behavioral and Social Sciences 6 (3): 128–138. https://doi. org/10.1027/1614-2241/a000014. Bernard, H.Russell. 2006. Participant Observation. In Research Methods in Anthropology, 4th ed., 342–286. Oxford: AltaMira Press. Creswell, John W. 2014. Research Design: Qualitative, Quantitative, and Mixed Methods Approaches. 4th ed. Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE Publications. Flyvbjerg, B. 2006. Five Misunderstandings About Case-Study Research. Qualitative Inquiry 12 (2): 219–245. https://doi. org/10.1177/1077800405284363. Gherardi, Silvia, and Barry Turner. 2002. Real Men Don’t Collect Soft Data. In The Qualitative Researcher’s Companion, ed. A.  Michael Huberman and Matthew B. Miles, 81–100. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications. Glaser, Barney G., and Anselm L.  Strauss. 1967. The Discovery of Grounded Theory: Strategies for Qualitative Research. Hawthorne, NY: Aldine de Gruyter. Goffman, Erving. 1959. The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. New  York: Anchor Books. Guba, Egon G., and Yvonna S.  Lincoln. 1994. Competing Paradigms in Qualitative Research. In Handbook of Qualitative Research, ed. Norman K.  Denzin and Yvonna S.  Lincoln, 105–117. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications. Heise, David R. 2010. Surveys with Vignettes. In Surveying Cultures, 75–86. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Jasso, G. 2006. Factorial Survey Methods for Studying Beliefs and Judgments. Sociological Methods & Research 34 (3): 334–423. https://doi. org/10.1177/0049124105283121.

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3 Attending to the Rhythms of the Sea, Place and Gendered Cultures in Interviewing Fishers and Fishing Families Madeleine Gustavsson

3.1 Introduction Social scientists are increasingly paying attention to the socio-cultural lifeworlds—or contexts—of fishers and fishing (Siriwardane-de Zoysa and Hornidge 2016; Urquhart et  al. 2011), yet how we come to know these lifeworlds has been under-explored. The current chapter reflects on the methodological issues of a research project which sought to examine the lives of fishers and fishing families in context. I draw on my own experiences ‘in the field’ focusing on particular ethical and practical challenges that emerged when interviewing fishers and their families (including women and adult children) in a small-scale fishing community in North Wales, UK. During the course of the research I spent a total of two months (two weeks at a time) in the study area in 2014–2015. I was using various M. Gustavsson (*) European Centre for Environment and Human Health, University of Exeter, Truro, UK Ruralis—Institute for Rural and Regional Research, Trondheim, Norway e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 M. Gustavsson et al. (eds.), Researching People and the Sea, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-59601-9_3

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in-­depth qualitative interview techniques, such as repeat interviews (Riley and Harvey 2007), individual interviews, joint interviews (Riley 2014) as well as couple interviews (Valentine 1999) and participant observation. I interviewed male fishers (MF) and members of fishing families—female partners (FP), sons (S) and daughters (D). The age of participants ranged from 18 to 75. The interview participants predominantly spoke Welsh but were interviewed in English, which presented both challenges and advantages which will be discussed in this chapter. When conducting this research, I noticed there has been relatively little scholarly attention to the use of qualitative methods in fisheries research. The research therefore drew on literature in other social science fields—primarily agriculture (Kuehne 2016; Riley 2010)—and those social researchers taking a more feminist (and socio-cultural) approach (McDowell 1992; Rose 1997; Pini 2005). The chapter begins with exploring practical and ethical issues around getting access and fitting in with the rhythms of fishing. Then it moves on to discuss emplacement of interviews and the importance of considering associated social dynamics. This is followed by an exploration of some challenges around getting access to the stories of women in fishing families and the different social and spatial contexts which family interviews can constitute. The chapter ends with highlighting some issues around ethical interviewing and a reflection on researcher positionality.

3.2 G  etting Access and Fitting in with the Rhythms of Fishing Whilst the UK government publicly registers licensed boats, there is no straightforward way in which to identify fishers. This is especially the case for the small-scale fishing sector which, in the main, falls outside the membership of Producers’ Organisations (POs). As such, small-scale fishers and (even more so) their families compose what Heckathorn (2002) calls a ‘hidden population’. Identifying and contacting potential participants and securing interviews therefore involved seeking out participants which, in my research, relied on ‘chain-referral sampling’ (Heckathorn 2002) with local fishing associations as the initial point of contact.

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I faced several challenges when researching fishers and fishing households, with the step of actually pinning down and arranging interviews being the first test. Arranging interviews with people who fish was highly dependent on weather, tides and season: I have to work the tides, so you can’t sort of turn up here and go fishing. You have got to be there on certain times of the tide. If the weather is good I would probably fish seven days a week. (MF-10)

Fishers in the study area were very busy during the summer months as they tried to make the most of the prosperous fishing season and were, inevitably, very hard to interview at this time of the year. Whilst there are various ways to relate to this seasonality, I avoided interviews in the summer. My experience was also that it was difficult to arrange interviews in advance as fishers first needed to know what the weather would be like and whether they would be fishing or not. I negotiated this by approaching potential participants by telephone prior to visiting the area. Whilst in the area, interviews were either provisionally booked at any day of the visit or scheduled one or two days in advance which allowed participants to forecast the weather conditions. Whilst this approach involved a lot of phone calls in an area with poor mobile phone reception, this proved to be an efficient way to arrange interviews with fishers in the inshore fishery who are typically not at sea for longer than a day at a time. As the time which participants could spare for an interview limited its potential depth, I used ‘repeat interviews’ (Riley and Harvey 2007) in which I could return to the same participants following the first research encounter. This approach had a threefold advantage. First, it allowed me to use a flexible interview design whereby I (or participants) could cut interviews off and pick them up again next time if the respondents were busy. As highlighted earlier, fitting in around the ‘rhythms’ of fishing (in particular tides, weather and season) was key to getting access to participants and to enable their rich stories to be told. Second, returning to the same participant allowed for trust and rapport to develop over time (Crang and Cook 1995). Turning up a second time gave participants a sense that I was interested in what they had to say, often leading to richer stories providing me a deeper understanding of their lives. A third

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advantage of returning to the same participant was that it allowed a ‘triangulation’ of what participants had said in the past—comparing narratives produced in different relational and spatial contexts (Riley 2010).

3.3 Interview Emplacements and Social Dynamics Choices pertaining to interview location, or ‘emplacement’, have special importance. Research has suggested that places are filled with meaning and can facilitate different memories to be told in an interview (Crang and Cook 1995; Riley 2010). For the context of fishing, Williams (2008, 64) suggests that interviews in fishing homes ‘provided reference points for different stories […] such as photographs of various fishing boats, which were proudly displayed on many of these households’ walls’. What these authors have in common is the recognition that the place itself has importance for the knowledge produced in interviews. As Riley (2010) argues, the methodological literature often suggests one should look for a quiet and private place—free from disturbances—but, he argues, by choosing such a location the researcher will miss out on the spontaneous disturbances and everyday activities going on around the interview. Riley (2010, 653) highlights that, in his study of family farms, ‘being in place and talking about (or through) place allowed the interview to “bring in” other respondents and narratives’ than what would have emerged in a standard one-to-one interview. He also argues that this approach places the ‘place’ (in his case ‘the farm’) as a ‘subject’ of the interview. Informed by these ideas, and to allow for interviews to take place in locations with meaning to participants, I asked participants to choose their preferred location. This approach resulted in a number of interview locations, including fishing coves, inside vans, in people’s homes, in their boat sheds, in cafés, on boats (onshore) and in pubs. Their location choices invariably introduced ethical and practical considerations, with some interview settings proving more suited than others for interviewing fishing families and fishers. Important to this discussion is the distinction between individuals and the community and how

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fishers balance their competitiveness and cooperation through secrecy (Gustavsson et al. 2017; Palmer 1990). The following fieldnotes extract reflect on interviews in public spaces: I went to the pub to interview a fisher […] After a little while another fisher walked in. They said hello. He sat down in the bar, ordered a pint. They spoke in Welsh. Laughed. I tried to continue the interview. After a while I realised I couldn’t ask most of my questions as they avoided answering questions about their fishing activities in front of another fisher. (Author’s fieldnotes)

‘Private’ and ‘public’ interview locations therefore present different challenges and opportunities for the interviewer. Public locations, such as a pub, sometimes proved difficult due the presence of other people that could overhear conversations. I quickly learnt that fishing participants were unwilling to share certain types of information in public, and especially with the presence of other, competing, fishers. Fishers were ‘secretive’ about their fishing activities (Gustavsson et al. 2017) which meant public spaces (e.g. pubs; shared fishing sheds) tended to be inappropriate settings in which to explore these activities in-depth. In contrast, interviews in people’s homes as well as other locations (fishing coves, boats and sometimes private sheds) allowed a more productive space for discussions of fishing practices and enabled opportunities to talk about personal issues and business matters—with some fishing secrets generally being more openly shared and discussed within the familial context. Nevertheless, other researchers have expressed caution around conceptualising the home as an entirely ‘private’ setting, as the participation and presence of a diverse set of family members in the home can influence what narratives are produced. Aitken (2001, 77) notes: ‘Lack of privacy during separate interviews can silence participants, but it may also engender coercion if partners are able to listen in on conversations’. Whilst this cautionary note is ethically important when discussing personal and familial issues, my experience was that it was not entirely possible to control the social dynamics of who else was present in an interview situation—neither in those spaces labelled public nor private. In practice, sometimes one-on-one interviews unexpectedly became group interviews

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as other people joined in. I decided to embrace, rather than resist, such unexpected turns, inspired by Kuehne’s (2016) approach and recommendations for successful interactions with farmers. Taken together it could be argued that whilst there are advantages and challenges with both public and private interview localities, these are associated with important and specific ethical considerations. A further aspect to consider when choosing interview locality is Riley and Harvey’s (2007) suggestion that ‘repeat interviews’ with the same participant(s) could be located in different places—enabling different types of ‘emplaced’ discussion. My experience with using this approach was that repeat interviews similarly helped to expand the number of themes covered, as well as facilitate different spatial and relational contexts. In some cases, participants wanted to show something that had been talked about in the interview, such as a fishing cove, boats and fishing gear, sheds, specific areas of the sea and a maritime museum. I will show you my garage later, it is full of fishing shit. (MF-22) I’ll show you the boats later on if you want. We can go there by car. (MF-28)

By following participants to these places, the interview became mobile. This approach is akin to Riley’s (2010) method of ‘emplacing’ the interview. In particular Riley (2010) highlights the added value of ‘walking interviews’. Although the nature of fishing and the sea mean that walking interviews are more problematic, the approach of allowing fishers to guide the spatial direction of the interview was one borrowed from this literature on mobile methods. This offered the advantage of emplaced discussions in which fishing gear, boats and other fishing places could be discussed and observed. The fisher wanted to show me where the boats where moored and I decided to follow. It was really good to see for myself how the boats were placed and where the quay pots were located as this wasn’t really clear in the interviews. Yet I could not help myself from being frustrated that the recorder was off and that the conversations that followed were unrecorded. (Author’s fieldnotes)

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As highlighted in the fieldnotes extract above, the emplaced conversations that followed the interviews were often unrecorded, although a research fieldnote diary was kept noting these observations immediately after returning from ‘the field’. A further way in which to emplace the interview discussion could be to accompany fishers out to sea (e.g. Pálsson 1994; Anbleyth-Evans this volume). Whilst this was not a possibility in my study due to health and safety regulations and cost of enabling courses, researchers could further explore the advantages of locating interviews—and other ethnographic methods—at sea. This could help the researcher to triangulate their findings by also observing the ‘doings’ at sea—not only the narration of fishing practices and fishing lives. An important consideration, however, is that the sea is a private and lonely place which could pose significant safety risks to researchers (Sampson and Thomas 2003). Expanding on the theme of risk and safety, Chiswell and Wheeler (2016) highlight risks to the researcher in the context of interviews with farmers (see also Chiswell et al. this volume). They particularly note that farm geographies—such as the social and rural (remote) context of farming—expose young (female) researchers to particular risks. This, they suggest, was particularly the case when researchers were entering someone’s home in a remote locality without adequate phone signals. In my research, researcher safety was something that had to be continuously considered. In particular, the risks associated with letting participants choose the place of interview. As the photo (Fig.  3.1) illustrates, interview settings were often in remote localities, unknown to the researcher, with no other people around. This highlights the sometimes-precarious position of researchers in the field and the importance of having a ‘lone worker policy’ and possibly a ‘buddy system’1 in place.

 Chiswell and Wheeler (2016, 3) recommend to always let somebody know the ‘details of when, where and who’ of the interview and when you are expected to return. 1

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Fig. 3.1  A typical interview location by a fishing cove

3.4 Getting Access to the Stories of Women During the research process I found that establishing contacts with family members, especially people other than the ‘male fisher’, was especially difficult. Male fishing partners often referred women and adult children to take part in the study and thus could act as gatekeepers (Mandel 2003). This role meant they could also avoid introducing their family members to the researcher: When finishing the interview I asked the fisher if maybe I could speak to his wife in the next few days. I had the sense this was an unexpected question and that he sort of avoided answering… Giving his ‘no answer’ answer it was difficult for me to know if this was because she would be busy, or because she wouldn’t be interested, or if he didn’t want me to speak to his wife. Either way, I didn’t speak to his wife. (Author’s fieldnotes)

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Whilst the fieldnote extract above highlights some of the awkwardness in relying on men to introduce you to their wives or partners, this approach did however work in some situations. Another important aspect was that chain-referral sampling (Heckathorn 2002) proved much more difficult with women than with their fishing partners, as women did not share a network in the same way that male fishers did with each other. I simply did not manage to establish contacts with women outside the immediate family context using the technique of chain-referral. In other studies on women in fishing households (Britton 2012; Gerrard 1995), the presence of women’s organisations avoided the challenges discussed here, but there was no such women’s network present on the Llŷn peninsula. A further complication is that fishing, unlike farming, has a different spatial context in that the fishing home is not necessarily located in proximity to the place of work and the sea. As such, it is unlikely that the researcher studying fishing will simply encounter female partners without actively seeking to meet them. A further challenge in getting women to participate in the research was that some expressed they had nothing to contribute to the discussion of fishing: Interviewer: maybe we can talk a little bit about how fishing has been part of your life? Partner: hmm… I don’t know a lot about fishing. (FP-9)

As the interview extract with Female partner 9 reveals, her initial response to her life in a fishing family was that she did not have much knowledge about the subject. This might reflect what was also found by Williams (2008) and Gerrard (1995)—that women’s knowledges have traditionally been excluded from fisheries issues and politics, and as such they are not used to expressing their views on the topic of fishing. This point is echoed by Power (2000, 202) who argues that women’s lack of managerial and ownership control in fisheries ‘may explain the uncertainty women express about their knowledge’. She continues:

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perhaps because of a history of government, industry and researchers deferring to the male authority in fishery-related areas, even when women are actually more knowledgeable about certain issues than their husbands and male relatives, and when they are asked to participate in discussions or comment publicly, they tend to defer to men.

Yet drawing on insights from studies of women in fishing families (Gustavsson and Riley 2018), we know that women have important knowledge and perspectives on fishing. As scholars often note, it is rare for women to work on fishing boats (with important local exceptions)— instead, women are more commonly performing roles and activities that take place before or after capturing fish, such as preparing fishing gear, or selling, marketing and processing fish (see Frangoudes and Gerrard 2018; Weeratunge et al. 2010). However, whilst a lot of the discussion regarding fishing revolves around fishing practices, the following quote also highlights the importance of asking questions with relevance to women’s lives—and the work they do—in fishing families in the local context: I don’t know much about [fishing]. I wouldn’t know how to catch crab and lobster. But I know a lot about fisheries. Do you know what I mean? I know a lot about that and as a family how to make a living out of fishing. I know quite a lot about that. (FP-17)

As a researcher, it is important to ask questions that are relevant to women, and which avoid debasing their knowledge of fishing practices. By this I mean that questions have to allow for women to ‘tell their stories’, going beyond discussing details of fishing practices and those activities placed at sea. Nevertheless, this is not to say that women do not have a stake or view in the politics, business or social practices. In a study of fishing families in Oregon, US, McGraw et al. (2000) noted that, whilst they experienced low response rates when seeking to engage women in fishing families, the women who did choose to participate were politically motivated to do so:

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We met considerable resistance from both potential and committed participants. We came to recognize that our goal of understanding family processes within a particular work and family context was not shared by some of our participants, who seemed to focus instead on changing policies to increase fishermen’s “rights” to fish. (McGraw et al. 2000, 68–69)

This extract again highlights that seeking to understand women’s fishing lives can sometimes be entangled in, and potentially overshadowed by, local and national politics and contentions around fishing policies. Getting access to the stories of women in fishing families (and beyond) is a complex undertaking, with women being embedded in a culture that often centres around that which takes place at sea, whilst often living lives in a terrestrial space performing activities that do not necessarily afford them much symbolic capital in the fishing ‘field’ (Gustavsson and Riley 2018). Thus, the argument I try to make here is that to access stories of women in fishing families, we have to be sensitive to the ‘invisible’, undervalued and supportive roles which women often perform in the industry (Zhao et al. 2013)—which shape how they narrate their own, their male partners’ and their families’ lives.

3.5 F ishing Families and Group Interview Dynamics Several ethical and practical issues surround interviewing couples and family members together or as a group. An important advantage is that the presence of other family members can, in some situations, incidentally add important contributions to the narratives being produced (see Riley 2010). Nevertheless, many researchers have documented the benefits and challenges of doing interviews with, in particular, couples (see Valentine 1999). In her interviews with fishing households, Williams (2008, 64) writes: My inquiries about housework sometimes caused bristling or sarcasm between couples. However, this is surely true of all interviews, and more often led to laughter. When interviewing couples together it was often dif-

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ficult to hear the woman’s opinion on the fishing industry. Either the husband would immediately answer the question or the wife would defer to him. […] Whereas in one-to-one interviews women usually offered confident, well-informed perspectives on these issues.

Similar issues to those that emerged in Williams’ (2008) study certainly appeared in some of my interviews with fishing families. I found that, in couple interviews, women’s stories and lived experiences sometimes became overshadowed by the more culturally central story of what it meant to be a ‘fisher-man’. In couple interviews, women often tended to be ‘co-narrators’ in developing the narrative around the fishing industry and (men’s) fishing practices—resulting in them serving as a supporter of the arguably male narrative. I found that to access narratives about women’s lived experiences, it was often important to have one-on-one interviews with them. Nevertheless, in some couple interviews the female partner contributed extensively to the interview discussion and, significantly, challenged some ways in which their fishing partner was narrating their lives: Male fisher: ‘[fishing] is as hard as you want to make it…’ Female partner: ‘…. but you try to put rose colour spectacles…. But the reality of it is, hard, I don’t know a harder job really. And then it is dangerous as well isn’t it. Cause you have lost, how many colleagues have you lost in the last [years]?…’ (MF-16 and FP-17)

Allowing partners to challenge the fisher’s narrative provided a more nuanced understanding of the lifeworlds of fishing. The advantages of using couple interviews therefore were that it sometimes allowed for other perspectives on fishing to be reflected upon by both interview participants—perspectives which may have been missed if not interviewing the couple together. At the same time, not all male fishers welcomed having their stories challenged or the interceptions and additions by their female partners in the interview situation:

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In the couple interview there was a certain level of (one-directional) unkindness and hostility that emerged. I can’t help to think that my questioning about the knowledge and perspective of the female partner might have provoked these mean comments from the male fisher. When d ­ iscussing a particular fishing practice, the female partner, I thought, was humble and honest enough to highlight the limits of her knowledge around a particular practice. In response, her husband meanly commented: “you don’t know much at all really. [Laughing]”. I felt this was really mean and was intended to be hurtful. Hiding my dislike of what he had said I quickly moved away from this topic. (Author’s fieldnotes)

As the fieldnotes extract above highlight, the interview also revealed unfriendly behaviours in couple interviews which could have potentially caused distress. When discussing the complex ethical choice of whether to interview couples together or separate, Valentine (1999) argues that no particular approach is better than the other but that particular ethical issues could emerge in both situations. Therefore, she argues, the researchers have to be reflexive and ethically probe social relationships and power dynamics present in the interview. The experience from my research, as revealed in the extracts above, reinforces Valentine’s position as couples are different and the researcher has to be attentive to diverse and emergent (gendered) power relations. At the same time, whilst couple interviews had advantages in terms of allowing women and men to jointly shape narratives of the lives of fishing families, they were limited in the way that women’s concerns and lived experiences sometimes became marginalised. To avoid some of these issues I, again, relied on repeat interviews. Riley and Harvey (2007) suggest that repeat interviews can reveal stories and information that were hidden within previous interviews because of the presence of another family member. Drawing on these insights I tried to return to some women in one-on-one settings to expand on some conversations that were difficult to be had within the couple interview context. This approach enabled me to gain an understanding of (gendered) couple dynamics and family life, as well as individual aspirations and lived experiences. In addition to couple interviews, more recent research has begun to explore joint interviews between respondents with other types of familial

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relations. For example, Riley (2014) discusses the added value of interviewing fathers and sons together when discussing the topic of family farms. Riley (2014, 245) suggests ‘the process of co-narration can add to the research encounter not only through the material that it may reveal, but also in terms of how such narratives are constructed, shared and (re) worked within the interview’. By drawing on this perspective I chose to explore, where possible, joint interviews with fathers and sons who either fished or did not fish together, as well as joint interviews with mothers and daughters. In reality, as argued earlier, it was not entirely possible to control who was present in the interview situation (neither in ‘private’ nor ‘public’ spaces) and therefore—whilst being aware of the (dis)advantages of, and being open to, joint interviews—most joint interviews were not planned but developed once in someone’s home. The approach taken here was that I remained flexible and adapted to any changes that emerged ‘in the field’—an approach which is largely echoing the rhythms, adaptability, flexibility and difficult-to-plan-ahead everyday life which fishers and fishing families are used to. I would argue that fisheries researchers should be prepared for these varying social dynamics and may benefit from embracing rather than resisting this ‘messiness’, to get a deeper sense of the workings of fishing families and cultures.

3.6 Sensitive Topics and Ethical Interviewing Interviews with fishers and fishing families will often entail engaging with sensitive topics. Previous research has suggested that sensitive topics can unexpectedly arise particularly in unstructured, open-ended and narrative qualitative interviews, which may cause distress to participants (Corbin and Morse 2003). In the context of interviewing members of fishing families, the dangers associated with the fishing occupation can be especially sensitive. During my time in the field, I gradually realised that almost everyone I spoke to knew someone who had lost their life at sea. This observation has also been noted by Ross (2015, 8) who, by studying fishing communities in Scotland, argues that ‘fishing communities’ are held together as communities of grief. In her own words, these ‘shared feelings of grief and loss inform peoples’ sense of place, and also help

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people connect with one another across different coastal communities’. What this means in the context of people’s everyday lives is explored in the following extract from one of my interviews: Female partner: ‘You know people are not used to having this type of family. They can’t imagine how you must feel knowing that they are out there in bad weather. […] I know it is very dangerous, I know it is one of the most dangerous jobs isn’t it?! […] Well two fishermen have died here. One a year ago and one 5 years ago… soo… that just brings it home, when something happens like that. […] One of them was missing so they all went out for hours looking for him….’ Interviewer: ‘….I guess that must have been very hard for everyone’. Female partner: ‘yeah [crying]…’ Interviewer: ‘I am sorry… I am asking sensitive questions’. Female partner: ‘No no no… I am fine, I am fine. I am fine, don’t worry. It is fine. That is how I am anyway. I don’t mind answering anything. It is just that I get emotional because it was [a family friend]. You ask me anything you want, don’t worry about it. This is me. [My husband] would despair of me [laugh]’. Interviewing: ‘Good that he is not here then…’ Both: ‘[Laughing]’ (FP-9)

Whilst the topic of loss and death is one obvious possible source of distress, the extract above reveals that other sensitive topics, such as the worries of those who remain onshore when their family members are out fishing in rough weather, have the potential to arouse powerful emotions. So too can fishers and family members’ reflections on the dangers of their occupation or near-death experiences they have had in the past. Whilst I (possibly naively) did not anticipate this to happen, I would recommend researchers new to the field of fishing familiarise themselves with ethical interviewing principles and techniques (see Corbin and Morse 2003). Such literature suggests that whilst participants can become distressed, the ‘risks are often contained and mitigated by the benefits that participants receive by telling their stories’ (Corbin and Morse 2003, 341). In the above interview extract it is telling that the participant repeatedly stresses that she wants to continue the interview.

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Ethical interviewing sets out a number of guidelines and techniques for how to deal with distress and sensitive topics in an interview situation. If powerful emotions do occur, it is suggested that allowing participants time to compose themselves is a good idea. Corbin and Morse (2003, 343) go on to note that ‘once a participant regains composure, he or she is usually given a choice about whether to continue with the topic, change to another topic, or terminate the interview’. Nevertheless, they suggest, it is advisable to follow cues from participants to judge if it may be necessary to abandon a topic if it is becoming too painful. The skill of the researcher is placed centrally to understanding how successfully these situations are dealt with. Corbin and Morse (2003, 343) argue that ‘experienced researchers are able to step back and provide the empathy and support that participants might need to work through troubling experiences’. Given the frequent encounter with grief and loss in interviews with fishing families, it is therefore important for fisheries social scientists to be prepared to discuss and deal with sensitive topics beyond having formal ethics protocols in place.

3.7 Positionality and Outsiderness Those taking a feminist approach have also highlighted the need to understand the role of the researcher and how research can be framed by relations between interviewer and interview participants (McDowell 1992). Whilst formal ethics procedures have been important to encourage less exploitative relations between participants and the researcher, other ethical issues, not often dealt with in formal ethics procedures (such as context-specific issues like grief mentioned above), are often present in the research (Dowling 2010). McDowell (1992, 409 original emphasis) argues: ‘we [as researchers] must recognize and take account of our own position, as well as that of our research participants, and write this into our research practice rather than continue to hanker after some idealized equality between us’. Other researchers have suggested that, because of the central position of the researcher in producing the data, a process of ‘critical reflexivity’ needs to be undertaken (Dowling 2010; Kvale and Brinkmann 2011).

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One way in which researchers have tried to make visible the relations between themselves and participants is through the concept of positionality (Rose 1997; Tarrant 2013). In attempting to reflect on my own positionality, there were many aspects that would have led the respondents to consider me (‘the researcher’ or ‘the student’) an ‘outsider’. In particular, my identity as female, foreign, probably middle-class, a young city person—and the ‘intersectionality’ (Tarrant 2013) of these—served to construct this outsiderness. In interviews, many fishers wanted to know about my background and frequently asked if I had any family history of fishing, as well as making inquiries about the sort of place I was from. The answer to these questions was always truthful—that is, there was no prior connections to fishing in the family nor was I from a fishing place. At one point, a fisher asked whether I had any experience of being on the sea and I answered that I had experience of sailing. Interviewer: ‘I have been quite a lot at sea. Sailing.’ Male fisher: ‘Ah yeah, I have never been sailing in my life. Haha’. (MF-11)

Whilst the verbatim account of this interview extract only highlights that fishing and sailing are different experiences, I remember feeling that I had shared something which I thought would make me more of an insider. Instead, I remember feeling that my comment created more distance and resulted in reinforcing my status as an ‘outsider’ (cf. Kuehne 2016 for the case of farming): Sometimes I think I couldn’t be any more different from my research participants. This difference can really bother me, and it sometimes makes me anxious. The fishers I have spoken to this week have been asking questions about me. They probably want to be polite, but I can’t stop myself from feeling judged. I sometimes wish I could say “I am from a fishing family” as that would somehow automatically make me part of it all. This would however be a lie, and I don’t want to lie to my participants. (Author’s fieldnotes)

As the extract above reveals, at the time of the fieldwork I had a strong sense that being perceived as an insider by the participants would somehow be a preferred position. However, after some distance and reflection

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I can identify particular advantages of being seen as an outsider. The first observation here relates to being perceived as ‘unthreatening’: At one point a fisher asked me what I was going to do with all this information I was collecting. He then jokingly said “will you get your own boat and start fishing around here?”. This was obviously a joke. He genuinely couldn’t conceive of me doing that. (Author’s fieldnotes)

As revealed in the fieldnotes extract above, having an outsider status assisted in accessing detailed knowledge about fishing practices and fishers’ business secrets. This observation is echoed by Chiswell and Wheeler (2016) who, in a study of farming practices, argue that their ‘outsiderness’ led respondents to explain practices of farming in detail as respondents did not assume them to have any prior knowledge about farming. The position of ‘not knowing much about fishing’—embodied by myself in the research, also proved to be productive in terms of being able to ask fishers to give more details about their practices. In particular, by showing curiosity and interest, people were keen to explain and develop their narratives which probably would have been considered as ‘taken for granted knowledge’ within the fishing community. Associated with this, and reinforcing my outsiderness, was my identity as a young woman studying a largely male-dominated occupation. Echoing Horn’s (1997) observations, it was sometime advantageous to be positioned as ‘feminine’ as this added to the appearance as unthreatening to the research participant. Similarly, Pini (2005) highlights the way participants understood her femininity as being a ‘respectful listener’, which in my research proved to be an advantageous position to adopt for enabling fishers to talk about their lives more broadly. My outsiderness was further reinforced by my foreign status as a Swedish person living in the UK. The fishing community on the Llŷn peninsula—located in the so-called Welsh heartland (see Jones and Fowler 2007), with over 80% of the population being Welsh speakers— was primarily a Welsh-speaking fishing community: 99 percent of the fishermen here are all Welsh. […] We are all Welsh speakers. We are all from the area. That is part of the community. […] The terminology that [we fishers use] are all in Welsh. […] I struggle to use English terminology because […] you just learn to use Welsh terms for weather, for lobster gear, the boat, sea conditions. (MF-22)

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As a second-language English speaker, I felt I was kindly and generously accepted in the area by Welsh-speaking participants who were interviewed in English (often their second language as well). An evident challenge was that neither the researcher nor the research participant spoke their first language in the interview interaction, albeit both being proficient in the English language. This challenge, however, became an advantage as in the research encounter, both researcher and respondents had the patience to allow for pauses and struggles to find words in English, a process which with first-language speakers can become awkward and embarrassing. This experience thus became generally positive as my positionality allowed respondents to (sometimes) openly struggle with English—which contributed towards reducing some power imbalances. Nonetheless, there were some obvious disadvantages with interviewing participants in a language that they do not use to discuss fishing activities amongst each other. In particular, some of the nuances of expressions might have been lost in translation. The experience, however, was that fishers took the time to explain, translate and deconstruct the meaning of the expressions—which if spoken in the original language might have been taken for granted. Taken together, the nervousness I initially felt about being an outsider was perhaps not necessary. Whilst I would argue it is important to be reflexive about your own position in the field and about potential issues around imbalanced power relations, being perceived as a curious outsider can work to the advantage of the researcher in getting access to participants, as well as the knowledge and narratives they develop in the interview. As a final point, whilst my subject position as a ‘woman’ had some advantages in terms of collecting rich data, in some situations it forced me to compromise with some of my beliefs about, for example, the importance of gender equality. Although I was mostly open about my background and personality, some aspects of my identity were consciously disguised. In her study of Australian agriculture, Pini (2004, 174) found that her feminist identity brought ‘significant negative connotations for participants’ which would potentially hinder the possibility for ‘sympathetic engagement with the context and culture’ she wanted to research. Agreeing with this position, I chose to disguise my feminist identity and

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did not overtly challenge the masculinity embedded in the fishing community. This was particularly important as examining gender identities was one of the objectives of my research and these performances became informative of the ways in which fishers construct their masculinities (see Gustavsson and Riley 2020).

3.8 Conclusion In this chapter, I have shared some of my own experiences ‘in the field’ with interviewing fishers and fishing families about their lifeworlds. The chapter examines some practical and ethical challenges specific to the fishing context, which have not been discussed in this way before. The empirical and methodological insights presented could be informative to other researchers wanting to engage with fishers and fishing families—in particular drawing on my lessons learned around getting access, performing interviews and reflections on interviewer-interviewee interactions. The chapter also offers insight into how to consider the gendering of fishing cultures when designing fieldwork and interview protocols. Whilst this study takes a qualitative approach, and as such offers guidance on how to apply qualitative approaches to the case of fishing, some aspects on how to approach fishers and their families, discussions on positionality, ethics and context-specific insights are applicable to other methodological approaches within studies of fishing. In particular, the chapter highlights the importance of considering the spatial context and the (gendered) social dynamics of interviews with fishers and fishing families and calls for more research on fisheries to consider—and be reflexive about—the choice of methodological approach and issues faced in the research encounter. Acknowledgements  I would like to thank the fishing families that volunteered their time to participate in the doctoral research project, funded by the School of Environmental Sciences, University of Liverpool, which informs this chapter. An ESRC New Investigator grant, under grant number ES/R00580X/1, supported time to write this chapter which served to develop the background for

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recruitment strategies in a research project on women in fishing families ­(www. women-fisheries.com). I also wish to thank Jeremy Phillipson, Kristen Ounanian, Mark Riley, Karyn Morrissey and Nathalie Ross for their comments on an earlier version of this chapter.

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4 Towards an Ethic of Care Within Fisheries Social Research Natalie Ross

4.1 Introduction This chapter takes a retrospective look at research carried out into the social and cultural fabric of Scottish fishing communities (Ross 2013a) that began in 2009 against the backdrop of wider reform of Europe’s Common Fisheries Policy (CFP). The research aimed to address a pervasive sticking point within UK and European fisheries management relating to cross-stakeholder misunderstanding and a lack of agreement between policy makers, fisheries scientists and coastal communities, that had resulted in a polarisation of multiple interests (Glenn et  al. 2012; Urquhart et al. 2011; Symes and Phillipson 2009). It followed a number of studies on the social circumstances of fishing communities in Scotland (Jamieson et al. 2009; Ramsay 2006; Nuttall 2000) that had suggested that a single-minded focus on biological and environmental objectives within fisheries policy was not helping to resolve social and cultural N. Ross (*) University of Manchester, Manchester, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 M. Gustavsson et al. (eds.), Researching People and the Sea, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-59601-9_4

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pathologies within coastal fishing towns and villages. The research also came at a time of increasing political uncertainty in the run up to the Scottish Independence referendum, with communities around the coastline of Scotland being subject to profound social, physical and economic restructuring. The research findings pointed to a need for a wholesale review of the management processes within government science, policy and the fishing industry, and the means by which the perspectives of people living within fishing communities might be taken more seriously. In particular, concerted attention and care towards those living and working at the sharp end of the industry was required to build better relations between the key players within fisheries management. Those working within the fishing industry, those representing the sector, fisheries scientists, policy makers and, to some extent, the wider public, were all highlighted as key players needing to work together to build trust and mutual recognition if further distance was to be avoided between coastal community members and those involved in fisheries policy making (Ross 2013b, 2015). In this chapter, the specific methods used to carry out the research are revisited, through the lens of a feminist ethic of care framework, to identify where caring practices took place within the research project, including where any breaking down in these practices might have occurred. Drawing on sociologist Joan Tronto’s (1993) four-dimensional concept of care, the chapter discusses how ‘caring about’, ‘taking care of ’, ‘care-­ giving’ and ‘care-receiving’, as an analytical framework, can be applied to the research process to critically assess how the research was conducted, and how the findings were developed. A discussion of the data design, collection and analysis, and the writing up and publication of the findings is guided by the following questions: 1 . Where was care taking place? 2. What was the nature of the care that was taking place? 3. Whose voices were being heard, and whose were marginalised in the research process? The chapter concludes by considering how these methodological reflections might carry implications for resolving the long-standing issues

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of stakeholder polarisation, community resistance and policy oversimplifications within fisheries management. Before critically analysing the research process through an ethics of care framework, a two-part background sets out (1) how an ethics of care framework, as purported by feminist scholarship over the last half century, has relevance to fisheries social science, and (2) the imperative and context of the research project that was launched in 2009.

4.2 Background 4.2.1 An Ethic of Care The dominant contemporary moral framework in western nations has been described by moral philosophers and geographers as an outdated, eighteenth-century model based on rights and justice (Lawson 2007; Popke 2006; Smith 2000). A prevalent feature of this rights-based system is a constructed dichotomy between what is considered public and what is considered private. Here, human activity tends to slide into one realm or the other, with the public realm given significantly more importance in society than activity that is carried out in private (Askins and Blazek 2016; England 2010; Dyck 2005). This dichotomy arguably has the potential to shed light on existing controversies within public policy making and, within a fisheries context, around resistance and stakeholder polarisation. Whilst some fisheries stakeholders operate and communicate within the public domain, the voices of others typically remain hidden, or private. Government policy makers, fisheries social scientists and NGOs all benefit from a public platform from which to communicate clear messages about the fishing industry through oral and written published materials. In contrast, the views of those living and working at the sharp end of the fishing industry, for example, about the state of the fish stocks, the conditions of the marine environment, and about working in the industry, do not enjoy the same level of public dissemination. These voices remain hidden and discrete, often not included or afforded equal importance within national and international policy making. In 2009,

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when the research was beginning, inequality between the different stakeholder voices within fisheries management in Scotland was also contributing to cross-cultural misunderstandings between government policy makers and industry and community representatives. These misunderstandings resulted in oversimplifications taking place within fisheries policy concerning the everyday realities and practicalities of the fishing sector. To address problems of this nature, in recent years within the disciplines of sociology, philosophy and human geography, there has been an increase in scholarly activity around a feminist ethic of care as an alternative framework to the dominant moral tradition of the Enlightenment (Askins and Blazek 2016; Power 2015; Lawson 2007; Conradson 2003; Smith 2000; Tronto 1993). According to geographer David Smith (2000), an ethic of care is central to any pursuit of social justice. Where eighteenth-century continental philosophers emphasised rights, laws and justice as a blueprint for good social conduct, Smith (2000) draws attention to work arising from first-, second- and third-wave feminism on the importance of social relationships and the affective powers that arise from relations with others, and that underpin any socially constructed moral framework of how to conduct ourselves in the social world. Specifically, an ethic of care centres on the physical and emotional activities of caring, nurturing and maintaining connections with others, be that interpersonal relationships or everyday interactions with our physical environment and recognising these interactions as having foundational moral importance to equal any caring done ostensibly through the public domain. The term ‘ethic of care’ was coined by American sociologist Carol Gilligan in 1982. Her seminal work on how people viewed morality discussed the proposition that women approached moral problems differently to men, with men tending to view morality through ideas of rights and justice, and women viewing morality through concepts of empathy and compassion (Gilligan 1982). Her ideas were developed by Joan Tronto in the early 1990s, whose influential conception of care asserts that an ethic of care is about nurturing interpersonal relationships and holding them as having foundational moral importance (Tronto 1993). Tronto (1993) offers care ethics as a way to think differently about how

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we view the world, and specifically about how to re-orientate our moral framework to be more inclusive and pluralistic. She puts forward an argument for bringing care work to the centre of human life, and to the loci of political action. The act of caring for ourselves, for others and for the world, she suggests, is a way of dealing with others in a just and respectful way and, as such, needs to be recognised within decision-­ making circles as ‘… a valued premise of human existence’ (Tronto 1993, x). In thinking about the concept of care, Tronto (1993) offers four dimensions: 1 . Caring about (recognising a need) 2. Taking care of (assuming responsibility for an identified need) 3. Care-giving (the direct meeting of a need) 4. Care-receiving (the object of care responds to care received). ‘Caring about’ involves the recognition of a need and making the assessment that this need should be met. ‘Caring about’ is both culturally and individually shaped, where our personal morals and ethics determine how we go about recognising a need and whether or not we respond to it. The process of ‘caring about’ is also influenced by our social and political context, for example, when looking at how a society responds to the issue of climate change, or the protection of the marine environment. ‘Taking care of ’ is the act of assuming some responsibility for an identified need and working out how to respond to it. This is what policy makers do in response to a societal caring about fish stocks, or about a perception of specific environmental degradation. It is a set of practices based on the recognition of being able to act to address an unmet need, as opposed to believing that nothing can be done about a particular problem. As such, ‘taking care of ’ involves a sense of agency and responsibility in the caring process. ‘Care-giving’ is the physical work involved in caring and tends to require the care-giver coming into contact with the objects of care. Examples might include the physical act of delivering food to people in social isolation, administering medication as a nurse, a mother talking to her child about the day’s events, or a fisherman deciding which species of fish to catch and which to leave. ‘Care-receiving’ is the act of receiving

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care and has at its core a response to care that has been given. Recognising how a recipient of care has responded to care might look like a patient feeling better in hospital after receiving medication, a child feeling loved and safe after receiving attention or food from a parent, or a particular fish stock thriving due to specific decisions taken by a group of fishermen. An assessment of whether or not, and how, a recipient of care has responded to the care received provides the only way to know whether or not a caring need has actually been met. Tronto (1993, 109) argues that these four interconnected phases of care describe ‘an integrated, well-accomplished act of care’ that recognises and emphasises two things: first, it challenges the idea that ‘care’ can be theorised in the abstract, by highlighting specific sites and social relationships that produce the need for care. Second, it highlights how the commodification of care hides from public discourse the fact that all humans need and give care, not just the few who are publicly regarded as in need. However, Tronto asserts that whilst ideally there should be interconnection between the different phases of care, in reality there is often conflict. Integrating the four dimensions of care can be problematic, for example, where there is distance between the different players, and where ‘caring about’ and ‘taking care of ’ are the duties of those with power, whilst ‘care-­ giving’ and ‘care-receiving’ are often practices carried out by those in society who are disenfranchised. This problem is common where the bureaucracies responsible for ‘taking care of ’, and outlining how an identified need will be met, are far away from the actual practices of ‘care-­ giving’ and ‘care-receiving’. In fisheries management, the policy makers ‘take care of ’ the fish stocks by setting rules and regulations for the fishing industry, but it is the fishermen who do the ‘care-giving’ by making decisions out at sea every day about which fish to leave and which to catch. This disconnect within the caring process is exacerbated by different people having their own ideas about what ‘caring about’, ‘taking care of ’ or ‘care-giving’ means, and different degrees to which they actually do the caring. Here, the concept of care is not static, or universal, but particular, and the meaning of care differs between people and contexts. Conflict can arise further within a practice of ‘care-giving’ where a carer’s needs for themselves comes into conflict with the care that they give to others, or where the needs of others conflict with each other.

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Given the likelihood of conflict, as well as limited resources within any caring process, the ideal of an integrated process of care is rarely met (Tronto 1993). However, analysing disruptions to the processes of caring within a given context, such as a fishery or even a research project, can shed light on problems that might be obscured from public view but that are creating barriers to integrated and effective ways of meeting concrete needs.

4.2.2 S  etting Up the Research Design: Exploring the Social Dimension of Fisheries Policy Coinciding with wider reform of Europe’s Common Fisheries Policy in 2009 (CEC 2009), a doctoral research project was funded by the Economic and Social Research Council and the Scottish government to investigate the social objectives of fisheries policy and raise awareness of what the ‘social’ dimension of fisheries could mean for those involved in policy making. An overarching objective of the research was to understand the daily routines and behaviours of people who lived and worked in coastal fishing communities, contributing to an evidence base that might help policy makers to act, or make policies, for the fishing industry and for fishing communities that would be more likely to work, and less likely to meet resistance. In previous discussions on environmental sustainability, the Bruntland Report (WCED 1987) had advocated that it was crucial to keep ‘people’ and ‘industry’ in mind when thinking about ‘sustainable development’, and that an overreliance on measuring fish stocks and fishing activity to guide policy making would not always be useful, or possible. However, in practice, things that cannot be measured have struggled to influence environmental policy decision-making (Wilkinson 2009), despite acknowledgement of the difficulties in measuring the marine environment: [U]nder the CFP, fisheries management has almost exclusively been organised by fixing upper limits on the quantities of fish which may be caught per year (Total Allowable Catch (TAC)) and associated national quotas

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(Fixed Quota Allocations FQAs and Individual Transferable Quotas ITQs), together with technical measures such as net mesh sizes, closed areas, closed seasons and decommissioning of the fleet. (Urquhart et al. 2011, 241)

In contrast, others have emphasised how notions of the fishing ‘community’ are inherently in flux, ‘with a critical basis in both social and ecological relationships not easily reduced to statistics on permits, landings and fishing-themed icons’ (Clay and Olson 2008, 147). Clay and Olson (2008) suggest that the social dimension of fisheries policy, and the parameters of the fishing ‘community’, cannot be reduced to quantitative metrics. Several reviews of social science research in fisheries have mapped out particular routes for informing the sort of evidence needed for policy reform (Urquhart et  al. 2011; Symes and Hoefnagel 2010; Hoefnagel et al. 2006). Urquhart et al. (2011), for example, call for the inclusion of social and cultural dimensions of fisheries in policy and management strategies, advocating a deepened understanding of the contribution that fishing makes to local coastal communities (see also Reed et al. 2011; Defra 2009). In order to develop the ‘tools’ required by policy makers for bringing the social and cultural aspects alongside the economic and ecological dimensions, Urquhart et al. (2011) identify a case for good communication and relationship building across people, places and institutions. Similarly, Symes and Hoefnagel (2010, 271) emphasise a need for clear communication of results across a broad audience through better ‘knowledge transfer between the research scientists and the end users, including the Commission, member state administrations and the industry’. The original research questions focused around helping government policy makers design and implement social objectives within fisheries policy. However, early discussions with staff in the Scottish government suggested that a focus on internal research within the government itself would be problematic in terms of confidentiality and continued access to internal policy processes. Whilst one option early in the research process would have been to apply a more technical short-term social impact analysis around a specific policy, it became clear that getting into the hearts and minds of the ‘care-givers’ in the fishing communities, and understanding how social considerations and issues were being perceived

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locally, was more fundamental and useful for the long term. The following questions acted as guiding concerns throughout the research process: • How might the research evidence the everyday lives and experiences of people living and working in fishing communities in Scotland? • How might the data impact on the concerns of national fisheries policy making, and contribute to sustainable marine management? The remainder of this chapter looks at the merits of incorporating a feminist ethic of care framework to the methodological underpinnings of the research project in order to move towards effective communication and relationship building across a broad range of audiences within fisheries policy making. The following section explores the caring practices that took place within the research process, examining how and when the different phases of care, as defined by Tronto (1993), took place, and with whom.

4.3 U  nhiding Care When Researching People and the Sea 4.3.1 Sustaining Government and Industry Relations In line with Lawson’s (2007) call for open dialogue as a means to sustaining feelings of care towards those who may not be within proximity to the self, the research sought to communicate openly with a wide range of fisheries stakeholders, from backgrounds ostensibly different to my own. Communicating effectively with people from a range of social and professional backgrounds demanded a capacity for listening attentively and quickly grasping a wide range of ideas and concepts. At the start of the research, coming from an academic background in environmental sustainability, I was able to sympathise with the wider public discourse around ‘caring about’ the environment, the planet and the fish stocks. As a former policy officer, I could also appreciate the task of ‘taking care of ’ the fishing grounds and making decisions to address national interests.

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However, it was not until I spent time in remote fishing communities, building knowledge of local peoples’ lives and routines, that my awareness of the role of ‘care-giving’ towards the marine environment was enriched through time spent with my research informants. As part of an ongoing process of working with people both within and outside of academia, I held regular meetings throughout the research with Scottish government officials with an ‘inshore’ or ‘communities’ remit, and policy analysts who were responsible for incorporating evidence into policy. The meetings took place on a one-to-one, bilateral basis and these interpersonal efforts were important for several reasons. First, with these colleagues I was able to discuss and progress the research in line with policy concerns, and keep up to date with Scottish government priorities, motivations and agendas. Second, having made efforts to relate with officials consistently throughout the research, during the write-up phase I was able to mediate the concerns of some officials who questioned the extent to which qualitative narrative data could be classed as ‘evidence’. Having discussed the complexity surrounding those issues that were currently being addressed, at a social cost, through quantitative evidence, it became apparent that the research was beginning to challenge existing ways of thinking about evidence within the government, with some officials remarking that the data was making them ‘think differently’ (pers.com, Scottish Government, 2013). The selection of the three case study areas was heavily influenced by a range of fisheries stakeholders, carried out through a combination of expert analysis, along with advice from government, industry and community representatives from the Scottish Fisheries Council (SFC) Communities subgroup. It was agreed with members of this governmental stakeholder group that in order to gain a broad perspective of the issues facing people within coastal communities in Scotland, a case study from each of the east coast, the west coast and the northern region of Scotland would be selected to represent the industry in its different coastal areas. These cases would provide a broad framing, or ‘maximum variation’ case ethnography (Flyvbjerg 2006), with cases chosen specifically to obtain information about the significance of various contextual circumstances. Collectively, it was decided that Fraserburgh, the Outer Hebrides and Shetland would provide this broad framing. As well as

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being geographically diverse, they represented different ‘community’ contexts, incorporating mainland and island settings, the inshore and offshore sectors, single sector and diversified economies, and the catching sector as well as onshore businesses. Selecting these critical cases required experience, something members of the SFC Communities subgroup had plenty of. Each case study played a distinctive role in the research process. The first case study in Fraserburgh was about identifying key issues within the communities, with SFC Community subgroup members feeling that the social problems in Fraserburgh were especially pronounced in 2009. The second case study in the Outer Hebrides was about exploring community issues further in a completely different context. The Outer Hebrides promised to give access to a predominantly small boat inshore fishing fleet, providing a useful contrast to the larger more industrial fleet of Fraserburgh. Shetland was chosen as the third case study, chosen to seek out reflections on the issues that had arisen from the previous two cases. Shetland was a good place to do this because its fishing industry was in many ways seen as ahead of other areas: it had its own inshore Regulating Order which meant it had a high level of jurisdiction over its inshore fishing; its people played key roles in European fisheries policy and management; and Shetlanders were often regarded as being able to offer a long-term perspective. Shetland was also home to a dynamic and active fisheries research laboratory, the North Atlantic Fisheries Centre (NAFC), that was keen to investigate how to model or predict the social consequences of management decisions.

4.3.2 Listening and Paying Attention in the Field In setting out to explore the shape of the coastal communities and the role of fishing within them, I spent weeks at a time in the case study areas, gaining an understanding of, and appreciation for, local peoples’ lives. A combination of one-on-one in-depth interviews and participant observation was used to capture peoples’ life stories and everyday routines of working in or near the commercial fishing industry. Names of interviewees were initially passed on by contacts at the Scottish government and

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already known-to-me industry representatives, as well as community representatives with a remit for fishing. These gatekeepers ‘snowballed’ in the field, enabling the opportunity to gain insight from people who were not already well-known representative, and allowing the data to capture voices that were not usually heard (Cook and Crang 1995). Participant observation was used to provide evidence from a wider sample than that available from the interviewees alone. A large amount of data was gathered, including 60 hours of formal interview material from 38 individuals and informal conversations with 119 different people from a range of fishing and non-fishing backgrounds. As part of the task of bringing to the fore the social and cultural context of fishing communities, a key focus within the ethnography was to explore what emotions and experiences were taking place between myself and my research informants. For my part, spending time around working fishing harbours in remote corners of Scotland made me keenly aware of a number of social differences between myself and my research informants. These differences fell along lines of gender, class, life trajectory and caring responsibilities, as well as along lines of regional and national identity. As for my research informants, many were grappling with experiences that were complex that revolved around uncertainty and risk as part of daily life, around communities of loss, and around contradictory understandings of what the community was. It was apparent that these experiences were completely unknown within policy making or, if known, then, they were being disregarded. From the outset, the field was laden with emotional hurt, grievances and sensitivity. I was frequently met with intense pride and passion for fishing, and hostility towards those who made a business of ‘caring about’ the marine environment from a remote setting, completely removed from those who were doing the actual ‘care-giving’ on a daily basis. It was apparent that those occupying a ‘caring about’ role within fisheries management were thought of as presuming to know about the daily routines and rhythms of the industry, without having ever listened without judgement to the ‘care-givers’ concerns: I think that non-fishing people tend to believe a lot of the nonsense about sustainability … ‘oh there’s no fish’, ‘the seabirds are getting lesser’, ‘that’s

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because the greedy fishermen are fishing them all up’… They just do not understand that that isn’t the case… We’ve got this huge … nature conservancy lobby which is working against the fishermen… Nobody wants to sustain the fish more than the fishermen and they’re never given credit for that. (Fisherman’s wife, Shetland)

Having previously worked in fisheries policy making, I also found I often had to contend with being seen as an embodied representation of national fisheries policy. It meant I was frequently on the receiving end of anger, distrust and hurt that this brought up amongst many of my research informants: I’ve got two sons that’s chosen to go down this path. As you can see I’ve got a huge investment. Now surely it goes without saying that someone that’s chosen to stay in the industry, thinks there’s a future for their sons. Their sons have chosen that path as well because they think there’s a future in it. You honestly think that’s going to be the stakeholder that’s going to try and destroy it?… Would I be the stakeholder that’s trying to destroy the industry, by overfishing or, something like this? (Pelagic skipper, Fraserburgh)

Listening to what was being said, as well as what was not being said, and understanding how my respondents were feeling, demanded resolve and the ability to empathise and extend compassion. Some of my meetings with research informants involved tense negotiations from the start, to break down walls of suspicion. For example, on my first morning in the Outer Hebrides I was picked up from the hostel I was staying at by a local fish buyer who had, over the phone, promised to give me a tour of the local harbours and tell me a bit about the local fishing industry. However, I realised immediately that he was suspicious of me when I got into his car. He refused to start the engine or drive anywhere until I had told him everything about myself and what I was hoping to achieve from the research. Likewise, in Fraserburgh one evening, when I had been waiting 24 hours or so for a fisherman’s wife to get back to me with some names of young fishermen in the area to interview, she called to tell me that the young guys were not willing to get involved in the interview process because they felt they had been misrepresented so many times.

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In other encounters, the data was laden with grief and loss (Ross 2015). For example, it is common knowledge that fishing is a dangerous industry, and most people who live in a fishing community will know someone who has died at sea, often amongst their close family and friends. In many instances, I was confronting people who were recently bereaved. I also encountered people who were being bereaved of their livelihoods. In Fraserburgh, two fishermen came and sat at the table beside me with their lunch at the Fisherman’s Mission one day. They were still wearing their skins and yellow boots from the boat. They smiled and nodded at me, but I could see pain in their faces and, when asked, learnt that they had just finished their last-ever fishing trip. I asked the skipper why and was told ‘decommissioned, the boat is going off to Belgium now to be scrapped’. They had hearty plates of food in front of them but I noticed they barely ate. Being criticised, or challenged, can make people pull away. However, having the awareness to put myself in someone else’s shoes and show compassion and empathy was seen, and received, as care by the research informants. This care was often fed back to me by participants as explanation for their involvement in my research: [And that’s the end of my questions. Is there anything you want to add at this point?] No … I’ve actually found it extremely interesting … it’s a totally different interview from [what] I’ve ever done before … you’re probing into really the culture of a community. And that’s really important… I tell you, it’s made me have to think! … it’s like I suppose [laughter] a psychiatrist’s… I just think you’re doing the right thing … if you are questioning other people like you’re questioning me then you should get a really in-depth look at this community. And I hope that your findings should be able to make this community look at itself and find a way forward. And I really mean that so well done. (Fisheries representative, Fraserburgh)

Often the respondents told me ‘I can see, you care’. Crucially, this feeling of ‘care’ was something they felt they were not receiving from policy makers. My whole approach revolved around tapping into the emotional

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landscape of my research informants and communicating these emotions and experiences more widely.

4.3.3 U  sing Open Dialogue When Writing Up Research Caring about and involving other people so closely in the research meant peoples’ feelings and agendas had to be negotiated on an ongoing basis. I was aware of being pulled and pushed by policy officials and fishing industry representatives in multiple directions throughout the research process, and of needing to navigate a path between these different agendas. For example, when organising my interviews and fieldwork schedule, I had to deal with many interests pushing forward specific agendas. Inevitably this meant some balancing of views around the selection of case study areas and the accessing of coastal intermediaries. However, as a core objective of the research methodology, I ensured that the data collection and write up of the research were sensitive to my different audiences. From the beginning, I took advice from government officials, academics and community and fisheries representatives about the fishing industry in Scotland and which areas might be best to carry out the study. I framed the research around themes already familiar to decision-makers and civil society, such as ‘community’, ‘dependency’ and ‘identity’, and that related to existing social science within the context of fishing in Scotland. I used content analysis to uncover the arguments captured within the narrative data generated from the research subjects themselves and combined the findings with thematic analysis, using concepts within existing policy and research agendas, to maintain the relevance of the research to those audiences outside of the fishing communities. Throughout the data collection, I deliberately chose not to go on fishing trips or get involved in the routines or occupations of the research subjects, instead seeking to evidence the feelings and experiences of my research respondents. The aim was to capture a sense of the challenges, efforts, pain and care that the respondents invested into their lives by the sea on a daily basis. Having paid close attention, I was keen to not get in

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the way of the activities of those already struggling with numerous demands. I shared my research findings as far as possible with my research informants. This tended to be over the phone or by email with people from the case study areas. With government and policy stakeholders, this also took place in person, at face-to-face meetings and presentations, both within the Scottish government and at academic conferences. When publishing from the work, I continue to send draft copies of manuscripts to my contacts within the fishing communities, giving them the chance to review and discuss my analysis or interpretation of the data prior to publication. During the research I moved between ‘caring about’, ‘care-giving’ and ‘care-receiving’ roles, in a way I now recognise is in line with Tronto’s (1993) conception of care, the integrity of which she asserts is fundamental to bringing stakeholders together. Moving forward then, one challenge might be to provide further evidence of how different stakeholders move between different caring roles within fisheries policy making—recognising the interdependence of multiple stakeholder groups and how people might move between ‘caring about’, ‘taking care of ’, ‘care-giving’ and ‘care-receiving’ roles within fisheries policy making.

4.4 C  onclusion: Towards an Ethic of Care in Fisheries Policy Making The research described in this chapter set out to provide a clearer understanding of the social and cultural conditions of fishing communities and help improve fisheries policy making. Through a retrospective reflection of the research methodology using an ethics of care framework, this chapter has explored how the practice of caring for research informants, as well as maintaining ongoing open dialogue with stakeholders throughout the research process, opened up opportunities to better understand the fishing communities. The chapter has explored the practices of ‘caring about’, ‘taking care of ’, ‘care-giving’ and ‘care-receiving’ involved in the research project. In doing so, it has argued that a feminist ethic of care can offer a helpful perspective through which to both understand and

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improve the oftentimes fraught relationships that exist between different fisheries management stakeholders, responding directly to questions of how to incorporate social values into public policy making (Askins and Blazek 2016; Lawson 2007; Tronto 1993). A reflection on the methods used in the research process through an ethics of care framework highlights how the priority was to pay attention to the emotions and experiences of those who play a fundamental role in caring for the marine environment. As the researcher, I found myself involved in ‘care-giving’ by listening, empathising, showing positive regard and accepting the feelings of my research informants, as well as respecting their personal values, cultural backgrounds and resources, and recognising what they had to contribute. These affective processes of concern and connection between the researcher and the research informants acknowledge that giving care to the ‘care-givers’ can help. In this way, this methodological analysis exposes how acts of care, as defined within Tronto’s (1993) four-dimensional concept of care, can pave a way for a re-connection of the key players within fisheries management. Furthermore, a feminist ethic of care approach can be used to prescribe a more pluralistic politics where power is more evenly distributed and where voices are more equally considered. Within fisheries policy, a care ethics methodology has the potential to move policy making and public discourse beyond existing ways of thinking around what is valuable and ‘right’ to a more inclusive and connected way of understanding the fishing industry and its associated communities. Considering all four dimensions of caring and placing them as central to the research process might be a way of getting out of the default mode of thinking of environmental justice as a universal right and instead focus on the daily and often private interactions of care-giving and care-receiving within coastal communities. The caring that took place within, and was revealed by, the research also highlights the importance of the interdependency of different actors through their everyday acts of care towards one another and the marine environment. Reflecting back over the research process to determine where care was taking place, who was taking up the responsibility to care, and whose voices were being marginalised in the research process will hopefully be a useful process for those undertaking fisheries- or policy-related research

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in the future, and contribute to resolving the long-standing issues of stakeholder polarisation, community resistance and policy oversimplifications within fisheries management.

References Askins, Kye, and Matej Blazek. 2016. Feeling Our Way: Academia, Emotions and a Politics of Care. Social & Cultural Geography 18 (8): 1086–1105. https://doi.org/10.1080/14649365.2016.1240224. CEC (Commission of the European Communities). 2009. Reform of the Common Fisheries Policy: Green Paper. Luxembourg: Office for Official Publications of the European Communities. Clay, Patricia, and Julia Olson. 2008. Defining ‘Fishing Communities’: Vulnerability and the Magnuson-Stevens Fishery Conservation and Management Act. Human Ecology Review 15 (2): 143–160. Conradson, David. 2003. Geographies of Care: Spaces, Practices, Experiences. Social & Cultural Geography 4 (4): 451–454. Cook, Ian, and Mike Crang. 1995. Doing Ethnographies, Concepts and Techniques in Modern Geography. Norwich: Institute of British Geographers. Defra. 2009. A Fisherman’s Tale: Being a Fisherman in England in 2009. COI Job No: 291928. http://archive.defra.gov.uk/foodfarm/fisheries/documents/ policy/saif-fishermantale.pdf. Accessed 09 November 2012. Dyck, Isabel. 2005. Feminist Geography, the ‘Everyday’, and Local–Global Relations: Hidden Spaces of Place-Making. The Canadian Geographer 49 (3): 233–243. England, Kim. 2010. Home, Work and the Shifting Geographies of Care. Ethics, Place & Environment 13 (2): 131–150. Flyvbjerg, Bent. 2006. Five Misunderstandings about Case-Study Research. Qualitative Inquiry 12 (2): 219–245. Gilligan, Carol. 1982. In a Different Voice: Psychological Theory and Women’s Development. Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press. Glenn, Helen, Diana Tingley, Sonia Sanchez Marono, Dennis Holm, Laurence Kell, Gurpreet Padda, Ingi Runar Edvardsson, Johann Asmundsson, Alexis Conides, Kostas Kapiris, Mintewab Bezabih, Premachandra Wattage, and Sakari Kuikka. 2012. Trust in the Fisheries Scientific Community. Marine Policy 36: 54–72.

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Hoefnagel, Ellen, Amy Burnett, and Doug Clyde Wilson. 2006. The Knowledge Base of Co-management. Developments in Aquaculture and Fisheries Science 36: 85–108. Jamieson, Lynn, Gillian Munro, and Maud Perrier. 2009. Social Change in Scottish Fishing Communities: A Brief Literature Review and Annotated Bibliography. Scottish Government Social Research. http://www.scotland. gov.uk/Resource/Doc/279167/0084016.pdf. Lawson, Victoria. 2007. Geographies of Care and Responsibility. Annals of the Association of American Geographers 97 (1): 1–11. Nuttall, Mark. 2000. Crisis, Risk and Deskilment in North-East Scotland’s Fishing Industry. In Fisheries Dependent Regions, ed. David Symes, 106–115. Oxford: Blackwell Science. Popke, Jeff. 2006. Geography and Ethics: Everyday Meditators through Care and Consumption. Progress in Human Geography 30 (4): 504–512. Power, Nicole G. 2015. Reflections on a Feminist Care Approach to Rural Fisheries. In Feminisms and Ruralities, ed. Barbara Pini, Berit Brandth, and Jo Little, 143–154. London: Lexington Books. Ramsay, Alison K. 2006. Fishing the Past, Managing the Future: Crisis and Change in Shetland Fisheries. Unpublished PhD thesis, Aberdeen University. Reed, Matthew, Paul Courtney, Janet Dwyer, Bekki Griffiths, Owain Jones, Nick Lewis, Malcolm Moseley, Jeremy Phillipson, John Powell, Natalie Ross, and Julie Urquhart. 2011. The Social Impacts of England’s Inshore Fishing Industry: Final Report. Defra. Social Impacts of Fishing. Job No: NE0108. http://archive.defra.gov.uk/foodfarm/fisheries/policy/saif/research.htm. Accessed 09 November 2012. Ross, Natalie. 2013a. Informing Social Objectives in Fisheries Policy: Notions of Fisheries ‘Dependency’ and ‘Community’ from Fraserburgh, the Outer Hebrides and Shetland. Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Newcastle. http://theses.ncl.ac.uk/jspui/handle/10443/3260. ———. 2013b. Exploring Concepts of Fisheries ‘Dependency’ and ‘Community’ in Scotland. Marine Policy 37 (1): 55–61. ———. 2015. Understanding the Fishing ‘Community’: Bringing the Social into Fisheries Policy through Shared Communities of the Mind. Sociologia Ruralis 55 (3): 309–324. Smith, David M. 2000. Moral Geographies: Ethics in a World of Difference. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

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Symes, David, and Ellen Hoefnagel. 2010. Fisheries Policy, Research and the Social Sciences in Europe: Challenges for the 21st Century. Marine Policy 34 (2): 268–275. Symes, David, and Jeremy Phillipson. 2009. Whatever Became of Social Objectives in Fisheries Policy? Fisheries Research 95: 1–5. Tronto, Joan C. 1993. Moral Boundaries: A Political Argument for an Ethic of Care. New York and London: Routledge. Urquhart, Julie, Tim Acott, Matt Reed, and Paul Courtney. 2011. Setting an Agenda for Social Science Research in Fisheries Policy in Northern Europe. Fisheries Research 108: 240–247. Wilkinson Kathryn, S. 2009. Bureaucracy and Other Stories: Organizing Policy-­ Making in Defra. Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Newcastle World Commission on Environment and Development (WCED). 1987. Our Common Future. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press.

5 Safety, Ethics and Trust: Reflecting on Methodological Challenges in Fisheries Research Hannah Chiswell, Julie Urquhart, Nick Lewis, Jasmine Black, Paul Courtney, and Matt Reed

5.1 Introduction In response to what many commentators and policy makers refer to as a ‘crisis’ in fisheries, much fisheries research has focused on providing ecological data and recommendations to address the problem of depleted and overfished stocks (Urquhart et  al. 2011). Policy, including the European Common Fisheries Policy (CFP), has therefore focused on biological and environmental sustainability, with social objectives largely taking a back seat (Jentoft 1998; Symes and Phillipson 2009; Urquhart et al. 2014). As a consequence, fisheries policy has faced significant criticism for being ‘distant, centralised, unresponsive and discredited’ (Scottish Government 2009), with fishers feeling that it has failed to listen to and consider the needs of those in the industry and living within

H. Chiswell (*) • J. Urquhart • N. Lewis • J. Black • P. Courtney • M. Reed Countryside and Community Research Institute, University of Gloucestershire, Gloucester, UK e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 M. Gustavsson et al. (eds.), Researching People and the Sea, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-59601-9_5

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fishing communities (see Kirwan et al. 2018). In response, there has been increasing recognition in recent decades in the UK, and elsewhere in Europe, of the need to better understand the social and cultural processes that occur in fishing communities (Urquhart et  al. 2011). As Jentoft (1998, 178) claims, ‘to manage [fisheries] well, you need to know not only fish, but also fishers and fishing’. Thus, there is a need for a robust evidence base on fishers’ socio-demographic characteristics, on their operations, attitudes, knowledge and behaviours, as well as on the role of fishing in community identity and wellbeing (Urquhart et  al. 2014, 2019). This calls for the engagement of researchers from across the social sciences in what has become a growing research field involving sociologists, human geographers, social anthropologists, social economists and political scientists. Much of this work involves engaging directly with fishers and other fishing stakeholders, in fishing ports and fishing communities, using a range of research methods such as interviews, observations, surveys and focus groups. This chapter reflects on the particularities of researching fishers, and draws on the experience of the authors over the past 15 years in conducting fisheries social science research in England. In particular we draw on three social science fisheries projects that we have undertaken in the past 12 months, all commissioned by the UK government to inform the development of new post-Brexit fisheries policies, and all united by a common goal to include fishers in the co-production of new approaches to fisheries governance. Whilst growing interest in the contribution of social science in fisheries management and associated policy design is to be welcomed, our fieldwork has, nonetheless, presented a range of unique methodological challenges. For example, the (often) geographical remoteness of fisheries fieldwork, the dangers of a busy harbourside, the male-­ dominated nature of the industry and the obvious discontent of fishers with policy can present even the most experienced of researchers with difficulties. We, therefore, use this chapter to highlight and reflect on our experiences of conducting fieldwork in this challenging but much needed context. We do so not to bemoan our experiences or deter other researchers, but to open up a constructive dialogue and inform methodological practice in this area. This chapter is inspired by, and a response to,

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Chiswell and Wheeler’s (2016) call for more engagement with issues of positionality, gender and interviewer safety in the social sciences. The chapter starts with a review of relevant work in seeking to answer the question: what is unique about conducting social science research in the fisheries context? Following this we present our reflections on the threats to physical safety specific to interviewing and surveying fishers, including a discussion of gender-based safety for researchers. Lastly, we reflect on the ethical challenges we each faced with regard to recruitment and participation—particularly the difficulty of transparently conveying to fishers the benefit or outcome of participation in research. As well as an honest account of our experiences, we consider some practical strategies that may be of use to others conducting similar research to ensure that fieldwork is enjoyable, ethical, methodologically robust and safe for all those involved.

5.2 S  ocial Science Research in the Fisheries Context Whilst many methodological challenges are common to all social science research, we feel the fisheries context confers a number of specific risks and unique socio-cultural subjectivities that can make deploying social science research methods, particularly face-to-face methods, difficult. It is pertinent to note, ‘commercial fishing is, without doubt, one of the most dangerous occupations in the world’ (Seafish 2019). As a consequence, researchers face an increased risk to their physical safety by simply interviewing or canvassing on vessels or harboursides (Sumner et al. 2002). These concerns are amplified by the fact that many research locations are remote (see Lee 1995) and experience poor, or even non-­existent, mobile phone signal. Incidences of accidental physical harm (e.g. a trip or fall on the harbourside) or deliberate harm (e.g. physical assault) could, therefore, go unnoticed or prove difficult to get necessary and immediate help. As well as dangers that are inherent to simply ‘being’ in the fisheries environment, or what Lee (1995) describes as ambient dangers, there are situational dangers too, that is, dangers that arise from simply the

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presence of a researcher provoking aggression (see Wilson 2012). As Sampson and Thomas (2003, 170) note in their research into transnational seafarer communities, a key threat to their personal safety on deep sea voyages came in the most part from engagement with antagonistic crew members. The risk of situational danger is potentially amplified by the recent, turbulent political context, with Brexit posing a significant threat to the stability of European fisheries management (Phillipson and Symes 2018), and bringing to the fore tensions over access to waters and markets and allocation of fishing quotas (Le Gallic et  al. 2018). As a consequence, social science research into fisheries policy and management has the potential to be contentious and divisive, with industry subgroups having strong feelings on how best to proceed in order to protect their own interests. Navigating engagement where participants are angry or disenchanted can provide even the most skilled researcher with a challenge and needs to be carefully considered to minimise distress for both the interviewer and the interviewee. Although the threat of physical violence to the social science researcher is low (Bloor et al. 2007), it can be difficult to deal with respondents who see the researcher as an opportunity to offload their frustrations and anger over fisheries management and policy. Jentoft (2000, 141) recognises this response of ‘frustrated and disappointed fishers’ to regulatory regimes, as a ‘voice’ response, where they ‘carry their disappointments to the forum’. Another challenge for the researcher associated with perceived policy failure is simply the reluctance of fishers to take part in research. Feelings of not being listened to have emerged strongly in previous research (Reed et  al. 2019) resulting in apathy amongst potential participants, who are left wondering ‘what’s the point?’, and pressure on the researcher to ‘sell’ the research and achieve the desired response rate. A further consideration is the fact that social demographics and cultural characteristics of the fishing industry have a notable effect on researcher-participant power dynamics. As has been widely recognised across the social sciences, interview data is the product of the interaction between the researcher and the participant (see Cloke et al. 2008), and as researchers our positionalities as male/female, young/old, local/not local and so on can have an impact on how fishers respond to us as researchers,

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and vice versa. Firstly, and perhaps the most obvious consideration here (particularly for the female researcher), is the male-dominated nature of the fisheries industry (EC 2010; Zhao et al. 2014; Kleiber et al. 2015; Gustavsson and Riley 2018). Gender is understood by many as a critical factor in shaping power dynamics of any research encounter (Padfield and Proctor 1996; Chiswell and Wheeler 2016), particularly given the persistence of the traditional gendered division of labour in fisheries (Zhao et al. 2014). Despite a widespread recognition of the impact of gender dynamics in everyday life, social scientists have often neglected how these dynamics can shape their interactions when conducting fieldwork (Sharp and Kremer 2006). As well as shaping any interaction, the male-dominated nature of the industry may also present a safety consideration for the lone female researcher (Sharp and Kremer 2006; Kenyon and Hawker 1999). Secondly, whilst having a familial or geographical connection to the industry is seen by some researchers as advantageous (see Pini’s (2004) experiences of research with farmers), others have equally felt that having no connections to the industry can help in allowing them ‘to encourage dialogue and innocently pose questions in a way that a traditional authority figure may not be able to do’ (Chiswell and Wheeler 2016, 233, also with reference to their experience of interviewing farmers). Whether it is a familial or geographical connection to the industry, or a complete distance from it, an understanding of how this positionality may impact interactions with participants is important. Pini (2004) reflexively acknowledges and unpacks her position as an Italian-Australian farmers’ daughter in her work with Australian farmers. Specifically, she notes how her reflections have demonstrated that the data she collected was not simply collected by or analysed by a ‘researcher’, but was obtained by ‘a country girl’ and a ‘farmer’s daughter’ (Pini 2004, 176). Thirdly, being a fisher is also strongly rooted in particular values and practices that construct and enable their ‘good fisher’ identity (Gustavsson et al. 2017). It is important to understand how these values and practices are likely to shape their ‘performance’ in an interview, that is, the way they choose to respond to questioning, particularly in response to managing territories, catch levels and safety at sea (the so-called rules of the game according to Gustavsson et al. 2017). This is particularly pertinent

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in the fisheries context, which is understood to be a ‘low trust’ environment (Reed et al. 2019). Thus, the strength of the fishery’s cultural context—and our positionality as researchers in relation to it—undoubtedly shapes the research process (for better or worse). These context-specific factors make social science research with fishers a unique endeavour. In what follows in this chapter, we reflect on our own experiences of conducting face-to-face interviews or surveys with fishers and industry stakeholders. By way of context, our reflections emerge from a number of research commissions mainly undertaken between September 2018 and October 2019, but drawing on over 10 years’ experience of social research with fisheries stakeholders. The projects all sought input from fishers—both commercial and recreational— on various topics relating to fisheries policy and management and were conducted at different ports across England. In the most part our reflections relate to conducting convenience sampling and subsequent interviews on the harbourside, whilst working alone or in pairs. The research teams were made up of a core of six Countryside and Community Research Institute (CCRI) research staff of various academic grades/positions (from Research Assistant to Professor), and included both male and female researchers. None of the research team had any connection to the fisheries industry (familial or otherwise). All team members have contributed their reflections for the purposes of this chapter. Written reflections were sought from the team, in relation to the following three themes: researcher safety, positionalities and recruitment.

5.3 Challenges 5.3.1 Researcher Safety As Chiswell and Wheeler (2016) note, although there is a notable body of literature relating to researcher safety, much of this has focused on obviously hazardous settings, such as research into criminal behaviours (Jamieson 2000; Gill 2004), gender-based violence (Sharp and Kremer 2006; Sikweyiya and Jewkes 2012) and physically challenging

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environments, such as Antarctica (see Nash et al. 2019). Much less attention, however, has been given to less overtly risky settings such as the harbourside. Although documents such as ‘A Code of Practice for the Safety of Social Researchers’ (SRA 2006) provide welcome, practical suggestions for those conducting interviews in private settings or unfamiliar environments, it does not consider the many particularities of researching in the fisheries environment. Concerns for physical safety associated with canvassing and interviewing on the harbourside, such as trips or falls on slippery surfaces, were universal throughout the team regardless of level of experience, gender or any other personal attributes. Although we all thankfully avoided any harbourside accidents, we would encourage any researcher working in this area to be aware of these kinds of risks (as per Paterson et al. 1999). The following excerpts written by the research team depict the significance of safety concerns. On the days I was interviewing alone, I felt quite vulnerable being stationed at the harbourside. With permission from the Deputy Harbour Master I was able to access areas that the public would not have been permitted to access; it was busy, with trucks unloading and loading, and other traffic. On the dark, rainy mornings I felt a bit vulnerable in amongst all the comings and goings. (Female researcher 1) I was acutely aware that the quayside environment is a dangerous one, physically, and care needs to be taken. (Male researcher 1) Interviewing several fishermen involved working in a fairly hazard prone area, where boats are moored and lots of ropes, crates, fishing equipment etc. are left out on slippery surfaces. It was also an area locked off from the general public, which made me feel vulnerable. (Female researcher 2)

As Bloor et al. (2007) observe, there is a tendency amongst the research community for ‘narrow escapes’ to be accepted as part of the ‘fun’ of doing fieldwork, but in this case, we believe effort should be made to anticipate harbourside risks in order for them to be effectively managed. Stratagems for ensuring physical safety may include meeting with the

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Harbour Master to discuss possible risks, visiting the harbourside in advance of data collection, wearing high-visibility clothing and working in pairs to increase visibility and vigilance of risks. It may be necessary to carry out harbourside-specific risk assessments for such projects. As previously distinguished, ambient dangers such as those associated with being on the harbourside are distinct from situational dangers which are a product of a researcher’s presence (see Lee 1995). As we have presented above, our empirical research has been conducted against a contentious political backdrop, and any questioning related to fisheries policy and management must be considered to be potentially inflammatory. A prevailing sense of disenchantment and distrust among many fishers (reported in Reed et al. 2019) typically surfaced as either a reluctance to be involved, or through ardent, sometimes off topic, responses to interview questions—both of which can be difficult to navigate and manage as a researcher. Although the research team did not experience any threats of violence, some of the team were subjected to impassioned complaints or protests that did—in a minority of instances—result in a heightened awareness for personal safety. One potential participant, with whom I was sat, got really quite angry with me for what he described as ‘sniffing around’ and literally turned his back on me in some kind of protest. I sat talking to his colleague for a short time, all the while he sat with his back to me and laughed at my questions, which I found really hard to ignore. I would not have accepted someone talking to me in that way if I was there in a personal capacity and felt embarrassed and conflicted about how to handle it. (Female researcher 1)

The undertone of disenchantment and frustration with fisheries policy and management often quickly set the tone of our interactions with fishers. Indeed, Paterson et al. (1999) state it is important for researchers to consider the fact that the participants tend to associate the research topic and aims with the researcher and—particularly in highly political or controversial research, such as fisheries management—they are often preconceived by participants as partisan. We, therefore, suggest that researchers develop clear strategies to emphasise independence and neutrality immediately and convincingly in order to ensure we are not individually held

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accountable for any grievances interviewees may have with fisheries policy, and even offer an opportunity for participants to constructively air those grievances. I think our role as researchers is our strength, particularly when there is strong mistrust in policy makers. I always make it clear that I am an independent researcher, even if the research is being funded by [Government] or others. (Female researcher 3)

Establishing our position as impartial and independent is an important strategy to diffuse volatile situations, and also enabled us to feel assured that any impassioned responses were not a threat to our personal safety. Interviewees were often very vocal and passionate in some instances— which could be considered a little ‘aggressive’—but I felt that in general this was more a reflection on how they felt aggrieved about their situation. (Male researcher 2)

As a male-dominated industry, conducting research with fishers presents a particular safety consideration for the lone female researcher. As Sharp and Kremer (2006, 318) note, it is critical we understand that gender (amongst other attributes) ‘may lead a researcher to be endangered in a situation that may not pose a risk to others’ (see also, Arendell 1997). Furthermore, as others have noted (Miller 2015; Chiswell and Wheeler 2016), many of the strategies proposed for ensuring gender-­ based safety in fieldwork—such as carrying a mobile phone, telling colleagues when to expect a call from you, or leaving them with an itinerary and details of interviewees (Lee 1997)—may be redundant given the particularities of fisheries research, for example, canvassing on a remote harbourside and interviewing fishers ‘as and when’ the weather, tide and rhythms of the industry allow. Unsurprisingly, all interviews conducted as part of the research reviewed here were with male fishers. Whilst the female researchers in the team did not experience any gender-based threats to their safety, the requirement to put oneself in situations that we

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could deem risky in our personal lives to ensure we secured interviews or collected quality data warrants further consideration. I went onto a few boats for interviews. I felt that this was sometimes needed in order to secure the interview. The boats were moored and 2 of the 3 interviews were conducted outside of the cabin, with other people nearby. This did feel uncomfortable but all were friendly. In hindsight, I would likely not do this again. (Female researcher 2)

Interestingly, as the preceding reflection denotes, it was not until we actually experienced situations that felt potentially compromising that we actually considered how vulnerable we may be. This mirrors the observation of Sharp and Kremer (2006) who described being ‘shocked’ by how little they considered their personal safety as female researchers before interviewing men in isolated settings: Only after we both completed our research and began discussing the issues we encountered did we realize we had begun our projects as though gender dynamics surrounding power and violence were unimportant. (Sharp and Kremer 2006, 323)

We would, therefore, encourage other female researchers working in male-dominated industries such as fishing, who may be required to interview men alone in potentially secluded or private settings, to consider gender dynamics surrounding power and their own personal safety before they embark on fieldwork; after all, even in our role as professional researchers—as Sharp and Kremer (2006, 320) remind us—‘female researchers cannot pretend to be genderless’. We recommend these discussions, between male and female colleagues of all grades/levels, should occur as early as the research design phase, thus enabling strategies, such as working in pairs, to be clearly embedded (and where relevant, costed) into the research approach. Whilst we have highlighted some practical approaches to manage researcher safety in the context of ambient and situational dangers, as per Chiswell and Wheeler (2016) in their discussion of safety during farmer interviews, we also acknowledge the role of instinct and intuition in

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ensuring personal safety out in the field. As unquantifiable as it is, a simple measure of whether something ‘feels right’ should never be discounted. The concept of ‘psychological safety’ (Williams et al. 1992) is useful here. As Paterson et al. (1999) explain, a feeling of ‘psychological safety’ is based on comfort with another individual or individuals, and enables researchers to sense a potential threat before it materialises. Based on this, we would encourage researchers to recurrently reflect on how comfortable they feel in any given situation and trust their judgement when something does not feel right. I was also aware that the perceived demeanour of some of individuals did not sit well with me, and on some occasions I didn’t pursue interviewee connections as tenaciously as I might have done. My primary objective—as always—was to stay safe. Of course, an important word here is perceived, but I do consider myself to be a pretty good judge of character, and I’m not afraid to act on my instincts. (Male researcher 1)

Like Chiswell and Wheeler (2016), we appreciate the flexibility we have been granted to utilise our intuition is not always available to others, particularly when there is a pressure to meet particular interview numbers. We, therefore, encourage open dialogue between researchers and project managers or supervisors about these issues, including what should happen when something does not feel ‘right’. There is also a role for training here—inhouse or external—to give researchers the confidence to remove themselves from situations in which they feel uncomfortable. Of course, gendered safety considerations are just one of many implications of our social positionings we hold as researchers. We now ‘reflexively’ consider the impacts of interviewer gender and other attributes (see Pini 2004)—or what Chiswell and Wheeler (2016) term ‘interviewer positionality’—in the context of the interview performance.

5.3.2 Positionalities and the Interview ‘Performance’ It is widely accepted that the interview is a ‘performance’. Interviewers may affect the responses they obtain, not through particular behaviours

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or comments, but simply as a function of our ‘observable characteristics’ (Davis and Scott 1995). The male-dominated nature of the fisheries industry (EC 2010; Zhao et  al. 2014; Kleiber et  al. 2015; Gustavsson and Riley 2018) plays an important role in shaping the researcher-participant interaction and interview ‘performance’. Female researchers’ interactions with fishers did result in occasional unwelcome comments. Like others researching in male-dominated contexts (e.g. Gurney 1985; Horn 1997, Chiswell and Wheeler 2016), we were inclined to interpret these remarks and the use of terms of endearment as ‘innocent’ and culturally acceptable, which— given our desire to secure interviews—we felt unable to challenge. Despite these experiences, female members of the research team did collectively agree their gender was advantageous in recruiting and engaging with participants. I was sat with about seven or eight fishermen, trying to get them to agree to participate in an interview. They made it quite clear that they did not want me there! As I got up to leave, one fisherman called me back and said ‘if you were my daughter I’d hate to think of this lot having a go at you’ and agreed to participate in an interview. I was quite conflicted about being given an interview because I felt it meant he saw me as weak and a bit vulnerable, but carried out the interview anyway. My perception was that particular fisherman might not have extended that offer to a male member of the team. (Female researcher 1)

Whilst some commentators claim such a mismatch of genders can inhibit the openness of participants (see Pini’s (2004) reflexive examination of her experience of interviewing men in rural social research), like others (Horn 1997; Chiswell and Wheeler 2016), we felt being female meant we were seen as sympathetic listeners and confidantes (see also Oakley’s (1981) seminal work on the interview and subsequent reductionist critique of ‘gender matching’ in the feminist literature): In many ways I think my gender works in my favour when interviewing fishermen, as they don’t see a woman as a threat and seem to enjoy the

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opportunity of talking about their lives and experiences. (Female researcher 3)

Although in these instances gender seemed to be an effective factor in building rapport, as Thwaites (2017) contends, in instances like these, where power is not shared equally in interviews, the quest for rapport can be exploitative and overtly conflict with the researchers’ personal, feminist values and beliefs. Of course, as Collins and Bilge (2016) remind us, identities are forged through the intersection of different social positionings which make us complex individuals—so it is not just gender that shapes interview performances. Another significant trait we consider here is the impact of our relationship with the fisheries industry. For the most part, we felt our non-fisheries status was helpful in establishing a good relationship with fishers who consequently did not see us as ‘threatening authority figures’ or ‘insiders’ with our own agenda and opinions. It also prompted fishers to assume limited prior knowledge, which often made for more detailed responses and explanations. Although the use of ‘confessions of ignorance’ (Horn 1997) is a recognised technique in encouraging dialogue (see also McDowell (1998) who describes deliberately drawing from a range of ‘identities’ when interviewing city elites), we fear purposefully choosing an identity, for example, naïve or vulnerable, to shape an interview interaction is ultimately unethical (see also Chiswell and Wheeler 2016). Although we saw our lack of connection to the industry as advantageous, conversely one researcher felt his position as a recreational yachtsman helped him develop rapport with participants: My knowledge of boats and the sea probably helped in building rapport and asking the right questions, […] On balance I would say it helped— walking on a boat, knowing port from starboard and asking an intelligent question about the chart plotter probably gave me a slight edge in rapport building. (Male researcher 1)

Of course, it would be futile to suggest researchers reduce or neutralise attributes such as gender or non-fishing status. Instead we offer these

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reflections to highlight the fact our positionalities do shape research encounters (for better or worse) and encourage researchers to be reflexive on account of these dynamics.

5.3.3 Recruitment: A Challenge of Transparency Although low response rates are a challenge across the social sciences, recruitment of fishers can prove problematic. In the first instance, any kind of interaction with fishers (including convenience sampling) will be beholden to the fishing ‘calendar’ and the weather; neatly lining up successive interviews can be near on impossible and any research team working in this field should be prepared to make multiple trips to case study areas, and supplement face-to-face interviews with telephone interviews where methodologically feasible. Aside from access challenges, as we have hinted at above and present in more detail elsewhere (see Reed et al. 2019), an undertone of anger and frustration existed within the fishing industry, owing to what was perceived by many as ‘pointless’ participation in previous consultations and research which did not result in any tangible positive outcomes. This disenchantment meant recruiting participants was particularly challenging: You say it, and nothing seems to get done or all you get is, well, like it’s ‘alright, we’ve heard you. We’ll tell you we’ll do something’ and nothing ever happens. It’s the same old story year in, year out. It’s been going on for years and nothing. It just doesn’t seem to change. (Fisher, Reed et al. 2019)

In addition to concerns about lack of follow-through was a palpable fear amongst potential participants that their input to research can be utilised to shape policy or management strategies which would work against them: The trouble you’ve got with our youngsters in the harbour, I think they’re just tired of being kicked all the time. They’re tired of being pushed down, belittled, constantly aggrieved against by the authorities. They turn around and say, ‘Why should I?’, we say, ‘Come on to the committees?’, {they say}

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‘What’s the point?’. We’ve got one guy here, one of the nicest guys in the world, he really is. He’s so placid. You can talk to him about anything. He won’t get involved in surveys. He said, ‘The more you tell them, the more they use against us later on’, that’s how he looks at it. ‘The more we tell them, the more they’re going to stab us in the back’. (Fisher, Reed et al. 2019)

This apathy and/or fear has proven difficult to navigate for all researchers in the team. With specific reference to overcoming low response rates when conducting in-person surveys with fishers, Moore et al. (2010) suggest two approaches: (i) highlighting how and why the research might be of interest to fishers and (ii) assuring fishers that risks from participating are low. Although well intended, these suggestions are potentially problematic; the requirement to ‘persuade’ fishers to participate or ‘sell’ the virtues of the research was a significant concern across the research team (as described below). Were we overselling the potential benefit of participating in the research? How sure could we be that the research would not eventually culminate in a policy or management change that would have a negative impact on participants and their fishing practices? Could we give reassurances that participating in the research would result in any policy or management changes? I was mindful of trying to get a balance between providing enough reason for someone to want to take part, but not raising expectations about what will happen with the results. Fishers often seem to assume that the research will directly influence policy, whereas it is often more indirectly and subtly. This can be frustrating for them, if they feel no immediate changes have occurred after their participation. (Female researcher 3) I felt uncomfortable about ‘selling’ participation as an opportunity to inform policy; were we giving participants false hope? (Female researcher 1)

As independent researchers, striking a balance between wanting to encourage participants to have a voice on a matter and being realistic about the potential for change (and the nature of said change) is difficult and something that needs careful consideration. We need to recognise fisheries as a low-trust environment when conducting any kind of

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policy-­oriented research—an environment where ‘false promises’ about research benefits or outcomes have the potential to irreversibly diminish interest in research/consultation participation going forward: I worried that making promises about representing their best interests may not come to fruition and cause further trust issues. (Female researcher 2)

Our concerns mirror that of Carruthers and Neis (2011) who sought to supplement data on bycatch estimation approaches with qualitative interviews with Canadian Atlantic pelagic longline captains. In the first instance, they recognised how the fear of detrimental changes to fisheries management meant a total of six longliner captains refused to participate owing to fears around the subsequent uses of the information they might have provided. Like us, Carruthers and Neis (2011) were required to carefully respond to questions concerning the outcome of the research and what it may be used to do. As they recollect: ‘when asked if the research would ‘come back and bite us’, we could not honestly assure them it would not’ (Carruthers and Neis 2011, 2295). Developing a ‘script’ (preferably in close collaboration with the funder or relevant policy teams) that sets out the aims and objectives of the research, as well as its wider purpose, will engender a greater degree of trust and transparency between all stakeholders and relieve researcher concerns around maintaining informed consent.

5.4 Conclusion In this chapter we have taken the opportunity to reflect on some of the methodological challenges we have faced as researchers wanting to engage fishers in social science methodologies. We do so not to deter researchers from working in this important area, but to facilitate constructive dialogue amongst research teams so they feel adequately prepared. For the most part, we have found interactions with fishers interesting and highly rewarding. However, the sense of disenfranchisement amongst fishers owing to perceived policy failures, the male-dominated nature of the industry and the harbourside as a research environment have all posed

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unique challenges for the research team. We posit how a critical appreciation of the particularities of research in the fisheries context, and our positionalities in relation to this, could significantly benefit fieldwork encounters and, by default, data collected. A significant challenge for the fisheries’ researcher is undoubtedly health and safety, including managing gender-based safety concerns. We posit that generic strategies proposed elsewhere in the methods literature are not entirely sufficient for the fisheries context and propose a number of suggestions to counter both ambient and situational threats, but also highlight the importance of exercising notions of intuition and ‘psychological safety’ in the field. Our experiences presented here also demonstrate the importance of reflexively considering our positionalities as researchers and the impacts this can have on the interview ‘performance’. Although our reflections were limited to issues of gender and non-­fisheries status, we understand there are many other aspects of our positionalities that we do not present here. We also raise a number of questions about the ethical responsibility we have as researchers when conducting work that could potentially shape policy or management. We highlight the need to understand fisheries as an already low-trust environment, and emphasise the need for transparency in relation to research objectives and (potential) outcomes in order to build trust going forward. We would be naive to not recognise that the suggestions we have made have resource implications that may not be feasible in all contexts. For example, working in pairs rather than individually is likely to double the cost of fieldwork and the cost of training. The cost of high-visibility clothing or extra days on fieldwork for pre-visits to the harbourside would have to be budgeted for. Where budgets are already tight or where research teams are trying to put together competitive responses to tender, these extra budgetary considerations may be hard to accommodate. We would encourage project managers/principal investigators to build in these extra costs during the research proposals to normalise these important practices. In conclusion, in Box 5.1 we provide some suggestions for those carrying out similar work in the fisheries context. These are intended to encourage constructive dialogue between researchers, their project teams and ethics committees, and prompt action to ensure fisheries interviews remain safe, enjoyable and ethical for all those involved. By inspiring

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such discussions, we hope our chapter is of use to all researchers working with fishers, and elsewhere in the social sciences. Box 5.1  Recommendations for Safe and Ethical Research in the Fisheries Industry • Meeting with the Harbour Master to discuss physical safety concerns • Where possible, setting up interviews in advance (e.g. via a gatekeeper such as a fishermen’s association representative) • Visiting the harbourside in advance of data collection • Wearing high-visibility clothing • Working in pairs to increase visibility and vigilance of risks • Developing clear strategies, for example, ‘scripts’ or stock phrases to emphasise independence from government body or funder • Openly discussing gender-based threats to safety with both male and female colleagues • Developing a protocol for lone-working and dealing with gender-based threats to safety in the research design phase (so any extra resources needed can be built into budgets and to give researchers confidence to remove themselves from situations in which they feel uncomfortable) • Recognising the importance of intuition and ‘psychological safety’ • Considering how your positionality might impact on an interview scenario—where this raises concerns, ask for help or advice • Developing a ‘script’ with the funder or policy teams (where relevant) which sets out the aims and objectives of the research, and what the research might be used to do/what it will not be used to do

Acknowledgements  We would like to thank all of the fishers and industry stakeholders across England who gave up their time to talk to us.

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Symes, David, and Jeremy Phillipson. 2009. Whatever Became of Social Objectives in Fisheries Policy? Fisheries Research 95 (1): 1–5. https://doi. org/10.1016/j.fishres.2008.08.001. Thwaites, Rachel. 2017. (Re)Examining the Feminist Interview: Rapport, Gender ‘Matching,’ and Emotional Labour. Frontiers in Sociology 2: 18. https://doi.org/10.3389/fsoc.2017.00018. Urquhart, Julie, Tim Acott, Matt Reed, and Paul Courtney. 2011. Setting an Agenda for Social Science Research in Fisheries Policy in Northern Europe. Fisheries Research 108 (2): 240–247. https://doi.org/10.1016/j. fishres.2010.12.026. Urquhart, Julie, Tim Acott, David Symes, and Minghua Zhao. 2014. Introduction: Social Issues in Sustainable Fisheries Management. In Social Issues in Sustainable Fisheries Management, ed. Julie Urquhart, Tim Acott, David Symes, and Minghua Zhao. London: Springer. Urquhart, Julie, Paul Courtney, John Powell, Matthew Reed, Hannah Chiswell, Nick Lewis, Imogen Young, and Tony Delahunty. 2019. Feasibility Study for a Survey of Fishers: A Report to Defra. Cheltenham: Countryside and Community Research Institute. Williams, Terry, Eloise Dunlap, Bruce D. Johnson, and Ansley Hamid. 1992. Personal Safety in Dangerous Places. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 21 (3): 343–374. https://doi.org/10.1177/089124192021003003. Wilson, Virginia. 2012. Research Methods: Interviews. Evidence Based Library and Information Practice 7 (2): 96–98. https://doi.org/10.18438/B89P5B. Zhao, Minghua, Marilyn Tyzack, Rodney Anderson, and Estera Onoakpovike. 2014. Women in English Fisheries: Roles, Contributions, Barriers and Prospects. In Social Issues in Sustainable Fisheries Management, ed. Julie Urquhart, Tim Acott, David Symes, and Minghua Zhao, 233–254. Netherlands: Springer.

Part III Windows into Particular Methods: Innovations and Traditions

6 Addressing Low Rates of Attendance Within Fisher Focus Groups: Reflections from Inshore Fisheries Research in England Rebecca Korda, Tim Gray, Dot Kirk-Adams, and Selina Stead

6.1 Introduction This chapter explores the challenges encountered whilst collecting data for a study focused on the English small-scale, inshore fishery sector. The inshore fleet has experienced a period of significant change over the last

R. Korda (*) • T. Gray Newcastle University, Newcastle upon Tyne, UK e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] D. Kirk-Adams Let’s Co-organise, Brighton, UK e-mail: [email protected] S. Stead University of Stirling, Stirling, UK Marine Management Organisation, London, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 M. Gustavsson et al. (eds.), Researching People and the Sea, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-59601-9_6

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40 years (Morgan 2016), with many inshore fishing communities finding their capacity to operate in a diverse and adaptive manner much diminished, and their ability to remain financially viable threatened (Defra 2009). In part, the precarious situation of the sector has been exacerbated by inshore fishers’ limited opportunity to engage in, and contribute meaningfully to, the decision-making processes which govern their activities (Stead et al. 2006; Bloomfield et al. 2012). Inadequate consultation mechanisms have in turn impacted inshore fishers’ morale and sense of powerlessness (Chuenpagdee and Jentoft 2015; Thorpe et al. 2007; Mills et  al. 2011), with their willingness to collaborate with authorities and trust in the system which governs them much reduced. As a consequence, fishers participating in our research reported disengaging from both management efforts and their own fisheries associations, which they perceived to be ineffective or lacking influence. In summary, the research showed that the inshore fleet is facing an existential threat to its future, with an urgent need for it to be given an effective voice in fisheries and marine conservation management (Korda et al. 2020). In order to investigate the factors that make the English small-scale fleet vulnerable, and the coping strategies they adopt in response to these factors, our research initially embarked on focus group discussions (FGDs) as the main method for obtaining data. However, serious issues were encountered when trying to roll out the fieldwork and run the FGDs—most notably poor attendance by the fishers. The FGDs were scheduled across 21 fishing communities in England, targeting fishers and members of their wider community. However, the majority of sessions were either not at all, or not well, attended. Following these sessions, the lead author invited both the FGD absentees and the FGD attendees to participate in one-to-one interviews. As well as enabling the broad range of issues that were to be raised in the FGDs to be investigated in detail, these interviews were used to reflect on the reasons behind the poor attendance at the scheduled focus groups. Those interviewed included fishers, members of their supportive community (i.e. merchants and fishery association leads) and officials of the regional fisheries management agency. They are all referred to in this chapter as key informants (KI).

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Herein, we take a deeper look at the reasons behind such poor attendance rates and ask two questions: Was poor attendance at the FGDs the result of some practical oversight by the researcher, which extending the pilot phase could have resolved? Or was it a consequence of other underlying issues or the inherent unsuitability of FGDs as a method for researching hard-to-reach groups such as inshore fishers? We critically reflect on these questions and provide suggestions of what we see to be good practice in setting up FGDs, to enable future researchers to use this method successfully in fishing communities. In investigating the issue of non-attendance, this chapter aims to bring new insight to the literature on the dynamics of FGDs. This chapter is structured in the following way. Section 6.2 introduces the English inshore fisheries management context, providing a background to the sector and explaining why inshore fishers have often disengaged from policy, management and research. Section 6.3 explains how FGDs were organised for the purpose of our study and discusses what previous commentators have written about the processes required to set up and run FGDs. Section 6.4 analyses the four main factors that appeared to inhibit attendance at these FGDs, while Sect. 6.5 examines five potential ways of facilitating participation. Finally, Sect. 6.6 concludes this chapter by discussing whether the problem is a practical matter that can be resolved through better planning and fieldwork organisation, or if it is a reflection of a fundamentally disengaged community for whom focus groups may not be an appropriate research method.

6.2 T  he Evolving English Inshore Fisheries Management System There is a long-established tradition of local co-management of inshore fisheries in England (Symes and Phillipson 1997). Over the years these arrangements have evolved, including most notably the replacement of the century old Sea Fisheries Committees (SFCs) by ten Inshore Fisheries and Conservation Authorities (IFCAs) in 2011. Against the backdrop of these changes, several authors have drawn attention to a growing sense of

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disconnect among inshore fishers with respect to their status within fisheries governance and the wider industry (Gray et al. 2005; Reed et al. 2013; Korda et al. 2020). This multi-level breakdown in relationships between fishers and their fisheries associations and again with their associated management agencies was clear in our own research findings and, as we discuss later, would also present challenges for the delivery of our focus groups. The creation of IFCAS under the Marine and Coastal Access Act (2009) brought with it additional marine conservation responsibilities, reduced local discretion, and made timeframes and decisions more determined by national government than previously (Defra 2010; Pieraccini and Cardwell 2016). Much of their agenda-setting autonomy, in comparison to the former SFCs, was reduced, and their focus shifted beyond fisheries management to a wider marine conservation-based remit. As an IFCA Chief Fishery Officer (CFO) remarked: ‘IFCAs have definitely had to give priority to marine protected areas and that’s where all our work, or the majority of our work, is focused at the moment’. Their conservation responsibilities quickly enveloped the IFCAs’ workload. As one fisher put it: ‘The workload. It’s gone mad and snowballed … it was top-fed from Defra, that’s where the pressure came from’ (KI-99, Fisher). Added to this, IFCAs faced reduced budgets as a consequence of austerity measures. One area where some IFCAs sought to save resources was by trimming engagement strategies and moving from active to passive or reactive communications with fishers. Passive modes include undertaking communications via email or their website, or carrying out correspondence solely with fisheries associations. This was highly criticised by the fishers; as one put it, ‘You never see anybody’ (KI-94, Fisher). Others felt this was a strategy of avoidance: ‘One of the difficulties is that they just don’t want to talk to people’ (KI-81, Fishers’ Association Lead). Reactive methods relied on fishers themselves requesting meetings, which assumed that they were sufficiently organised to do so, and risked favouring those fishers who were more equipped and engaged. The IFCAs are co-management structures, which include fishers, marine and fisheries experts, representatives from statutory conservation bodies and local councillors among the members of their managing committees. In theory, this should create a decentralised, inclusive and

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participatory mechanism for relevant stakeholders to manage inshore waters in an equitable and balanced manner. However, in practice, IFCAs have less autonomy over how members are selected, with their non-statutory committee members appointed by the Marine Management Organisation (MMO) (Pieraccini and Cardwell 2016). As one informant explained, IFCAs have ‘no power over the appointment of members— that is in the hands of the MMO … They advertised the places, they sifted the applications, they ran the interviews and they confirmed the appointments’ (KI-40, Fisher). This arrangement was described as ‘outrageous’ by one fisher. Others felt that the application process was highly complex and competency based, which discouraged many applicants: ‘The application can be daunting, if you are not used to applying for jobs. It’s hard to put down examples of how you have made a difference in the past. It’s really hard, actually’ (KI-40, Fisher). Authors reported how this becomes a barrier which prevents fishers becoming integrated into decision-making mechanisms (Rodwell et al. 2014) with few active fishers and fisheries association members represented in the committees. Several fishers felt there was a growing disconnect between IFCAs and fishers: ‘I don’t know how they sit and come up with these ideas’ (KI-98, Fisher). Others pointed to a breakdown in communication: ‘I only found out about the MCZ on Facebook and it wasn’t the IFCA that put it on. That was someone else who put it on. They didn’t write to us about it’ (KI-98, Fisher). For some, the removal of feedback mechanisms meant decisions came across as being authoritarian: ‘If they want to shut us, down they shut us down. They do what they want’ (KI-69, Fisher)—and consultation processes as disingenuous: ‘It’s all already signed and sealed in blood before we hear anything about it … We are going to the meeting tonight, but it will all be settled already’ (KI-92, Fisher). We discuss in the remainder of the chapter how this growing sense of disconnect within the management system would also come to have a bearing on the success of our FGDs.

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6.3 Focus Groups FGDs are a standard methodological technique used in many disciplines as a means of gathering in-depth qualitative data (Nyumba et al. 2018; Morgan 1996; Massey 2000). Through FGDs, researchers bring participants together and encourage group interaction to obtain unique perceptions on a defined area of interest (Nyumba et al. 2018; Massey 2000; Acocella 2012; Hennink et al. 2010). Focus groups are, therefore, a valuable tool for enabling a group perspective to be formed and debated in a way that generates data that are different to those obtained from KI interviews which focus on individual perspectives and experiences. FGDs can be used as a self-contained method or form part of a research strategy, often in combination with individual interviews (Morgan 1996). FGDs have become a popular research method in the field of fisheries governance as a means of examining the attitudes and experiences of fishers (Nor et al. 2017; Jentoft and Eide 2011; Jentoft and Chuenpagdee 2015). Researchers are drawn to the way FGDs provide valuable insights into a community’s norms and values and allow interactions between participants to be observed (Morgan and Spanish 1984; Teddlie and Tashakkori 2009). This interactive or ‘group effect’ enables researchers to go beyond surface level explanations and explore respondents’ motivations for the opinions they express (Morgan and Krueger 1993; Stewart and Shamdasani 2014; Morgan 1996; Okeke-Ogbuafor et  al. 2016, 2017, 2018). FGDs have also proved popular because they help ‘give a voice’ to marginalised groups (Morgan 1996), serving as a tool to empower participants (Magill 1993), not least by providing a forum in which all participants are treated equally (Nichols-Casebolt and Spakes 1995). They also have the practical advantage of enabling information to be collected from a number of participants in a short period of time (Morgan 1996; Reed and Payton 1997; Acocella 2012; Robson 2011). Given FGDs are a method well suited to encouraging participants to put forward their personal perspectives and lived experiences (Hennink et al. 2010), it was considered the method of choice for our study. Two communities within each of the IFCA districts were selected in an attempt to capture the most, and least, ‘resilient’ fishing communities. This

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selection process was informed by IFCA chief fishery officers who scored each fishing community against three variables: self-organisation, community networks and economic options. A list of ‘liaisons’1 for each of these communities was compiled, based initially on the advice of the relevant IFCA and then verified by local experts such as harbour masters. Liaisons were contacted and questioned about the fishing community’s culture and demographics, and on how best to set up focus groups and where and when they would be best held. It was expected that these liaisons would facilitate good attendance, allowing the diversity of the communities to be adequately represented. Focus groups were then arranged at times, and locations, convenient to the fishers (Krueger and Casey 2014; Breen 2006). The lead author spent a few days in each community before a focus group was scheduled, with the intention of getting to know the fishers and publicising the event, its purpose and when it was going to take place. FGDs were also advertised in popular industry publications, local newspapers and on relevant harbour authority notice boards. The FGDs sessions were to be guided by a number of questions based on core themes of community culture, horizontal and vertical networks and challenges faced by the fishers, and the coping strategies they adopt to deal with these challenges. These were designed to contribute a dynamic element to the research by instigating positive interaction between the attendees (Kvale 1996). However, despite this preparation, seven planned focus groups were unable to proceed due to a lack of attendance and the turnout at ten other sessions was low (eight attracted only 10% or less of the target community’s active fishers and two attracted less than 30%). Only three focus groups attracted all active fishers from the target community. On reflection, it appears that a combination of methodological and circumstantial factors was to blame. Concerning the former, the study was trying to universally apply a standard textbook approach to a number of  The term ‘liaison’ is a preferred alternative to the expression ‘gatekeeper’, which much of the literature in the field of fisheries governance adopts when referring to parties used to help access a marginalised community. The term ‘gatekeeper’, has negative undertones in that ‘gatekeepers’ can lock researchers out as well as facilitate their entry. ‘Liaison is a more positive term employed by the community development literature, referring to someone who understands and is trusted by a community and can therefore facilitate research access. 1

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communities, with different participation abilities, without considering whether each community was willing or able to respond to such an approach. Our method of identifying liaisons through external recommendations was also problematic, as we discuss later. However, it was also apparent that attendance issues went beyond methodological shortcomings, and were influenced by an embedded mistrust and apathy among fishers, built from a legacy of previous negative experiences with authority figures and external groups. In the methodological literature, there is considerable discussion about the conditions necessary to achieve successful FGDs. Guidance traditionally concentrates on two main factors. The first relates to the ways of creating a comfortable environment in which to enable productive and free-flowing discussions between participants. Guidance includes advice on how to identify a convenient venue (Krueger and Casey 2014; Breen 2006; Nyumba et  al. 2018; Hennink et  al. 2010); the importance of appropriate timing (Breen 2006); optimal session duration (Nyumba et al. 2018); whether group homogeneity or heterogeneity is preferable (Tynan and Drayton 1998; Reed and Payton 1997; Morgan 1996; Stewart and Shamdasani 2014; Nyumba et  al. 2018; Hennink et  al. 2010); whether familiarity or unfamiliarity between participants is better (Mendes de Almeida 1980; Reed and Payton 1997; Morgan and Krueger 1993; Morgan 1996; Krueger and Casey 2014; Hennink et  al. 2010); and what constitutes an optimal number of participants (Morgan 1992, 1996; Hennink et al. 2010; Robson 2011; Rosenthal 2016; Krueger and Casey 2014; Nyumba et al. 2018). The second factor concerns how moderators should act in sessions (Burrows and Kendall 1997; Krueger 1994; Nyumba et  al. 2018; Rosenthal 2016) and the particular skills and attributes required to manage group dynamics and create a constructive environment (Agar and MacDonald 1995; Morgan 1996; Robinson 2011; Hennink et al. 2010; Reed and Payton 1997; Sim 1998; Rosenthal 2016; Krueger and Casey 2014; Nyumba et al. 2018). A less-discussed topic relates to participant recruitment, despite some writers deeming this to be the key factor for focus group success (Morgan 1995). This literature briefly touches on the issue of a ‘no-show’—blaming this on logistical failures, that is, inadequate meeting places or event

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reminders (Krueger and Casey 2014). Some authors outline processes which they claim will ensure attendance, such as using key local network liaisons to identify participants (Morgan 1995; Krueger and Casey 2014). Other writers suggest using financial or other incentives to draw in potential FGD participants (Morgan 1996; Krueger 1994). Whilst useful, these suggestions assume that target participants will be willing and able to attend with little further effort being required of researchers. Furthermore, assumptions appear to be made about ‘liaisons’, with little explanation as to their suitability or how to choose them. Only Krueger (1994) discusses the limitations of using these liaison figures, but only in terms of questioning whether their involvement could generate ‘volunteer biases’. In addition, there appears to be a lack of attention paid by scholars to the experiences of fishers within these FGD sessions (Degnbol et al. 2008).

6.4 F actors Inhibiting Attendance at Fisher Focus Group Discussions We have divided the underlying factors which we believe inhibited attendance at our project’s fisher focus group discussions into four categories: methodological failings; inshore fishers’ identity; inshore fishers’ negative experiences of management; and divisions in fisher communities.

6.4.1 Methodological Shortcomings Some barriers to attendance were practical and related to the locations and timings of the meetings. For example, attendance was not possible for some fishers who were working especially long days and unsociable hours, so were going to bed early—even in the afternoon. Another barrier related to the liaisons chosen. In this study, we relied predominantly on the IFCAs to suggest suitable liaison candidates (mainly fishery association leads). However, the IFCA officers were not always familiar with the different internal power dynamics playing out amongst the communities in their districts, so may have inadvertently suggested candidates with

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whom they held a history of liaising with but were in fact inappropriate as were disliked or mistrusted by the community they were affiliated with. This was certainly the case in some of the target communities, where conversations revealed that the recommended liaisons were deeply unpopular. The result was that the researcher sometimes found herself walking into a situation where the community was already suspicious.

6.4.2 Inshore Fisher’s Identity Inshore fishers reported feeling uncomfortable in formal meetings (Nightingale 2013). This aversion to formalities and a lack of confidence in public forums was found to limit their willingness to engage with the focus group setting. FGDs were deemed by some fishers to be too far removed from their normal working environment: ‘Any situation outside of your usual work is going to be intimidating… It’s just taking people out of the world they work into another one’ (KI-81, Fisher Association Lead). This discomfort may be linked to an individualistic outlook: ‘They tend to be very individualistic. They tend not to show willingness for example to get together as a group’ (KI-110, IFCA CFO). Or shy personality: ‘Most fishermen are a real dichotomy and they can be really noisy but at the same time, really shy’ (KI-51, Merchant). Also, inshore fishers reported being driven by the desire to be out fishing and not stuck in meetings: ‘Some people are more prepared to sit down in a room and talk shit for hours than others. I don’t want to do that, mate. I want to go fishing’ (KI-34, Fisher).

6.4.3 Negative Experiences of Fisheries Management A further factor helping to explain poor attendance was fishers’ negative perceptions of fisheries management. The research found much evidence to show that the way management bodies interact with fishers has significant consequences for individuals and communities and their sense of engagement. Negative experiences from previous meetings run by authority figures and external groups had left fishers feeling powerless and

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therefore less likely to attend FGDs. One fisher said ‘I have no choice and no voice’ (KI-21). Another fisher said ‘I never go to meetings. I just don’t want to go any more as it is a waste of time. It just feels like you are wasting your time… I am not interested in what goes on in those meetings any more’ (KI-89). In one of the FGDs, a fisher who briefly attended, walked out, saying: I’ve done several of these [focus groups] in the past and it hasn’t made a jot of difference so I’m going to go. The problem with this is that it is helping you get something which is actually not going to help. And that is my gut feeling. So I’m out, as they say in dragon’s den. (KI-33)

Some fishers associated FGDs with management bodies which they distrusted, deeming researchers to be figures of authority (Gray et  al. 2011). Respondents also reported disengaging with academic researchers because of a perceived imbalance in power between themselves and the academics. Academics can inadvertently assume power over participants in sessions, and fishers may want to avoid being made to feel that their contributions are inferior. Other respondents spoke of ‘consultation fatigue’, after being asked to attend wave after wave of meetings, but failing to see any direct change facilitated by their participation. As a fish merchant and vessel owner put it: ‘you get punch drunk with consultations’ (KI-51).

6.4.4 Divisions in Fisher Communities The final factor inhibiting fishers’ attendance at the FDGs was conflict within the fisheries communities themselves. Some of these communities were deeply divided and faced issues of local conflict and mistrust, together with antagonism towards, or lack of respect for, their fisheries associations. Fishers reported that this resentment was in part fuelled by the opaque or cliquish manner in which their associations worked with management or external parties and this further weakened community unity and social solidarity (Reed et al. 2013; Gray et al. 2005).

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6.5 W  ays of Improving Attendance at Focus Group Discussions So how might FGD attendance within marginalised communities like inshore fisheries be improved? From the experiences we outline above, and drawing on insights from the wider literature upon which the practice of community organising is based together with expert practitioner insight on community development practice, we would make five key suggestions. These suggestions have been tried and tested in community organising and community development practice as a means of energising and engaging with marginalised groups. We deem them pertinent to the fishers’ context as the same issues regarding powerlessness, mistrust and disengagement are found in the disciplines of fisheries management and community organisation (Degnbol et  al. 2008; Nor et  al. 2017; Okeke-Ogbuafor et al. 2016, 2017, 2018).

6.5.1 Understanding Community Power Structures Inshore fleets in the English and international contexts are diverse both in their fisheries operations, and in their ability and willingness to engage with formal procedures (Chuenpagdee and Jentoft 2015; Berkes 2001, 2003). Therefore, prior to conducting and designing research methods, it is vital that researchers familiarise themselves with their target communities’ power structures. Each community group has its own form of power dynamics dependent on its particular history, context and membership. A mapping process helps to understand these structures and identify grass-roots conflicts which might not be immediately obvious: ‘At the moment there are 20 boats but they have three fishermen’s associations. And they all hate each other and most of them are related’ (KI-108, IFCA CFO). The mapping technique outlined by Fisher et al. (2000), for example, provides a way of visualising and analysing conflict and positive links between different parties to clarify where power lies. The aim is to create visual maps that can inform a suitable engagement strategy. As knowledge is gained, the map can grow, revealing possible entry points into the

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community. Communities are best placed to advise on their own culture and networks, so this process is best begun by connecting and listening to members belonging to a community and developing partnerships with them. After all, they know their community best. This process is invaluable as it not only provides a unique insight into a community, but also serves to build trust among those whom the researcher wishes to work with. Whilst this may be a resource-heavy process, and may require some additional training, it deepens understanding of the community of interest. In collaborating in this research, we have also become aware that we, as researchers or outsiders, are perceived within the community as part of the establishment power dynamic. Recognising this can help to understand how participants will relate to and interact with research. As Alinsky (1989, XiX) explains: As an organizer I start from where the world is, as it is, not as I would like it to be. That we accept the world as it is does not in any sense weaken our desire to change it into what we believe it should be—it is necessary to begin where the world is if we are going to change it to what we think it should be. That means working in the system.

Certain techniques such as active listening techniques are also key to building trust and can help facilitate this process (Corganisers 2020). Active listening requires operating in a positive and neutral manner, striving to make participants feel respected and confident that their input is valued. It requires the researcher to use verbal and non-verbal feedback to show they have heard and understood. It uses open questioning techniques to elicit solutions and ideas from the participant.

6.5.2 Identifying an Appropriate Liaison Use of the familiarisation process described in Sect. 6.5.1 can help researchers avoid the trap of drawing on an unsuitable liaison figure. The most appropriate liaison may be different from the person the researcher is currently liaising with or has been recommended. Almost all

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communities include leaders who assume power to speak on behalf of their group, but these are not always figures trusted by their community. This was found to be the case in one of the communities included in this study, whereby the liaison suggested by the IFCA was a fish merchant who fishers said was widely distrusted for monopolising the market and driving down prices: ‘I think that personally the problem with [community X] is that we don’t have a choice. We have that market or nothing. If you have any complaints and you go and see them, it’s like it or lump it’ (KI-5, Fisher). Without a thorough understanding of the target community, it is difficult to tell whether suggested persons would be effective liaisons. Choosing someone as a liaison who holds rather than shares power and knowledge with a select group can associate the researcher with them, making it difficult to approach potential FGD participants. Researchers should therefore meet with and listen to as many people as possible in a community until they are sure that suggested liaisons are trusted by others. This may mean contacting the fishers themselves together with the Fishermens’ Mission, fish shops, fish processors, harbour masters and even taxi drivers!

6.5.3 Building Trust In interviews, fishers reported a widespread mistrust of management and scientific regimes. This highlights the value of researchers investing time to build trusting relationships with those they wish to work with. One way of doing this is to select suitable liaisons, as we have noted above. Another way is for the researcher to make direct and personal contact with prospective participants in a warm and sincere manner prior to the focus group session. As part of this process, the scope and objectives of the research can be frankly discussed, along with realistic research outcomes. By laying down these foundations, researchers can encourage participants to offer suggestions contributing to the success of the project, such as how to make FGDs more accessible. Researchers should stress that potential participants are being contacted because they have unique insight, experience or knowledge to contribute to the study. Potential

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participants may have concerns about the value of their knowledge compared to the researcher, so they should be reassured that their contributions are of unique value. Fishers’ concern about their knowledge being ignored by managers was vividly expressed in our research: All this knowledge is being totally discredited by our government and is being treated as if it is worthless information. But we know it’s not and we know that it is absolutely fundamental to what we are doing, as any walk of life you have to be trained and then eventually you can practice in it and you take a huge amount of knowledge with you. For example, someone like me who has been in the industry for 30 years, should be held up as an example… Instead, I’m made to look foolish. (KI-21 (Fisher))

Contact can be made and relationships built during several walk-­ throughs of a target port, visiting vessels and the local cafes or pubs that fisher’s frequent and taking time to listen and speak with fishers in an informal, sincere and friendly manner. Krueger and Casey (2014) recommend that this is complemented by a personalised letter including a formal invitation, providing additional details about the session, location and topic of discussion. Arnstein’s (1969) ‘Ladder of Citizen Participation’ was originally created to describe levels of citizen participation within the United States planning processes. It lays out eight levels of participation, whereby the lowest and least favourable rungs are that of ‘non-participation’. Here powerholders do not enable or encourage engagement, but instead merely inform participants, swapping genuine participation for what is described as ‘manipulation’ and ‘therapy’. The next three rung levels highlight tokenistic approaches to engagement (comprising placation, consultation and information), whereby possible participants are offered an engagement platform on which to be heard and hear from, however, they ‘lack the power to insure that their views will be heeded by the powerful’ (Arnstein 1969, 207). The highest levels of participation are the top three rungs, described as ‘citizen control’ (comprising partnership, delegation and citizen control). Research drawing on FGDs should aim at communities achieving a higher level of participation than what Arnstein describes as ‘Tokenism’. As a minimum, keeping participants involved in

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the research after the FGDs have taken place can help maintain trust established between fishers and universities or local agencies, helping to elevate or maintain communities at the top rungs. Ensuring that research findings are accessible to participants can provide a lasting benefit by giving local people a continued voice in the management of their sector and neighbourhood.

6.5.4 Alternative Back-Up Strategies Focus groups clearly have their place and value. However, they are not always an appropriate or suitable method for a particular community. There will be some communities where focus groups are unlikely to be successful owing to high levels of grass-roots mistrust or a widely disenfranchised population and other research methods such as individual interviews may be more appropriate. Moreover, communities are made up of individuals and even though many may be prepared to attend FGDs, there may be some who, despite best efforts by the researcher, will still not attend. In such cases, a FGD strategy can be complemented by approaching the non-attendees separately for one-to-one semi-structured interviews. This was the case for several of the communities in our English inshore fleet case study and it proved very successful. For example, in one situation, the lead author found the five fishers who failed to turn up for FGDs fixing their pots the following day. When they were approached, all fishers readily agreed to participate in a one-to-one interview, be it at the time they were approached or at a later time scheduled at the fishers’ convenience. The interviews were used in part to explore the fishers’ aversion to FGDs, turning non-attendance into a positive outcome and a greater understanding of fishers’ wider sense of alienation.

6.6 Conclusion This chapter set out to examine two central questions. Could the problem of fishers’ non-attendance at scheduled focus group discussions have been solved through better planning and engagement? Or was this

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problem beyond the researcher’s control linked, for example, to past negative experiences, the differences that exist within communities and the individualistic identity of fishers? It appears that in some communities, practical adjustments to organisational logistics may be enough to improve attendance rates, though identifying the most appropriate logistics is best undertaken in dialogue with participants from a target community. The second question asked whether FGDs are an appropriate method to obtain meaningful data from marginalised and alienated communities. Our experience suggests that strategic measures may need to be taken to tackle more deep-rooted issues of alienation and marginalisation. For these communities, preparation for FGDs itself could be viewed as part of a wider engagement strategy, whereby researchers seek to overcome embedded mistrust and apathy by familiarising themselves with the community they wish to engage with, and strive to understand their internal and external networks. However, it is also possible that there will be communities where inhibiting factors may only be overcome by radical reform of wider governance mechanisms employed for the English inshore fleet. FGDs are a valuable method for researchers to draw on; however, this method comes with certain limitations. Depending on the target communities internalised social capital and the time requirements of the research, they may not always be a feasible option. An important lesson learned from the research described herein is therefore to allow for sufficient time to understand the local context when designing a research strategy. Then if needed and time permitting researchers can draw on techniques presented. The greater use of pre-survey knowledge of the local context can improved researchers’ acceptance among targeted participants and enable researchers to be better connected with locals as a way to motivate engagement in research methods such as FGDs among others. This in turn can help build fishers’ social capacity. Acknowledgements  This book chapter was inspired by challenges faced collecting data for the PhD thesis submitted by Dr Rebecca Korda to Newcastle University in 2019, supervised by Professors Tim Gray and Selina Stead. We are grateful to the university for providing the facilities which made the PhD doctoral research possible. We wholeheartedly thank all respondents for their

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g­ raciousness in g­ iving their time, entrusting us with their experiences and for being such kind and generous hosts. Please note that this book chapter does not in any way represent the views of Natural England, Newcastle University, or Stirling University, but solely the views of the authors.

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7 Exploring the Relationship Between Local Ecological Knowledge and Technology Through Participant Observation Onboard Fishing Vessels Jeremy Anbleyth-Evans

7.1 Introduction Scientific knowledge and fisher local ecological knowledge (LEK) may well be complementary. However, when processes of translation and trust-building are not attended to between scientists and fishers, this can invariably result in disagreements and conflicts (Garcia-Quijano 2007). Gaps in understanding of marine and fisheries ecosystems can potentially be reduced by supporting greater understanding of how fisheries work in practice. The central idea here is that more legitimate and mutually beneficial governance and conservation strategies can be developed through eliciting fishers’ LEK (Johannes et  al. 2000). In this chapter, I explore how taking part in fishing, through participant observation, can serve to build this necessary trust and collaboration between fishers and researchers, as well as nurturing mutual respect for their different knowledge J. Anbleyth-Evans (*) Centro de Estudios del Desarrollo Regional y de Políticas Públicas (CEDER), Universidad de Los Lagos, Osorno, Chile e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 M. Gustavsson et al. (eds.), Researching People and the Sea, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-59601-9_7

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contributions (De Vos and Van Tatenhove 2011; Wilson et al. 2006). My original research objective was to understand how technology, governance and fishers’ interaction with scientific research, influence the evolution of LEK of the benthos. Its focus was on how different types of fishing influence LEK development and how this might be brought to use in different fishing practices. Participant observation is built fundamentally on the immersion of researchers ‘in the day-to-day lives of the people’ they wish to investigate (Creswell and Poth 2016, 90). It is an approach that has been used extensively in the study of social groups, work forms, social movements and cultures (Agar 1996; Pálsson 1998; Johnson et al. 2006). Generally, as Johnson et al. (2006) note, passive observation has been emphasised over active participation. However, there are many research contexts, including fisheries, in which active participation by the investigator can also be advantageous to the collection of essential data, with the process itself also potentially leading to altered outlooks, practices or new ideas among participants. Either way, for many researchers, carrying out participant observation can provoke feelings of self-doubt and anxiety (Johnson et al. 2006). Researchers must also deal with their status as a stranger or outsider to the social system under study (Agar 1996). For those not growing up in a fishing family, it can be difficult to appreciate the experience of fishing, with its associated sights and smells, nauseas and idiosyncrasies of the crew and boat (Anbleyth-Evans 2018). Participant observation by researchers onboard fishing vessels is therefore especially relevant if the experiences and practices of fishing are to be more widely understood and appreciated, including a fuller comprehension of fisher skills, customs and knowledge (De Walt 1994). There is a long tradition of anthropological studies that have involved participant observation of fishing and within fishing communities. It was first advocated in the fishing context by Bjarni Sæmundsson, a pioneering Ichthyologist in the 1890s, who spent time observing various new types of fish onboard Icelandic vessels. Sæmundsson thought of himself as a mediator between foreign scientists and Icelandic fishers (Pálsson 1998). Since much of what is learned by fishers is tacit and intuitive, translation between fisher knowledge systems and scientific research can be challenging (Pálsson 1998). However, while scientists typically follow a subject-object ontology, with the fish as an object of study, taking a

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critical realist approach allows for a subject-subject ontology (Sayer 2010), in which there is a possibility for mutual learning between fishers and researchers (what in the educational literature is termed the ‘zone of proximal development’ (Anbleyth-Evans and Lacy 2019; Engeström 1987). Thus, the participant observation approach can allow for researchers to work as a knowledge bridge between scientists and fishers (Johnson 2011). This chapter gives a reflexive account of the use and deployment of participant observation in the context of understanding fisher knowledge in English fisheries. Drawing on the work of Pálsson (1998), who recommended learning via fishing and observed practicing skippers during fishing trips, and Hall-Arber and Pederson (1999), who observed fishers’ onboard recording of habitats, my research involved nine, single-day, under 10 m, inshore fishing trips in the south and east of England. The purpose of my research was to observe how different sized vessels, and combinations of fishing techniques and organisational forms, influence the dynamics of fisheries exploitation, knowledge and skills. In this chapter, I will go on to introduce my research design, including how to prepare for the field, get access to boats and record observations. In the section on participant observations aboard different fishing boats, the participation and observations embraced a range of different fishing techniques (trammel netting, potting, trawling and dredging). In this section, I will reflect on the benefits of using participant observation to build trust, relationships and mutual understanding between fishers and researchers, and discuss how my positionality presented (dis)advantages in terms of getting access and producing knowledge. Finally, I reflect on some of the challenges I encountered in using participant observation in the discussion section of the chapter.

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7.2 Setting Up the Observations 7.2.1 Preparing for the Field Taking part in a fishing trip was the culmination of a long period of careful preparation and training. Each type of fishing trip required a risk assessment to take into consideration the weather conditions, the local geography and the different gear types. The risk assessment protocol involved an online check of the tide and the weather, as well as an evaluation of the state of the maintenance of fishing gear and the boat, such as looking for significant rust, threaded ropes or general signs of damage to the vessel. I also sought advice from the crew, other fishers, the harbour master and other people in the community, to decide whether it was safe to go out to sea. To obtain permission to go fishing, it was necessary for me to complete a sea safety training course. In the UK context, this meant I had to complete a sea survival ‘ticket’ which prepared me for any worst-case scenarios, such as going overboard. The sea survival training covered essential forms of safety equipment onboard coastal vessels. This training also limited any potential liability for fishers. Furthermore, informed consent was obtained by fishers before each trip, interview and other related activities. My University’s internal ethics board reviewed the human subjects’ protocol for the protection of study participants, as well as the potential risks to my own health. The ethics committee further decided that I was not given permission to go to sea in over 10 m vessels. Finally, going to sea required acquiring suitable attire in wet weather sea gear, of the sort found on fishing boats available in marine hardware stores. Wearing this attire also proved to be a small performative step to helping my integration as one of the crew.

7.2.2 Getting Access to Fishing Boats Developing rapport with fishers was a critical first stage in gaining access. Whilst there were some fisher contacts available to me from previous research projects, in the majority of cases ad hoc conversations with

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fishers on the harbour, pier or wharf were those that led most successfully to securing the possibility of doing participant observation onboard fishing vessels. Arriving in the early morning mists, or before sunrise was useful for developing contacts. Such an early arrival was important in showing dedication and interest in fishing. There I offered my labour, explaining my enthusiasm to learn about fishing by taking part in the crew. I also made clear my role as a researcher. On some occasions, introducing myself at the docks later in the day also proved successful, when crews were carrying out repairs or taking a break. Sometimes it was also good to speak with fishers when they were selling fish. I typically introduced myself and my research—explaining that the work revolved around understanding how fishers’ knowledge, observations and recordings could be better included in fisheries management (Anbleyth-Evans et al. 2020). By connecting through conversation on current issues of concern to the industry, such as stopping discarding, or frustrations over industrial fishing or access rights, I tried to build rapport with fishers (Anbleyth-­ Evans and Williams 2018). If fishers were open to me joining them on their vessels, this normally meant arranging a time in the future, typically led by the skipper’s plans, or when the weather was predicted to be calm and the tide was suitable. Once one trip in a community was successfully set up and completed, I used snowball or chain referral sampling to establish further connections through fishers’ local social networks with other crews. I then focused on finding opportunities for participant observation on fishing vessels deploying different gears and techniques to understand the influence on fisher LEK development. I also tried to fish in new areas of the country where I had not been previously, where there might be subtle differences of gear use, or other factors such as governance, ecology and culture shaping the fishery in those places. The fishing trips, listed in Table 7.1, continued for a year, on an approximately monthly basis. Overall, participant observation data gathering included six fishing trips on vessels deploying low impact fishing gear, and three trips with higher impact towed gear.

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Table 7.1  Participant observation of fishing techniques Time at sea (hours)

Gear

Location

Habitats

Triple otter board trawling

Cornwall/ Devon Plymouth Sounds Hastings

Sublittoral muds, 12 sands, eelgrasses, rocky reefs 11 Sublittoral mud, sands, rocky reefs 7 Sublittoral mud, sands, rocky reefs, kelp forests 8 Sublittoral mud, sands, rocky reefs 8 Sublittoral mud, sands, rocky reefs

Trammel netting

Lobster/crab Selsey Bill potting

Set nets

Eastbourne

Triple otter board trawling

Newhaven

Dredging

Portsmouth

Cuttlefish potting

Portsmouth

Whelk potting

Portsmouth

Rod and lining

Plymouth

Sublittoral muds, sands, eelgrasses, rocky reefs Sublittoral muds, eelgrasses, rocky reefs Sublittoral muds, eelgrasses, rocky reefs Sublittoral muds, eelgrasses, rocky reefs

Target species Lemon sole, plaice, dover sole, turbot and red mullet Dover sole, turbot, plaice, skates and rays Lobsters and crabs

Skates and rays

7.5

Lemon sole, plaice, dover sole, turbot and red mullet Clams

8

Cuttlefish

7

Whelks

8

Bass, squid and mackerel

7.2.3 D  ata Collection: Field Notes, Observations and Interviews During participant observation, data were recorded using a notebook, camera and most importantly, digital audio recorder. As the research progressed, the data was reviewed and updated on an ongoing basis, with

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field notes recorded typically straight after the trip, or opportunistically onboard, while the memories and details were fresh. I supplemented my participant observations with ad hoc, unstructured interviews during work on the boat, or after working; such opportunities arose when in the wheelhouse, while the skipper or crew were relaxing, when food and drink was being shared, when plotting a new course, or during the return to the harbour. The open-ended nature of the questions gave fishers the opportunity to talk freely (Wimmer and Dominick 2003), with mutual learning through dialogue encouraged, and both questioning of the researcher and the fisher potentially possible (Hoefnagel et al. 2006; Anbleyth-Evans and Lacy 2019). The broad themes covered in interviews included how fishing techniques were changing, how new technologies were developing, as well as the relevance of fisher LEK to quota assessment or environmental conservation. Sometimes, there was the opportunity for larger group interviews or discussions. For example, in Portsmouth when we returned to shore, other fishers were invited into the wheelhouse to view short video footage recorded of the dredger in action on the seabed (a topic which I will return to below). As well as writing field notes, a digital recorder was used to document the conversations that took place during participant observations and the organised interviews. The advantage of the digital recorder was that it allowed a more fluid and natural conversation to unfold, without the distractions of pen and paper and a rocking boat. Following informed consent protocols, I explained at the beginning of the fishing trip that I needed their permission to record. I kept a small digital recorder in my jacket pocket ready for ad hoc use, so if a fisher felt like explaining what he was doing, it was readily available. I could also ask questions about the techniques, or types of fish involved, ecology and threats to the ecosystem, whether I was stood at the front or back of the boat. I found it important that the recordings were done in a way which did not interrupt the flow of what participants were doing. Afterwards, the recordings were transcribed verbatim to ensure that the nuances of participants’ speech were maintained. I used an orthographic transcript, or a complete spelling out of all verbal and non-verbal utterances.

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To analyse the collected data, I drew on a thematic analysis approach. Going over the interview data from beginning to end meant identifying patterns and themes where data was ‘messy’ or not immediately clear (Ryan and Bernard 2000, 780). Indeed it is a recursive process, needing analysis back and forth through the material. I took the opportunity to do what Layder (1998, 41) calls ‘pre coding’—highlighting, circling, underlining and colouring sections of interview notes that present themselves as immediately relevant and useful. On at least two occasions it was possible to develop, what I called participatory impact assessments (Schindler et al. 2016), using an underwater video camera or ‘GoPro’. Mobile video elicitation was used to directly view the immediate ecological impacts of dredging. Here, an underwater camera was attached to a dredge, and the video recordings provided a mechanism to discuss potential ecological impacts, biodiversity and habitats, and allowed for sharing knowledge between fishers and the researcher. Similarly, it was possible to use a GoPro camera attached to a trawler door to record the fishing activity in action and to allow the crew to see their practices from a different perspective. The video footage was then downloaded onto the computer to be replayed and discussed in the boat’s wheelhouse.

7.2.4 Reflexivity and Positionality in the Field A relevant concern in any social science project is to be reflexive; asking why the research evolved in the way it did, and how the researcher’s own positionality may have played a role in shaping researcher-participant relationships and the knowledge produced (Corlett and Mavin 2018). Findings from qualitative research can be influenced by the positionality which the researcher embodies and/or is perceived to embody by research participants (McDowell 1992). In my research, I endeavoured to carry out participant observation with an open mind about fishers’ practices, perspectives and opinions. I found it helpful to maintain a neutral detachment from the ongoing political campaigns within the industry (Schön 1983; Neilson and Castro 2016), whilst accepting that conversing and working with fishers would

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likely influence my opinions on fisheries ecology and traditions and the fishers I was working with. It was important to remain reflexive about my own knowledge biases and to remain receptive to the unfamiliar, whether it be the sights and smells of fishing, different practices at sea, and fisher terminology. As such, I was seeking to adopt the position of an active listener. In terms of my own positionality in this research, even if I sought to be positioned as an ‘insider’ through my actions and attire in the field, my obvious ‘outsider’ status as someone from outside the fishing community created a trust barrier for some fishers. However, most fishers had had little or no previous dealings with social scientists, and some were curious to see if their perspectives could be better heard, or their respective campaigns amplified, compared to their encounters with scientists.

7.3 O  bservations Aboard Different Fishing Boats In the next three sections, I will reflect on some of the findings and experiences that emerged from doing participant observation when researching the development of LEK within the English under 10 m fishing fleet, through the lens of different fishing occupations.

7.3.1 Trammel Net Fishing Trammel netting in Hastings began at midnight, once the community bulldozer was prepped to push the boat down the shingle beach. Formerly, an activity involving several more people, like many activities in fishing, mechanisation now means less hands involved, whilst making the process more efficient. However, in this case, less efficient, as while the skipper was parking the dozer up the bank, the mate neglected to start the engine fast enough, resulting in the 10  m netter slowly collapsing 90 degrees onto the foreshore. Another crew member, realising the emerging crisis sped to our aid with a different bulldozer, righting the vessel, though not before the skipper lost his cool and important bits of equipment fell in

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the sea. I helped to lift the netter back in position—it was important for me to help resolve the situation and gain their confidence. From that point onward, and as a somewhat revealing glimpse into skipper-crew relations, the crew member was limited to net-based work, away from the activities of the wheelhouse. I tried to be positive about the fishing activities ahead, to distract from the issue and keep the situation as light-­ hearted as possible. My position as an outsider in this situation meant that perhaps the skipper felt more embarrassed, but I got the sense they were pleased I could help in some minor way. Later, whilst observing the launching of the trammel net flags, marking their anchored points with floats, it soon became apparent that a mixture of historically successful fishing spots were being marked, whilst the skipper attempted to fish ‘off the lines’ on the chart. That is, the changes of bathymetry (depth) lines, which became quickly shallower or deeper. Participant observation was particularly important in revealing fishers’ spatial knowledge and how they understand these more productive areas as ecotones, which are those transition points between types of ecosystems that accumulate biodiversity. Seeking out such spots can increase the success of fishing, as a trammel net specialist, Edgar, from Hastings detailed: Yeah, we do look for where the contours are, where it gets deeper. Depth changes important because they’re sheltered. Where it drops off it’s quite good, where it goes deeper, like at the Fish’s Tail (Edgar).1

The locations of fishing grounds such as the Fish’s Tail (if not the names mentioned by Edgar above) were particularly well guarded, shared with crew only, especially details about how habitat diversity varied with differences in depth. Fishers traditionally have had to develop knowledge of the seabed through testing and recording with their gear. As Edgar discussed:

 Where quotes have been used, interviewees’ have been given pseudonyms.

1

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It’s trial and error. We just know it’s there; you see what was on it by what comes up, and you’d adjust to that, wouldn’t you? Rock bungs in the nets will tell you (Edgar).

After seeing myself these different rock types emerging in the nets, I understood how this traditional and low tech way for fishers to observe the substrate of the habitat enabled them to better target suitable grounds. By actively taking part in the practice of fishing, participant observation allowed me to gain a more embodied insight into what it meant to work as a fisher at sea. As the night progressed and the nets were hauled in, it was useful to build rapport by supporting the crew in untangling the hundreds of metres of long nets to extract the slippery flat fish for gutting. There was a certain nausea as sleep deprivation and the stench of gutted and still living fish floated around, as the moonlit boat rocked. One of the most trying challenges I encountered was the battle to disentangle the spiky spider crabs. While I personally did not experience sea sickness, I knew to keep my eyes on the horizon, and rocked with the rhythms of the boat. Fortunately, the fishers selected relatively calm times to go out. Across static gears, fishers experience and test a variety of gears in different seasons, and through this experimentation deepened their knowledge of the seabed, as introduced by this older static gear skipper from Looe: The fact that I’ve been long-lining, trawling, netting and scalloping gives me a wide vocabulary of what the seabed is like, especially in this area (Jago).

While taking part in fishing, it was possible to observe how the skipper communicated with a range of fishers regarding the challenges of the day. This was particularly useful as his engine broke down outside the harbour and he had to be towed in. Additionally, in the English Channel area, where there is potential for conflict with French trawlers, he communicated with them via mobile telephone regarding where their boxes— zones for their exclusive access—were, ensuring local reefs are maintained for Cornish fishers’ use.

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With technological change, some skippers also described depending less and less on trial and error in building their LEK, as static gear skipper Ronald from Eastbourne explained: It’s that thing of trial and error in the past; it’s easier to reach those more difficult places. We have the echo sounders that are connected to Olex and Mac C, that re-map the bottom along for you. Now definitely a lot more accurate in the way you would go fishing. You used to go fishing your nets out in lines, 8 fleets of nets, two lines of four. Now you see them all dotted about because you see all the different lines of ground on the mapping system. When soling we fish on depths so it’s just off the contour (Ronald).

The gill netting technique described in the quote above demonstrates how new technology is moving static gear netting away from trial and error. While in the past fishers relied on building up tacit bathymetric and benthic knowledge through the more traditional techniques described above, today new sensory technologies are allowing for codification of LEK through bathymetric imaging. Another trammel netting participant observation trip took place in Eastbourne. As we went out to recover the different set nets for skates and rays, the skipper pointed out the different flagged floats linking to his best spots, which we hauled in with a new winch. It was useful to see how patches of sandy ground surrounded by rocks was preferable for attracting these fish. This time, I was invited to take part in slicing off the wings of the large skates, which reminded me how close the role of fisher is to butcher, as well as ecologist, sailor, mechanic, trader and hunter. I was pleased to further discuss how the fisher targeted different habitats by looking at the fisher’s digital charts. He explained, as we later steamed back to the harbour, that he marked out certain habitats, such as shellfish banks, to protect them, as they support the feeding of skates and rays. This protection comes by identifying them for designation through local conservation programmes. In this case, building rapport through participant observation meant understanding not only how fishers record habitats using new technology, but also how they have been influenced by conservation narratives. In such cases the fishers’ LEK is being codified on their own charts, changing the form of knowledge. That is changing

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from tacit memorised spatial knowledge, to digitalised explicit, and potentially discursive knowledge.

7.3.2 Potting Observations Waking up for potting on the reefs off the peninsula of Selsey Bill in West Sussex required a particularly early start at 4:00 am. The fishers explained the best way to put the pots down, by detecting the reef systems through trial and error, probing and recovering debris such as rocks or sand on the seabed. This being a family vessel, knowledge of the best reef spots had been handed down to the son, who was now its part-time skipper. One of the key themes discussed during this fishing trip, and again an example of fishers adopting conservation narratives, was how they had helped a public conservation body to understand the bathymetry and map reef habitats for a Marine Conservation Zone programme. The potting skipper from Selsey explained his experience and justified his input: As usual, the data was crap. We towed a sledge around [sic] here. With a video camera and a still camera. It was nowhere near where they thought it was. We knew where the stuff was, showed it to them. Got my son involved. Showed them where the grounds were, Mixon hole and the other rocky sublittoral habitats (Boris).

Using a towed sled camera around the rocky reef habitats of Selsey Bill, working with government scientists, allowed the fishers to validate and confirm the importance of their fisher LEK. It also demonstrates the potential for bi-directional feedback between fishers and scientists in supporting conservation (Anbleyth-Evans and Lacy 2019). While helping to map this area did not lead to limitations on potting, it did allow for fishers to have greater influence on the running of the local conservation programme, and build trust between different interest groups. Building trust and rapport in this potting fishing trip was more difficult at times. After mentioning that I had been in touch with a different fishing group, with connections to Greenpeace, there was some suspicion, as the skipper explained during the return to shore:

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We still don’t know if you’re a snake in the grass, one of the Greenpeace lot (Vladamir).

In Portsmouth, it was possible to build rapport with an older skipper by getting him talking about how he started fishing via trapping lizards in his youth. This fisher fished alone from his small vessel for cuttlefish, lobsters, oysters and scallops. His approach was to refuse all modern technology, taking way points in his head to mark out the positions of his cuttlefish pots. With the competition of other fishers in the area, he left his pots completely invisible below the sea surface. Helping the fisher pull in pots with a hooked stick, led to explanation of the breeding behaviours of cuttlefish and their seasons.

7.3.3 Trawling Participant Observations In the early morning darkness, I awoke nervous yet excited about my first trawling fishing experience. With my new yellow fishing boots squeaking, I walked through the narrow lanes of the village to Cawsand beach, where we rowed out to sea. Being in the village where I grew up as child, and where many in my family remain, I sensed the crew welcomed that I was taking interest in the community’s fishing tradition. After a siesta below deck, we made it out to fishing grounds where I observed and participated, where possible, in setting up the trawl doors on the correct hooks with the right knots. While this preparation is complicated and takes time to get right, shooting the trawl is more rapid. I was able to appreciate how shooting the trawl can be based on trial and error, or where the fishers have experienced success in the past. Trawler fishers claim that by going over the same grounds again, the trawl flattens out the ground, removing weed and aerating it, making it an ideal habitat for the fish. A trawler skipper Jago explained his understanding of the impact in this comment: It’s like ploughing a field. Helps feed the fish, gets all the weeds out. They don’t complain about farmers doing it.

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Fisher Dougal, from Newhaven, particularly relies on his echo sounder for detecting certain habitats. Came across a bit of shelly, culchy [sic] ground but this was affected by the storms. We just keep going back year by year to the same places, towing as you go, have a look. You can tell by your metre as well, dark red for hard ground for scallops. Gullies for contours for the right ground (Dougal).

Here, the fisher explains the need to target hard ground for scallops, showing that a certain density of substrate is needed, identified as red on the echo sounder, because it forms a suitable habitat. The influence on LEK of what Braverman (1974) calls division of labour, or deskilling, was more apparent in the larger over 10 m fishing boats. Based on my interviews on these boats in the harbours, the crew explained that work is more repetitive and divided into concrete tasks. On the smaller under 10 m trawlers, I observed a mixture of piloting, launching the trawl, as well as releasing the net and gutting the fish. As division of labour remains significantly lower within the inshore under 10 m fleet, more inshore fleet fishers reproduce LEK by carrying out a variety of tasks and observing what happens. While inshore fishing crews can gain an appreciation of species, habitats, ecosystems and bathymetry over time, deep learning of these aspects comes from skippering or piloting the vessel (Anbleyth-Evans 2018). Job sharing within inshore crew members extends to taking turns at the wheel, with its access to the charts and notes. In contrast, being able to know where to navigate to, is not an immediately necessary element of being a crew member for fishers in the over 10 m vessels. As Mckenna et  al.’s (2008) research with Northern Ireland’s Lough Neagh fishermen acknowledges, the core to transmission of fisher knowledge is the tradition of fishing in family groups. This observation also came out clearly in my research. One fisher, Arthur, explained how his father introduced him to the plotter, the grounds where the wrecks are, and other geographical/navigational challenges in the wheelhouse. However, while LEK normally passes intergenerationally, another fisher suggested that it is up to the younger generation to help the older fishers install new sensory technologies. With fisher LEK now easy to record on

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computers, this means being able to return to fishing grounds more accurately. Digitisation also allows spatial knowledge to be transferred from computer to computer, as older towed gear skipper Richard from Southend explained: I share knowledge with the cousins. However, they target pelagic fish, I target ‘groundfish’. We complement each other, help out where we can. We would share knowledge of Olex maps with a memory stick (Richard).

Digital knowledge sharing of ‘the grounds’ among family members and friends is making territories at sea increasingly more comprehensible, and in turn more accessible. Such digitisation is important for the sharing of intergenerational knowledge. However, some fishers argued that new technologies have affected the extent of benthic fisher LEK. Cyril, an older towed gear skipper, summarised his concerns regarding his son’s reliance on codified records of where they had previously trawled successfully: Compared to when I started, when all you had was Decca and an echo sounder, you could almost teach a monkey to do it now. When Dungarth came out with me, I tend to wipe the plotter, because he’d been brought up on the technology. He said you’ve taken all the bloody lines off, you know video game generation it’s like stick to the lines, whereas I tend to do it all in my head (Cyril).

This reflection shows the contrasting ways of learning to find good fishing grounds between the generations. Derrick an older towed gear skipper from Great Yarmouth also pointed to the potential implications for knowledge sharing of using an Olex 3D chart plotter for ground discrimination: Knowledge sharing, that’s not to do with how clever you are at fishing, it’s about how much technology you can afford. Big prawn trawlers up in Scotland, uses ground discrimination, little soft bits, a bit like pheasant shooting. If you had a tool that goes beep beep beep, that’s exactly what fishing has become. But that’s technology, isn’t it? (Derrick).

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Dependence on technology is making fishing knowledge less tacit, as newer fishers become dependent on digital equipment. I observed through participant observation that fishers may be less able to think holistically about ecological systems when they only base their conclusions on computer-based, catch-focused technologies. However, new technologies can also be useful in enhancing understanding of conservation challenges. The use of the GoPro camera, for example, proved helpful to a fisher from Newhaven: Yes, it is good to see the trawl working on the seabed. You can see how it moves the rocks around, kicks up sediment, I suppose it’s worth looking at, where you have the chalk reefs (Lautaro).

Later on, showing a short piece of the footage with this fisher and crew was useful in reflecting with them on a whole ecological approach, considering not only catching fish, but the habitat disturbance around the gear, according to different habitat types. The crew were interested in how the impacts influenced the seabed benthos, such as chalk reefs which are a protected habitat in the area, and how trawling would influence the overall ecological health in other habitats. This example shows how new technologies can enable reflection and influence fisher LEK in different ways, based on relationships created through participant observation.

7.3.4 Dredging Participant Observation Clam dredging in Portsmouth provided other opportunities to use the GoPro camera. The energy of the dredger rapidly swinging down into the benthos to recover sediment and shellfish was a more destructive form of fishing. It also took a lot of energy to sort through the shellfish, the rocks and other debris with gloved hands. We set up the dredger in a similar way to the trawl. However, beyond helping out, what sparked rapport with this particular skipper was discussing how we could use video methods to look at what was going on below the boat. He was particularly concerned about fishing restrictions over areas where seagrass meadows had been mapped. We set up the gear so that the GoPro camera would go

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down with the dredger, filming the action. While interesting, this merely showed the energetic swirl of sediment dispersal as we worked, although at one point a glimpse of an unknown fish and the seagrass. Nevertheless, viewing the seabed from the dredge’s perspective helped stimulate a discussion with the crew around the impacts on the seagrass and the biodiversity it supported, and later with a larger group of fishers who came to view the footage in the vessel’s wheelhouse (Anbleyth-Evans and Lacy 2019).

7.4 Discussion This chapter has explored participant observation of different types of inshore, under 10 m fishing methods. It has discussed the way that fisher LEK and learning of the benthic ecosystem and surrounding substrates develops, and how the process can be revealed by participant observation. The experience of deploying participant observations also details, in different contexts of fishing, how trust and rapport can develop between researcher and fisher. Carrying out research in the field through participating in fishing allowed me access to the fisher’s domain. I was building rapport with fishers by helping on boats where possible, albeit under guidance. Nevertheless, there were occasions where I was unable to do anything useful as part of the group and felt a bit out of place. To remedy this, I looked for basic tasks. By taking part in processes such as gutting and filleting into the early hours, it was possible to provide useful, timely (and free) labour. By attempting to help with fixing the knots, the gutting, and a little piloting, it was possible to understand the importance of being involved in the many different tasks that come together to generate fisher LEK. Nevertheless, it is important to acknowledge that my male gender and Cornish identity also played a part in enabling my access to these experiences. First, I did not experience any situations when I felt my identity presented safety concerns, other than the safety risks associated with the practice of fishing. Second, I did not have to worry about my onboard presence being potentially seen as a source of bad luck, which has historically been the case for women, with many fishers notoriously

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superstitious (though this may be beginning to change); this could potentially present difficulties for women who plan to do participant observation onboard fishing vessels. Third, for some of the fishing trips, my Cornish origins and dialect meant a level of cultural association with the fishers I encountered. As shown in the dredging and trawling fishing trips, participant observation can also potentially be useful for moving forward ideas on fishing sustainability, and in building trust and addressing fishing impacts on habitats. The work in attaching video cameras to specific gears showed how participant observation can lead to new reflections on fishing practices. By seeing beneath the sea surface, the actual process of fishing, and its potential impacts on the benthos, fishers are able to more clearly see, or at least imagine, impacts. Showing a short video with other fishers in Portsmouth, led to the bi-directional feedback between researchers and fishers, discussing which areas were more likely to be effected, and how this relates to protected area governance (Anbleyth-Evans and Lacy 2019).

7.5 Conclusion This chapter has explored experiences in undertaking onboard participant observation of fishing, in order to elicit fisher LEK. By taking part in fishing practices, it was possible to develop greater levels of trust with fishers. Active participation resulted in further understanding of practices, as well as access to hidden knowledge and expertise of habitats, species and fishing grounds (Anbleyth-Evans 2018). By doing participant observation of fishing, my research demonstrates it is possible to gain invaluable experience in understanding the industry and fisher LEK. I have also shown how participant observation allows for experimentation with new technologies to advance conservation learning. This research demonstrates that participant observation can enhance the bi-directional learning feedback between fishers and researchers, enhancing collective understanding.

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8 Ecosystems, Communities and Canoes: Using Photovoice to Understand Relationships Among Coastal Environments and Social Wellbeing Ana Carolina Esteves Dias and Derek Armitage

8.1 Introduction Marine protected areas (MPAs) are a key instrument in coastal conservation. Globally, signatory countries of the Aichi targets for biodiversity conservation, under the Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD 2010), committed to set aside 10% of their coastal and marine space by 2020 for conservation purposes. MPAs are also regarded as a potential foundation for socioeconomic development, through tourism, sustainable use of natural resources, preservation of cultural diversity, and recreational and educational opportunities (Bunce et al. 2000; Johnson et al. 2019). Correspondingly, the Aichi targets also seek to improve the governance of MPAs by encouraging more participatory approaches to benefit society, resource users (such as fishing communities), tourists who appreciate being in nature and other economic actors (CBD 2010).

A. C. E. Dias (*) • D. Armitage University of Waterloo, Waterloo, ON, Canada e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 M. Gustavsson et al. (eds.), Researching People and the Sea, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-59601-9_8

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However, despite the strong links between social and ecological dimensions of MPAs, governance approaches do not always address them both effectively, or in an integrated way (Johnson et al. 2019). In particular, less tangible (or non-material) concerns like social relationships, traditional practices and values, and subjective dimensions of community wellbeing are not easily incorporated into conservation planning and management processes (Blythe et  al. 2020; Rasheed 2020). The Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services (IPBES) (Rice et al. 2018) notes, moreover, that additional information is needed on how ecosystem services may impact human wellbeing if governance outcomes are to be improved. In particular, the IPBES report argues that non-material and cultural ecosystem services and their impacts (positive or negative) are inadequately addressed within conservation management plans, with the exception of recreational and aesthetic values usually associated with the tourism industry (Milcu et al. 2013; Martín-López et al. 2012). Among the main reasons for the mismatch between social and ecological considerations (Rice et al. 2018) is the difficulty in integrating into governance and decision making the subjective and intangible values people have about the environments in which they live (Busch et  al. 2011). A need also exists to better understand the interplay among ecosystem service bundles (e.g., how provisioning and regulating services of ecosystems are connected) and how people relate to and interact with a range of ecosystem processes and outcomes in ways that influence their subjective, relational and material wellbeing (Chan et  al. 2012). Yet, Blythe et al. (2020) found that most studies consider coastal ecosystem services and wellbeing separately, and that there are few that combine the theoretical development of both bodies of scholarship (see also McGregor 2008; Díaz et al. 2015; Bryce et al. 2016; Pascual et al. 2017). The purpose of this chapter is to evaluate Photovoice as a novel tool to identify how coastal ecosystems contribute to the social wellbeing of communities adjacent to an MPA in Ubatuba, Southeastern Brazil. The Photovoice method was conducted in three coastal communities and set in the context of an effort to understand the interplay among wellbeing and ecosystem service bundles (WEBS) (Blythe et al. 2020; Chan et al. 2019). Here, WEBS refer to groupings of ecosystem services (such as

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regulating, provisioning and cultural goods and services provided by ecosystems) associated with at least one aspect of social wellbeing of a given community (see also Daw et al. 2011). Social wellbeing includes material (e.g., standards of living), relational (e.g., social relations) and subjective (i.e., individual perceptions and cultural beliefs) dimensions (White 2010). Identifying the interconnections among ecosystem services and social wellbeing bundles provides opportunities to better inform MPA governance and to address relevant issues for coastal communities. Photovoice is well suited to depict these bundles both in the photographs and in the narratives that explain their elements and representativeness. In particular, Photovoice may allow for a richer understanding of the complex relationships among key dimensions of wellbeing and ecosystem change (White 2010; Armitage et  al. 2012), as well as potentially a means to integrate relational values of coastal environments into MPA management and zoning (Daw et al. 2011; Reyes et al. 2013; Brueckner-Irwin et al. 2019; Chan et al. 2019). This is especially the case where cultural objects that reflect ecosystem-wellbeing linkages are identified. In the following section, we introduce the Photovoice method and the case study context. We then illustrate how outcomes of the Photovoice process help to examine the relationships among coastal ecosystems and social wellbeing in the communities adjacent to a marine protected area, and highlight in particular how imagery associated with the ‘canoe’ as an iconic cultural object draws attention to these relationships. In turn, we critically reflect on the benefits and limitations of Photovoice as a participatory method.

8.2 Introducing the Photovoice Method 8.2.1 Study Site Our research was carried out in three coastal communities (Almada, Puruba and Picinguaba, with approximately 65, 35 and 240 local families, respectively) in Ubatuba, in the state of São Paulo, Brazil. The region is known for the scenic beauty of its coastal mountains, with preserved

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fragments of the Atlantic Forest—recognised as one of the world’s hot-­ spots for biodiversity conservation (Myers 1988). The region also has a rich history and cultural diversity, including the indigenous Caiçara and other traditional peoples (Diegues 2000). Inhabitants from the three communities are mainly Caiçara people, which refers to a cultural identity of descendants from European and African immigrants and indigenous people from Brazil (Diegues 2000). Caiçara people reflect strong cultural values of sharing and collective action, and their livelihoods include small-scale fishing, agriculture and, in the past, hunting. Due to local development and environmental regulations, these livelihoods are under pressure. The Caiçara are a historically marginalised group, and they depend on the extraction of natural resources and tourism more recently as the basis of their livelihoods (Bavinck et al. 2017). Key changes at the regional scale affecting these communities include poorly regulated urbanisation processes resulting in loss of habitat and biodiversity declines, the construction of highways and ports which has increased the flow of people into the area, and offshore oil and natural gas exploitation. A further challenge concerns the mismatch between national-level regulations and local conditions in the Ubatuba coast, which is reflected in a lack of public participation in the implementation of protected areas in the region (Dias and Seixas 2019).

8.2.2 Research Design and Methods Photovoice is a qualitative method used here to provide in-depth and nuanced insights into how ecosystem services contribute to dimensions of social wellbeing (see also Berbés-Blázquez 2012; Bennett and Dearden 2013). Subjective and intangible insights about WEBS can be revealed through images and their explanations, and in a manner that reflects the reality of those involved in the process (Palibroda et al. 2009). Specifically, Photovoice engages participants in the process of taking and selecting photographs and in the storytelling associated with those photographs. Photovoice thus includes participants actively in documenting and understanding their perspectives, and engages them in a critical reflection using pictures.

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Photovoice is implicitly a participatory research approach in which researchers fulfil the role of ‘participant-as-observer’ (see Gold 1958). As such, we conducted Photovoice with a collaborative focus, prioritising the building of trust between the researchers and participants, and working with the communities to introduce the research and confirm that the process was something they wished to pursue. We started by engaging local leaders and consulting with them about their interest in the study, and subsequently contacted potential participants. We also discussed how outcomes of the Photovoice initiative could be used for education and awareness raising in the community or their input to negotiations concerning the future of protected areas. As its name suggests, Photovoice aims to tell a story through photographs (Wang and Burris 1997). The use of images and photographs to tackle research questions has been a successful method in public health research (e.g., Wang 1999) and education (e.g., Freire 1970). It is a flexible method and can be adapted to different stakeholder groups to tackle a plethora of issues (Wang and Burris 1997). Because it is a socially oriented method and aims to foster communication between groups, Photovoice is particularly useful in participatory research with marginalised communities (e.g., Graziano 2004; Castleden and Garvin 2008; Fortnam et al. 2019). In other words, we used Photovoice to assess the perspectives of coastal community members, in a developing country setting, to inform MPA governance and build an arena for dialogue with environmental managers. The Photovoice procedure involves six steps (see Palibroda et al. 2009) and has been adapted for community-based participatory research (see Castleden and Garvin 2008) (see Fig. 8.1). First, we selected five participants of each community (Almada, Puruba and Picinguaba) to submit pictures to the Photovoice initiative. Our criteria to select participants

Participant recruitment

Photo assignment

Fig. 8.1  Steps of Photovoice

Narrative of photos

Photo exhibition

Coding

Drawing inferences

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were community members that (i) pursue daily life activities closely related to the coastal environments; (ii) were interested in participating in the research project; and (iii) are engaged with decision making and governance processes of the MPA. Despite the small sample (noting that the population of these locations is itself small), our criteria (especially ‘(i)’ and ‘(iii)’) ensured that we had an overview of local values and connection to the coastal environments. The entire process was conducted in Portuguese which is the first language of the study participants and of the researcher conducting field activities. Participants were asked to take or select three pictures that represent their daily life and to identify what makes them ‘feel good’ about living in the community surrounded by different types of coastal ecosystems. Most participants used the camera of their cellphones and forwarded digital pictures. However, participants without a cellphone received a disposable camera for the study. Participants could also choose pictures from photos they had already taken and that were meaningful to them. Limiting the number of submitted photographs to three encouraged participants to prioritise the most relevant aspects of coastal environments that contribute to their wellbeing, and especially those that reflected the bundled nature of wellbeing and ecosystems. Photographs were taken between November 2018 and April 2019. After compiling the photos, semi-structured interviews were undertaken with participants and with reference to the pictures. This stage was important because many photographs represent subjective feelings and emotions that cannot be easily expressed in the visual image alone, and therefore, require interpretation (Beckley et al. 2007). We scheduled an interview individually with each participant to unpack the meaning of the images in relation to the links between ecosystem services and their wellbeing. During the interview, we asked specific questions about each photograph, allowing participants to discuss key elements of the pictures as they related to WEBS. The contribution of nature and ecosystems to people’s wellbeing may include subconscious feelings and complex connections (Beckley et  al. 2007). The process of taking or choosing a photograph was part of participants’ reflection before the follow-up interview. Thus, during the interview stage, participants were already engaged with the reflective

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process. The fact that they could look at the photographs during the interview helped them to reflect on key factors of how their coasts had an influence on their lives. Similar benefits of combining photography and narrative methods are observed by Beckley et al. (2007) when investigating sense of place in Canadian rural communities. Participants were encouraged to feel free of any restrictions, but we were not specific about what those potential restrictions may be. However, we did ask if there were any photographs participants wanted to take but which they were not able to, and the reasons for that. This question helped us to identify some of the limitations of Photovoice which we discuss later. The interviews were recorded with the appropriate consent of each interviewee. Next, we organised in each community a photo exhibition for engagement purposes, and to make the photographs available to the community. All community members were invited to visit the exhibition and appreciate the photos. At Puruba, participants were engaged in a photo contest, in which the winning photo was selected by community members.

8.2.3 Data Analysis Methods To identify key insights from the Photovoice process, we employed a content analysis process (Weber 1990) using NVivo software (version 12, 2018) for both photographs and narratives (i.e., interview data). We first prepared the data collected by transcribing the interviews. Based on participants’ responses, we grouped photographs according to their key message; however, we did not discuss photographs and narratives in isolation, as this would result in a loss of information (Beckley et al. 2007). Thus, we used the participant’s narrative to identify the main messages about WEBS and their implications in relation to each photograph. We defined subcategories of analysis (e.g., fisheries, tourism) to classify narratives that related ecosystem services to specific dimensions of wellbeing (material, relational, subjective). To avoid losing the rich narratives and to guard against inserting biases in the coding process (see Williams and Patterson

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2007), we used direct quotations from participants, giving them a voice to express their own emotions and ideas. The integrated nature of data from Photovoice allowed us to better address the concept of WEBS.  For instance, photographs that address contributions of canoes to social wellbeing (see below) may also be considered as a contribution of fisheries, marine or freshwater environments—a canoe can be used both in the sea or in the river, and as a means of transportation or primarily for fishing. Thus, one photograph may be related to two or more ecosystem services and dimensions of wellbeing. Finally, we asked participants for clarifications when the connections among narratives and photographs were ambiguous, and for explanations of vague assertions. For instance, a participant mentioned that a local river at Putuba Beach fosters the emergence of ‘good energy’. When asked for clarification, the individual explained: Good energy is when you feel the sense of approaching God, an inner peace when you look at this river. It is a person-to-person thing, an individual feeling of peace, of freedom. I have a connection to this place. It is such a strong thing, I feel the power of this energy so much that this place represents to me that I can’t go anywhere else.

8.3 C  anoes as an Ecosystem Service and Its Relationship to Social Wellbeing The Photovoice method generated a wealth of data concerning the multi-­ faceted relationships between coastal ecosystems and social wellbeing. We compiled 43 photographs from 15 interviewees in total, 5 from each community adjacent to the marine protected area. Most photographs depicted a range of land- and seascapes. The variety of natural and human-related elements captured in the photographs highlights the complexity of the case study context, represented by the interface between forest and marine ecosystems. In this regard, all the photographs contributed by participants explored contributions of coastal ecosystems to some combination of their subjective, relational and material wellbeing.

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In this next part of this chapter, we turn to an illustrative snapshot from the analysis to show how imagery associated with the ‘canoe’ was significant in drawing attention to relationships among coastal ecosystems and social wellbeing. Based on the content analysis of the photographs and narratives, the canoe repeatedly emerged as a manifestation of an ‘ecosystem service’ that provided multiple contributions to social wellbeing. The canoe represents a major service co-produced by humans, as the canoes are carved by people using wooden resources, and is used as a transportation and leisure activity in the sea or freshwater environments. For many participants, the canoe was a tangible realisation of a wellbeing and ecosystem service bundle at the root of key aspects of their livelihood and culture (Fig. 8.2). As one participant explained, it ‘represents fishing, it is an object, leisure, fishing equipment, it represents competition, the right to come and go of Caiçara people. It is the root of Caiçaras’ (Young man, Fig. 8.2e). The canoe reflected the connectedness of the coastal zone, as the wood and raw materials to build it come from the forest, and it also embodied the river and sea environments in which it is used for fishing and leisure. The canoe is also a reminder for community members of the local knowledge required when carving the wood, and the sharing aspect of Caiçara culture given the collective work required to take a canoe in and out of the sea: The canoe race is the fruit of our work [the canoe]. You enjoy the canoe ride in the transport you use to work, you see people together, sharing moments with friends. (Adult man Fig. 8.2b)

As expressed by Photovoice participants, a canoe is a symbol of networks of support and obligation, as well as cultural identity, in the three communities and the entire region. The use of canoes can foster moments of friendship, love and care (e.g., Figs.  8.2h, i). Moreover, canoe races represent an arena to establish local support for different issues—including preserving local culture, reinforcing social relations within the community and with partners, and discussing political and resource management issues (e.g., Figs.  8.2a, d, g). A participants’ narrative (Fig.  8.2a) further illustrates the cultural and relational benefits of canoe races:

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b

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d

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Fig. 8.2  Canoe as an ecosystem service and symbol of social wellbeing. (a) Three locals from Almada competing as a group in a canoe race (photograph by Odaury Carneiro, submitted by a research participant from Almada). (b) Collaboration between three fishers taking the canoe out of the water at Almada (photograph by Odaury Carneiro, submitted by a research participant from Almada). (c) Three fishers returning from the sea with their canoe at Almada (photograph by Odaury Carneiro, submitted by a research participant from Almada). (d) Canoe race at Almada (photograph by an adult woman from Almada). (e) Canoe painting process at Picinguaba (photograph by a young man from Picinguaba). (f) Canoe representing Puruba bass fishing close to a river mouth (photograph by an adult man form Puruba). (g) Panoramic picture from a member of Almada of paired canoes for canoe race (Sete Fontes Beach) (photograph by Odaury Carneiro, submitted by a research participant from Almada). (h) Teenagers and children (photograph by an adult woman from Almada). (i) Participating in a canoe race at Almada (photograph by an adult woman from Puruba)

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This picture shows the canoe race, a traditional event that represents union, party, friends, joy, a cool thing. It rejoins Caiçaras from the North to the South of the city. The canoe represents [the] way you work and move on the water. We keep this old tradition that includes dance, the union of the traditional communities that has stood out each year. Being with friends, talking, sharing. It is the event that brings together people from your culture [so] that you can experience your culture. We need it. It is also appreciated by the tourists.

The canoe is therefore a manifestation of a bundle of ecosystem service and wellbeing dimensions (i.e., WEBS). Its representation of social identity in traditional cultures has also been noted elsewhere. Gogodala canoe festivals in Papua New Guinea, for instance, represent customary events related to ancestral power in clan-based relations (Dundon 2012). Here, Gogodala people are reviving their canoe race events in ways that articulate networks of relationships, locally and with outsiders. The canoe festival is especially relevant to foster culturally based tourism and ecotourism (Dundon 2012). Indeed, throughout the participants’ narratives in Ubatuba, similar efforts to revive canoe races in the region were observed as a means of cultural appreciation and social empowerment, and are reflected in a social movement led by the local Forum in Defense of Traditional Communities. The canoe reflects all three dimensions of wellbeing and coastal environments from the land to the sea. Building a canoe involves local knowledge about wood quality, as well as the interaction of the wood with the sea. Using a canoe involves transmission of traditions in fishing, and it is a means of local transportation, which provides material benefits, including income and food for the communities. And as noted above, it is also related to social relations, as taking the canoe in and out of the sea requires help from others. Most of us have the knowledge on how to build a canoe from reusing a dead tree and transforming it into a canoe. (Young man, Fig. 8.2e) When I look at this picture, I feel joy of sharing with friends, participating in this canoe competition. (Adult man, Fig. 8.2a)

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This picture shows my son and two other locals canoeing, representing family, friends, local tradition. (Adult woman, Fig. 8.2i)

The canoe is also used for leisure, for example, in the canoe races, and this too constitutes an arena for social relationships, reinforcing friendships, the transmission of traditions (e.g., through music, food preparation) and discussion. During the canoe races, people will often gather to discuss ways to negotiate community needs in the face of environmental regulations, such as MPA zoning and management plans. Opportunities for MPAs to foster environmentally conscious tourism in the region through the canoe races, in partnership with communities, have emerged as a possibility. If an MPA is to have legitimacy, it could do so by aligning zoning, enforcement and monitoring in relation to local values and issues that matter to local people. With canoes reflecting key values in the community, they are a valuable focus for considering the ecosystems to which they are connected (land and sea), the services they provide (e.g., provisioning services through fishing), and the subjective and relational wellbeing they support. Canoes are a physical cultural object, and their presence in the coastal communities engaged in this research may seem ‘natural’. However, Photovoice was particularly useful here because it highlighted the strong social dimensions of canoes, including collaborative work (Fig. 8.2a), and the socialising and relational features of canoe races (Figs. 8.2d, g), as well as the connections between marine and land ecosystems embodied in the canoe itself (Figs. 8.2b, c, e, f ). The insight from the imagery was enhanced during the interviews in which participants could use their own actions, expressions and environment to show how canoes contribute to their wellbeing. When reflecting on the photographs, participants are able to recall situations, facts and emotions, and express that verbally and through the images. Figure 8.2a, for instance, shows three men from Almada putting collaborative effort into paddling during a canoe race activity, and this requires coordinated action, shared knowledge on paddling techniques, on local marine currents, and wind conditions. Such details were easier to share through the photographs and subsequent explanation. Figure 8.2e illustrates how the canoe also represents connections of community members and terrestrial ecosystems. For example, the wood is the primary resource that carved will become a canoe. Moreover, the canoe is stored on the land, when not in use at sea.

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8.4 Strengths and Limitations of Photovoice Use of the Photovoice process in the three communities served as an effective method to generate unique insights on the relationships among coastal ecosystems and the wellbeing of communities. As noted above, the canoe emerged as a manifestation of a ‘bundle’ of ecosystem services and wellbeing (subjective, relational and material) and, therefore, served as a unique entry point for conservation authorities and communities to engage on issues of MPA governance. However, application of Photovoice in this context also revealed some important strengths and limitations with the method. Photovoice allowed us to access and use different communication channels with research participants (Ronzi et  al. 2016)—verbal and visual—and to gain better insights on their connection to the coasts as a result. For instance, throughout the process, participants engaged in the photography activity, in a critical reflection on what to photograph and why, and in documenting and explaining their thinking. The combination of these activities—from deciding on what to photograph, taking photographs and talking about them—makes it easier for participants to express feelings and emotions, which are intrinsically related to dimensions of wellbeing. These insights can be difficult to surface with more conventional research methods (e.g., an interview). In Figs. 8.2b, c, for instance, the participant showed us the collaborative aspect of taking the canoe out of the sea. As it is heavy, they use two branches to roll the canoe in the sand; they talk and coordinate the action while they enjoy the view of the mountains in the sunset. All these elements are present in the photo, and it is possible that some of this information would be ‘lost’ in a method that only engages verbally. In the coastal setting of the case study sites, Photovoice was especially helpful to show the connections between terrestrial and marine ecosystems. Many of the photographs explicitly included the land-sea interface. Moreover, many of the subsequent narratives highlighted how terrestrial environments and communities living in the coast have to be integrated into MPA planning.

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Furthermore, Photovoice enabled participants to be involved in a research process in a more collaborative and meaningful way. At Puruba, for example, participants helped to organise a photo contest to highlight their contributions, prepared snacks and invited a local historian to exhibit a collection of indigenous objects found in the community. An impressive outcome of the photo contest was that the winning photograph was not the most beautiful one (in participants’ eyes). Rather, the winning photograph was one representing seine fishing and a canoe, and a reminder of a local fisher (since passed away) they admired. Despite the advantages of using Photovoice, there were some limitations. For example, photographs are time and space limited (Wang and Burris 1994). That is, they show parts of the whole and capture a specific moment, and as a result, they do not easily account for ecosystem change (Berbés-Blázquez 2012). Yet, the narrative interviews allowed for explanations on these limitations. In addition, comparing old and recent pictures was an opportunity to reveal and document changes. Some participants described how many images represented their wellbeing and connection to the coastal area, but that it was difficult to represent all these in one single picture. The time available to engage in the Photovoice process was also limited, making it difficult to capture relevant images in, for example, different seasons. To overcome these constraints, we asked participants if there were any photographs that they wished to show but could not take. We asked why, and what that photograph would represent. For example, a female participant from Puruba stated: At the rocky shore, there is a very beautiful spot where the waves crashing on the rocks, but access is difficult, and I was not able to go there yet to take this picture. When I see the rocky shore, I feel peace, tranquility. Paddling there is great, you forget life problems, you do not realize time is passing. Also, in the forest, there are beautiful plants, bromeliads, orchids. But I’m afraid to go into the woods alone and take a picture of the plants by myself.

The challenges associated with obtaining some pictures is especially true in the case of women, as they may typically go fishing, paddling and exploring areas that are difficult to access with their husbands or partners

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given safety concerns. Those with accessibility concerns (e.g., the elderly) may also be constrained in taking certain photographs. Cameras are also limited in terms of their capabilities to truly capture the participants’ perspectives of WEBS (Berbés-Blázquez 2012). For example, some relevant environmental phenomena or events may happen or appear at moments when they cannot be captured in a photo. In this case, combining a photograph with a narrative is important as it helps to better communicate the meaning of the photograph and the elements of the photograph not actually ‘seen’. For instance, one participant from Puruba noted: I would like to take a photo of the moon coming out of the water, but the cellphone camera does not capture it. Despite that, the fact that I am alive to see it happening represents everything at that moment.

During the interview, this participant highlights that despite not being able to capture a particular photograph (the moon emerging from the water), being able to appreciate the natural ebb and flow of landscapes and seascapes is a key aspect of his daily life. Some participants also expected to be guided or instructed on what to photograph. Other researchers using Photovoice have confronted this same limitation (e.g., Beckley et  al. 2007; Ronzi et  al. 2016). Beckley et al. (2007), for instance, argues that it is difficult not to lead participants when providing examples. In our study, we avoided giving specific examples on what to photograph, and instructions about the photo assignment avoided details or examples. For instance, one participant asked what type of picture was required. In response, we asked him to describe what was important to him, and he mentioned numerous things, such as his family, his way of life, paddling in a canoe and so forth. He was then encouraged to take photographs that represented these or other related examples. This illustrates how we balanced our intention not to lead participants while providing sufficient direction to alleviate frustrations, uncertainties and potential attrition within the project. Finally, Photovoice is time consuming and requires much communication. Participants might forget to take pictures; they might want to wait for a sunny day to capture a clearer image, or to go to a specific place that

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requires travel and time. However, repeated communication with community members is a way to strengthen relations between researchers and communities. In this research, for instance, we used the time between the photo assignment and the narrative interviews to talk to participants, remind them about the photos and ask what they would like to do with their photos. It was during these times that the community photo contest as an engagement tool was planned in Puruba. Despite some limitations, Photovoice proved to be an effective method to explain the complexity of terrestrial and marine ecosystems and their diverse contributions to communities. The images reported by participants show the rich cultural and relational aspects of coastal areas adjacent to or within the marine protected areas in the case study sites, and can inform context-specific conservation measures. Once documented and shared, the messages that these photographs express are not easily ignored (see Touso 2017) because they communicate relevant social-­ ecological connections and implications for management. Photovoice, thus, demonstrates its potential for making the interests and values of communities more visible.

8.5 Conclusions This chapter has outlined an approach and method to understand how coastal ecosystems and ecosystem services are experienced by coastal communities. We did so by exploring the relationships among ecosystem services and social wellbeing, as expressed through the photographs and narratives of individual community members. Specifically, Photovoice served as a useful method to uncover participants’ perspectives about key human-nature interactions. The method was also useful in highlighting the relevance of social relations to coastal communities and the idea of coastal environments as an arena for cultural reproduction, knowledge exchange and political engagement. The crucial role of the canoe as ‘service’ was emphasised in this regard, as it drew attention to a range of identity, spiritual, relational and material benefits. The canoe is thus an example of the wellbeing and ecosystem service bundles (WEBS) that must be understood if better governance outcomes are to be achieved in

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these conservation settings. In this regard, the outcomes of this research further highlight the importance of subjective and relational dimensions of wellbeing that fundamentally link coastal communities and their environments. Still, there are some limitations to the approach as noted above. Technological constraints (e.g., access to cameras or limitations in the quality of pictures), challenges in accurately reflecting natural cycles in a photograph and timing restrictions (e.g., seasonality, long-term environmental change) need to be carefully considered. However, as we show here, engaging community members in a collaborative manner opens opportunities to involve local communities in a creative research process. As such, and where aligned with ongoing management challenges, Photovoice can support participatory engagement among researchers and practitioners and help to better craft MPA governance strategies aligned with the interests of coastal communities.

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9 Using Photographs in Coastal Research and Engagement: Reflections on Two Case Studies Merryn Thomas, Erin Roberts, Nick Pidgeon, and Karen Henwood

9.1 Introduction Photography has long been used in an attempt to bridge the gap between art and science, with scientists and publics alike for many decades seeing science ‘through the prism of photography’ (Wilder 2009, 166). From Hokusai’s iconic woodblock print Wave (1830) to illustrations of how M. Thomas (*) School of Psychology, Cardiff University, Cardiff, UK School of Biosciences, Swansea University, Swansea, UK e-mail: [email protected] E. Roberts • K. Henwood School of Social Sciences, Cardiff University, Cardiff, UK e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] N. Pidgeon Understanding Risk Research Group, School of Psychology, Cardiff University, Cardiff, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 M. Gustavsson et al. (eds.), Researching People and the Sea, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-59601-9_9

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London might look under six metres of sea-level rise (Graves and Madoc-­ Jones 2019), images have communicated coastal issues for centuries. In more applied work, participatory coastal management practices increasingly use landscape visualisation techniques, for example, to communicate how new policies or management interventions may shape future coastlines (Jude 2008). There has also been growing interest in the use of photographs in coastal research, co-producing knowledge with a variety of participants. In this realm, experimental and quantitative studies have employed picture-rating tasks to examine the psychological impacts of marine litter (Wyles et al. 2016) and marine biological diversity (Fairchild et  al. 2018), while qualitative research has employed picture sorting methods to elicit individual responses to sea-level change (Thomas et al. 2015). In this chapter, we present two case studies that used images in different ways to meet research and engagement objectives. We draw upon our experiences of the two projects to reflect on how images contributed to understanding and engagement with coastal issues. After describing our methods, we reflect upon how varying levels of participation in the two projects produced valuable insights. Finally, we discuss considerations when designing engagements using photographs, particularly regarding how the coast is represented in the imagery that we choose.

9.2 T  wo Case Studies for Coastal Research and Engagement 9.2.1 C  oastWEB: Using Photographs to Explore Values for Coastal Wellbeing The first of our case studies used images to explore human wellbeing associated with saltmarshes as part of the interdisciplinary CoastWEB project. All four authors were involved in developing a bespoke, qualitative multi-method approach to elicit a broad range of values—including intangible ones—and a rich understanding of the reasonings, influences and interactions between different services, activities and benefits offered

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by these vulnerable habitats (Ordóñez et al. 2017; Chan et al. 2012). We implemented our approach at two case sites: the Taf Estuary in Carmarthenshire, South Wales; and the Mawddach Estuary in Gwynedd, North Wales. Participants (N  =  26) were diverse members of the public living or working in the case sites, and a small sample who were visitors to the area. They ranged in age from their 20s to 70s, and consisted of 13 males and 13 females. Participants included farmers, environmental volunteers, members of walking groups, a student, a boatman, outdoor education practitioners, councillors and a dog walker. This approach to recruitment allowed us to explore a diversity of perspectives, drawing on different kinds of experience and identities, from which emerge varying outlooks (Conti et al. 2011; Strauss and Corbin 1990). All names were changed to pseudonyms, following protocols approved by the School of Social Sciences Research Ethics Committee at Cardiff University, apart from one participant who requested we use his real name. Our five-part methodology used different, but complementary, qualitative modes to explore various values (Satterfield 2001; Gould et  al. 2015; Ordóñez et al. 2017). For the first task, participants were provided with the following brief: ‘if you use the coast/estuary in any way (e.g. visiting seaside attractions, walking, boating, foraging) we would like you to take photographs of anything that you feel is significant to you when doing so. These can include places that you like or don’t like, things you see on route, the route itself, and so on. We’re interested in what you personally find significant—not what you think others (e.g. tourists) would value’. This task was to be carried out before participants took part in mobile and sit-down interviews, usually held a few weeks later. For the mobile interview, participants were invited to lead a walk (or in some cases a boat/canoe/bike ride) around the case study site via a route that was meaningful to them, in order to explore values relating to the place. Afterwards, participants were invited to join the researcher for a sit-down interview, where they took part in three further tasks: a photo elicitation, a mapping task and a word association task. During the photo elicitation, participants were presented with the photographs they had taken prior to the interview and asked to talk us through them using a

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few basic prompts such as ‘why did you take this photo?’ and, ‘how does it make you feel?’ We focus on the photo elicitation in this chapter. Photo elicitation is a method by which photographs are used to study ‘what people (come to) see in, and say about, pictures’ (Henwood et al. 2011, 331), and there are many advantages to using it. Firstly, photographs trigger memories and dialogue, and act as a narrative of experiences (Codesal et al. 2018; Hurworth 2003). The visual can therefore be a powerful ‘vehicle for unlocking new understandings for researchers’ (Mannay 2016, 6 emphasis added) as well as providing nuance and challenging participants’ and researchers’ preconceptions (Codesal et  al. 2018; Hurworth 2003; Bell et al. 2015). Photographs provide a different way to express oneself (Codesal et al. 2018), helping to make the ‘intangible visible’ (Henwood et al. 2018). Photo elicitations can use researcher- or participant-generated photographs. Participant-generated images have the benefit of being highly relevant and personal, and the practice of taking a picture requires the participant to select what is important or relevant to include (Mannay 2016)—the discussion of which can lead to valuable empirical insights. In this way, the photo is not just data in itself—we can also focus our attention on the relationship between the creator/observer and the photograph (Codesal et al. 2018, citing Ardevol 2001). While there is a risk that researcher-initiated images may be less relevant for the participant (Mannay 2016), they can be useful prompts (Thomas et al. 2015) and can offer benefits by controlling recognisability and copyright (Mannay 2016). In our study, we provided a ‘photo stack’ of researcher-generated images, and participants who had not provided their own pictures were asked to comment on any that they wanted to. Researchers also used photo stacks as additional prompts—to follow up on themes or raise new ones—with participants who had and had not provided their own images. One photo stack was assembled for each of the two case sites. Each stack contained 40 images including: close-ups of plants, marsh pools, litter, signage; scenic vistas in each location including views from low and high perspectives; coastal defences; generic landscapes such as cliffs, beaches and mountains. The photographs were taken by us to avoid any copyright issues, but this is not a prerequisite for such studies, and we have also used open access images to generate discussion in a previous

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project (Thomas et  al. 2015). While the lead author has photography experience, this is also not essential for such studies, and the decisions regarding the need for external expertise in photography will depend upon the aims of the photo elicitation. Factors to consider might include: the privacy of people/property in the image; if there is a need for very high levels of detail, such as for an exhibition; the mood associated with colours and times of day/year; how content is depicted in the frame (for example is it central, does it need to be close-up or situated in the landscape?). In this study, images were carefully calibrated to include a broad range of content and perspectives, and we were fortunate to have experienced fine and inclement weather in both case sites so could also include a variety of moods. We anticipated that photo elicitations would challenge or complement insights from our other methods (mobile interview, map task and words task) and offer a different viewpoint to explore salient features of the local environment as it contributes to an individual’s sense of place, identity and wellbeing. We were especially interested in the cultural ecosystems services (CES) offered by saltmarshes—‘nonmaterial benefits’ such as spiritual enrichment, cognitive development and recreation (Millennium Ecosystem Assessment 2005) that contribute to human wellbeing in a number of ways, including physical and mental health and good social relations. CES include aspects of wellbeing that may be unique to a given setting, including ‘intangibles’ that can be particularly difficult to articulate, classify, measure and trade-off against each other (e.g. Satterfield et al. 2013). In this chapter, we focus particularly on relationships between people and the coast, and what these mean for wellbeing (Chan et  al. 2016; Poe et al. 2016).

9.2.2 S  eaChange: Using Photographs to Engage Communities with Sea-Level Change The second of our case studies is the SeaChange exhibition, designed by the lead author to engage communities with sea-level change on the Severn Estuary. During the course of PhD research, which used a mental model approach to explore public and expert perceptions of sea-level

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change (Thomas et al. 2015), many participants felt uninformed about the risks and wanted to learn more. The study also highlighted a number of potential barriers to engaging with sea-level change: individuals expressed low concern about it in relation to other matters; they felt detached from the issue, seeing it as something that will happen in future to other people, and many perceived that neither the causes of nor responses to sea-level change were their responsibility (Thomas et  al. 2015). The exhibition was therefore designed to increase engagement with this critical topic. An exhibition format was chosen on the premise that visualisation is one of the most powerful ways of communicating climate change issues (Lorenzoni and Whitmarsh 2014; O’Neill and Smith 2014), and the notion that exhibitions provide space for the exchange of views and encourage participants to feel part of something (Codesal et al. 2018). The exhibition featured black and white photographs taken by the lead author, alongside quotes from residents who had taken part in interviews about sea-level rise during the course of the PhD (Thomas et al. 2015; Thomas 2013). SeaChange was exhibited in The Gate Arts and Community Centre in Roath, Cardiff, during October and November 2015 (after completion of the PhD) as part of the ESRC Festival of Social Science. The images were captured, selected and edited to be eye-catching, in order to draw participants to read the quotes and accompanying information about sea-level change. It was also desirable to accentuate the beauty and drama of the Estuary, which is often associated with mud rather than aesthetics (Thomas 2013). For this reason, the images were presented in black and white, inspired by the dramatically beautiful photographs of master landscape photographer Ansel Adams (1992). The images reflected a variety of environments and subjects (e.g. people, marshes, beaches, promenades, wildlife, coastal defences, a nuclear power station), in different conditions (weather, tide, time of day), as well as a broad range of locations from outer estuary to upper reaches (Fig. 9.1 and 9.2). The exhibition was place-based, using images and quotes only from the Severn Estuary region, and exhibited in the vicinity. It was

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Fig. 9.1  Selected images from the SeaChange Exhibition © Merryn Thomas

Fig. 9.2  The SeaChange exhibition © Merryn Thomas

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hoped this would reduce the psychological distance associated with sealevel change. Images can often ‘distance’ climate change, focusing upon impacts on non-human nature such as polar bears and glaciers (O’Neill 2013), and our own research shows that sea-level change is often seen as a distant threat (Thomas et al. 2015). Visual climate discourses have also tended to focus on people (e.g. politicians, scientists), the causes of climate change (e.g. smokestacks), and the impacts at home and abroad (O’Neill and Smith 2014). This exhibition was different in that it focused on areas that stand to be impacted by sea-level rise, with less focus on the impacts themselves. Accompanying quotes were chosen to reflect the breadth of public responses to sea-level change, to be thought-provoking and include a range of constructs (e.g. efficacy, trust, responsibility). These had to be chosen carefully, because texts that accompany images can completely transform their meaning (Freund 2014, cited in Codesal et al. 2018) and it was important to avoid presenting too positive a narrative or alternatively ‘turn viewers off’ (O’Neill and Nicholson-Cole 2009). The aim was therefore to include positive as well as negative quotes and avoid appearing propagandistic or didactic—art that does this ‘does little to engage those who aren’t themselves already highly concerned’ (Nurmis 2016, 512). Alongside the images was a large information board providing details about the study, the Severn Estuary, sea-level change and mitigation/adaptation measures. Participants were encouraged to leave their own responses on comment cards and were invited to participate in a ‘Philosophy Café’ event, run in the gallery during the Festival. This event featured talks about climate change and sea-level rise, as well as break-out discussions using images and quotes as prompts. The comment cards (N = 33) were later analysed for themes using a grounded approach (Glaser and Strauss 1967).

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9.3 Levels of Engagement 9.3.1 CoastWEB Engagement can occur on a number of levels: from nonparticipation through informing (‘tokenism’), to partnership and full citizen control (Arnstein 1969). While greater participation is often desirable, it is not always practical and a lighter touch approach can be sufficient (see Thomas et al. 2018 for a discussion). Indeed, participants responded to the CoastWEB task in four ways provided their own photographs (N = 258), which we termed ‘participant-generated images’ and divided into three subcategories ‘dedicated’ photographs that were specifically taken for the project (N  =  121); ‘found’ photographs that participants had already taken prior to the research (e.g. Henwood et  al. 2011) (N = 129) and older, archival photographs taken by other people (N = 8). Five participants did not provide any photographs, instead discussing only our ‘stack’ of researcher-generated images. We found that the ‘dedicated’, ‘found’, ‘archival’ and ‘stack’ images afforded different insights, as summarised in Fig. 9.3 and detailed below. Together they helped to build a picture of shifting relationships with the saltmarsh. At times, these insights offered new understandings, and at others they corroborated or challenged insights from other parts of our interview protocol: such triangulation being an important part of qualitative research and helping to build richer, more nuanced accounts (see Flick 2018).

P  articipant-Generated Photographs Participant-generated images focused on things that were liked (e.g. views, people, animals, activities), disliked (e.g. litter, dog walkers, coastal management) and things with a neutral valence.1 Dedicated photographs tended to focus on objects and places, especially those that participants were not going to be able to share with us during the mobile interview.  Associated with neither positive nor negative emotions. In this study, participants included such images as reminders of things to talk about during interviews. 1

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Increasing level of engagement Photo type

Stack

Archival

Found

Dedicated

Key insights

Comparisons and preferences

Changing interactions

Social and wildlife interactions

Valued places and objects

“Do you know why that is so stunning? Because you haven’t got mud. Think of the psychology. You’ve got the sun, the water, the green […] That’s what it’s all about” (Alan, Laugharne)

“[cockling] was often one of those things when people came to see us and we’d say, let’s go and get some cockles or supper […] we just did it to show off, really –live off the land” (Bill, Laugharne)

“I’d only get that [oneness with nature] on my own, because it’s letting go of your ego, isn’t it? Which, when you’re with other people, your ego is being stimulated” (Charlotte, Laugharne)

“that picture shows, I don’t’ want to be anywhere else mentally. […] I’m here –that’s enough. The wellbeing bit. And I come here to search that out actually” (Fred, Mawddach)

Example image

Example interview excerpt

Fig. 9.3  Different levels of engagement offered different insights in the CoastWEB photo elicitations. From left to right: lighter touch engagement where participants used solely stack photographs, through to the most involved level where participants went out purposely to take photographs for the project (Dedicated photographs)

Found photographs were particularly valuable in eliciting memorable experiences and interactions. From these, we learned that social relationships played out at the coast are central to some participants’ wellbeing, but that sometimes solitude is necessary for forming the deepest relationships with nature. For Lilly (Mawddach), the photo task brought into focus the significance of social interactions for her own enjoyment of the coast: [Lilly]

I kind of thought that I would be ending up with lots of photos of sceneries and stuff, but I definitely ended up with more photos of spending time with family and friends and doing activities by the sea […] [Facilitator] That surprised you? [Lilly] Yes, yes, because there’s some pictures in there of really, like horrible windy days, where it’s freezing cold, but I’m out with friends and family.

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Family was also central in Efan and Eve’s account (Mawddach). Eve explains that their photographs tend to be of the family rather than the landscape, because ‘the significance of that place is very much associated to having the kids there’. Later, Efan elaborates, ‘the only reason we [take pictures] is the kids […] them in the landscape, as opposed to purely the landscape on its own […]. We wouldn’t take a picture of the kids on their own or the landscape on their own. It’s that interaction’. The significance of solitude was evoked by Tristan (Mawddach), who can relax in an empty space, and Susan (Laugharne), who contemplated the role of isolation for creativity because it allows people to ‘feel kind of free to do things like [beach art]’. In Laugharne, one of Charlotte’s found photographs (Fig. 9.3) triggered an in-depth conversation about her relationship with nature, her family and interactions between the two. We discover that her walks are an important way in which to give her children one-to-one time, but that she needs to be on her own to experience oneness with nature. [Charlotte] ‘My husband must have taken that. Or maybe my daughter. She will occasionally come. I can persuade one of the children to come just with me because it’s that one-to-one time. […] That [photograph] triggered my memory with the oneness with nature, and that connection that I feel that I have with nature […] But I’d only get that on my own, you know, because I think that’s … its letting go of your ego, isn’t it? Which, you know, when you’re with other people, your ego is … being stimulated or is in consciousness, isn’t it?’

Archival photographs were particularly effective in eliciting conversations about how interactions with the coast had changed through time, focusing on a longer timescale. For example, Bill shared several archival photographs that charted the nature of change in Laugharne during the last 100–150 years. One photograph of cocklers (Fig. 9.4) elicited a conversation about how Bill used to take visitors cockling ‘just to show off really—live off the land’. He goes on to tell a story about marsh-dwelling shellfish called gapers. Collecting them was ‘more to say you’ve done it rather than … The last time we collected those, I remember, we had a bucket full of them and they just sat outside the front door for ages and

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Fig. 9.4  Bill’s archival photograph of Cocklers on Laugharne marsh. (Reproduced with kind permission from the archives of Lady Emma McGrigor)

in the end, they just threw them on the garden’. These stories, elicited from looking at one photograph, hint at an important shift in the use of the marsh and the relationship locals have with its produce. Historically, the cockle industry was a cornerstone of the local economy. Cockling has since declined dramatically, but still plays a role in local traditions2 and sense of identity: ‘the cockling and the cockle gatherers and the coastal sailing ships. And that history of Laugharne and the saltmarsh, again, it adds to your sense of identity and your connection with your environment and sense of wellbeing […]. I do think when I’m walking this, about the women cocklers, you know, carrying their cockle loads on their heads’ (Charlotte, Laugharne). Even though Charlotte is ‘not massively  For example, when a new Portreeve (the highest ranking official in the town’s medieval corporation) is sworn in, he is draped in a gold chain of cockles and carried around the town hall (Misstear 2015). 2

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keen’ on eating cockles, they are an important part of the local history and her own sense of identity. As observed by Poe et al. (2016), shellfish harvesting is far more than simply provisioning but is integral to sense of place, tied through heritage, experiences and social relationships. In Laugharne, this relationship has shifted its focus from one of necessity to one of symbolism.

R  esearcher-Generated Photographs A key strength of using researcher-generated images was that they facilitated comparisons between participants. Because we were able to choose the images in the stack, we could also compare between different types of coastal landscapes and the like, thus gaining an understanding of preferences for various habitats—including those that participants would not have chosen to take a picture of themselves. We found here that variety, colour and exposure to the elements were particularly important. For example, looking at a photograph of Three Cliffs Bay on the Gower, Simon (Laugharne) notes, ‘Yes, it makes me feel, a happy picture. I can imagine the wind blowing on your face. You can see the dry sand on the beach, which you can imagine walking across the beach and having sand whipping your legs’. In another example, this time focusing on different types of marsh, June (Mawddach) compares a photograph of a marsh with low vegetation, with one that she prefers with taller vegetation, ‘I like the way you see it and then it’s fallen in certain ways and making certain patterns. And I also like, I like seeing the birds perching in it, because then you can see the birds. […] and I think I’m saying, it looks more interesting’. With stack photographs we could also compare different participants’ responses to the same image, lending insight into how aspects of the coast are valued differently. In separate interviews, Simon and Alan (both Laugharne) responded differently to an image of Pendine beach (Fig. 9.5). Interestingly, Alan later looked at another picture of the same beach and elaborated that although he doesn’t like it for swimming (‘it’s a hell of a job to get wet’), he does use it for other activities. This complicates the

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Fig. 9.5  Stack photograph of Pendine beach © Merryn Thomas

insight from this particular image, and illustrates the merits of further questioning and triangulation. [Simon] ‘It’s the sort of beach I’d take the dog on because it’s a big area and he can have a run round. And it’s not, erm, how can I say, it’s not really busy down there and it’s not as if you’ve got to walk round millions of people to get about. […] And it looks quite clean, from the picture I can’t see any litter, which is a big one to me.’ [Alan] ‘That’s a pretty boring place. It’s got artificial groynes there. It’s flat. There’s nothing much going on there. No, don’t like that.’

Finally, we were also able to compare between stack images, participant-­ generated images and sights seen during the mobile interview. For example, when asked why he said that a stack image of a marsh at sunrise (Fig.  9.6) was ‘nice’, Simon answers, ‘the colours. The calmness of the water. I think it’s between the sun, the colour of the sky, the greens and the vegetation’. This triangulates with other parts of Simon’s interview where he described the importance of colour. During his walk, he

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Fig. 9.6  Stack photograph of a marsh at sunrise © Merryn Thomas

remarked that the muted colours of the marsh contrasted with the ‘lush’ fields behind, ‘if you look at the different colours in the fields, and then you come onto the top of the estuary and then you see where the tide has [been], it’s as if it’s bleached the grass with the salt’. Simon elaborated when he saw a stack image of vibrant greens in a woodland and described how it is ‘the different tones in the colours, which brings the place to life’ (Simon, Laugharne). The importance of colour to Simon’s appreciation of the coast not only tells us something about aesthetic value, but also raises the issue of colour reproduction when using images in research, addressed in Sect. 9.4.2.

9.3.2 SeaChange The SeaChange exhibition involved ‘lighter-touch’ participation than the CoastWEB project in the sense that the researcher took all photographs and decided how they were displayed. Participation was sought by other

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means: interviewees’ quotes were a major part of the exhibition, and viewers were invited to participate through leaving comment cards and taking part in the Philosophy Café event. We found that this level of participation was sufficient to increase understanding and engagement with sea-level change on the Severn Estuary, and while comment cards echoed some of the themes in our previous research (concern, distancing/ detachment, efficacy) they indicated that participants engaged with the issue on a local level, and that some felt increased agency. We found that interview quotes and photographs supported one another in their communication of sea-level change: as one participant commented, ‘the photographs drew me into the accompanying text information’, and another, ‘the images grab your attention but it’s the text that draws you in’. A basic content analysis of the comment cards showed that ‘thought’ was the sixth most common word (after sea, change, photographs, quotes, estuary3) with participants describing the photographs, display and discussion as ‘thought-provoking’. Several comment cards conveyed a sense of concern about sea-level change, which participants described as a ‘critical topic’ and a ‘serious issue’. One noted, ‘the photos really show the beauty of our coasts and the thought of such landscapes being subject to change is sad but a reality—Makes me think of ‘Cantre’r Gwaelod’ and lost cities under water → wonder mixed with sadness’. While some participants used comment cards to call on more action from the UK government or other countries, we found that the exhibition and Philosophy Café event also afforded a space to talk about the issues and connect with others who felt the same way, providing a sense of hope: ‘I just feel more hopeful now I’ve had conversations with people who feel the same as me’. Another visitor commented, ‘The exhibition strikes a balance between demonstrating the critical nature of our situation and enabling visitors to leave feeling empowered like they can do something! A difficult thing to achieve!’ while yet another wrote, ‘I am inspired (re-inspired) to try and do more to reduce the carbon footprint. Furthermore, participants often made reference to the Estuary, commenting, for example, on its beauty and fragility, which indicates engagement on a local level.  Omitting stop words such as ‘the’, ‘a’, ‘an’.

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9.4 Representing the Coast in Photographs A number of considerations need to be taken into account when using images in research and engagement. These considerations relate to aims, methodologies and who participates (Thomas et  al. 2018), as well as practicalities such as photo permissions, copyright, formatting and printing. Our experience also highlights the importance of interrogating how reality is represented by way of a photograph, whether taken by a participant or a researcher; a theme that threads through both the CoastWEB and the SeaChange case studies.

9.4.1 CoastWEB In the CoastWEB study, we found that the use of both participant and researcher generated images helped make the ‘intangible visible’ (Henwood et al. 2018, 601), and ‘what was made visible became a matter of discussion, creating a multimodal resource for sensemaking’ (Henwood et al. 2018, 609). This was the case even when participants did not know why they had taken a picture in the first place. Auteur Theory posits that ‘the most important aspect in understanding a visual image is what its maker intended to show’ (Rose 2001, 22, emphasis added). But what happens when a participant does not know why they took the photograph? What is it representing? This was a common phenomenon with both dedicated and found photographs, with several participants commenting that they didn’t know why they had taken a particular image. Charlotte said, ‘I don’t know why I take photos really. I just think oh that’s a nice shot, and sometimes it’s just spontaneous, isn’t it?’ (Charlotte, Laugharne). And Peter (Mawddach) said, ‘Possibly I don’t really have an explanation’. Similarly, Rachel (Laugharne) commented, ‘I don’t know why I take photos of stuff that I see all the time’. This poses questions for what these photographs tell us about relationships with the coast. Some of our participants said that they take photographs as a means of sharing with others, or to remember a moment. But perhaps sometimes the taking of a photograph is in itself a way of interacting with the coast, regardless of what is then done with it.

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It is also interesting to consider to what extent an image describes what the participant is trying to show—whether the image is a ‘faithful’ representation. As described by Henwood et al. (2011, citing Rose 2007), one of the drawbacks to using personal (in our case ‘found’) photographs are that they represent an ‘ideal’ rather than a reality; a presentation of what the photographer wants others to see. Even in the absence of photo editing software, images can still obscure reality by showing snapshots in time and space. Kathleen (Mawddach) raised this issue, by questioning the extent to which photographs reflect only happy times: ‘I think pictures are strange in that way, that you have to be careful that you don’t judge too much from them’. When asked whether her photos reflect her experiences on the Mawddach, she answered, ‘a small part, a very small part’. Similarly, Phoebe (Mawddach) said, ‘It doesn’t matter how many photos I’ve taken of the Estuary, they’re never good enough … they will never capture that estuary. It’s pretty unique’. Likewise, Jennifer (Laugharne) commented, ‘you’re trying to capture that moment and that feeling, and then you end up taking loads because you can never quite capture it, like how good the scenery was’. It is worth noting however that not taking a picture does not always mean that something is not valued. Susan (Laugharne) notes that she takes fewer photos now because she has got ‘a little bit used to it […] when we first moved back here, I would have sort of run across Hudgen to take that photograph, and now I think, oh, it’ll be there another day’. Linked with this, it can be insightful to consider which photographs were omitted from participants’ submissions altogether, as well as those that were included. With their dedicated images, Emily (Laugharne) and June (Mawddach) both said that they didn’t send some because they were ‘samey’, Emily commenting that she ‘didn’t want to overburden you but I could have taken more’. Likewise, Linda remarked that ‘I take photos all the time. But, obviously, I was specifically doing them. I would take the beautiful scenery, but I sent just the marsh’. Participants responded according to what they thought the researchers wanted to see, and what is said here is insightful. Especially, Linda hints that for her the marsh does not qualify as ‘beautiful scenery’, it is ‘just the marsh’.

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Omissions in order to fulfil the brief of taking photographs of anything that you feel is significant to you when using the coast/estuary raise the question of which images better reflect relationships with the coast: found or dedicated photographs. While both involved choosing photographs to capture and/or share, asking participants to go on a walk to take photographs for a specific reason inevitably shaped what was chosen. When asked if the photographs she had taken reflect her walks around the Mawddach area, June answered, ‘no, probably not’ before going on to explain that she had done the walk because ‘you can see a lot’, when usually she prefers to go elsewhere. The dedicated photographs were limited to not only trying to fulfil a brief, but also to the time in which participants had to take the photographs. This likely meant that dedicated images were shaped by where the participant could visit in the time available, while found images reflected a much wider—and likely more faithful- experience of the coast.

9.4.2 SeaChange One visitor to the SeaChange exhibition commented, ‘the black and white photographs together with the quotes, to me, really conveyed a sense of desperation and powerlessness’ indicating that the black and white style of representation was a factor in this reaction. Considering that doom and gloom is not an effective way to engage publics with climate change (O’Neill and Nicholson-Cole 2009), a pertinent question is whether the photographs could have been edited to portray a more positive effect and therefore led to greater engagement with the issue. But what would be a faithful representation? The images in Fig. 9.7 show the same photograph edited in Adobe Photoshop Lightroom (Version 4). The first image is the RAW file straight from the camera, followed by the same image with various adjustments, all connoting different moods. While photography used to be the ‘rhetoric of observation and objectivity that was so beloved for scientists’, it is now recognised that photographs can be extremely subjective, often a far cry from accurate portrayals of their subjects (Wilder 2009, 163). In Fig. 9.7, the RAW image is how

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Fig. 9.7  Severn Crossing at Aust © Merryn Thomas. Camera: Canon EOS 5D Mark II; Lens: EF24–105  mm f/4  L IS USM; ISO: 250; Focal length: 24  mm; Exposure: 1/40 sec at f/16; Captured on 30th September 2014, 17:20 pm

the camera captured the scene, but ‘the human eye is a miracle of evolution, far more capable than any mechanical camera we have been able to devise’ (Malpas 2007, 32) and at the time of capture the photographer’s eyes were able to distinguish much more detail and contrast. The ‘RAW’ format also tends to flatten the image, and the lens creates distortions. Therefore, the following filters and adjustments were applied to Edits 1–6 to communicate the photographer’s vision of the scene: lens corrections (distortion, vignetting, chromatic aberration); exposure adjustments (local and global); graduated filters (exposure); tonal adjustments (shadows, highlights); increase contrast and saturation; spot removal (dust on lens); punch pre-set (increase clarity and vibrancy); and luminance smoothing (noise reduction).

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Key for image grid (Fig. 9.7): RAW file with no adjustments (original) Original file with white balance set to daylight (warmer tones)

Edit 1: White balance: as shot (cooler tones), brighter edit Edit 3: High key (brighter) colour image with white balance set to daylight

Original file with basic black and white conversion

Edit 5: Black and white image as exhibited in SeaChange

Edit 2: White balance: as shot (cooler tones), darker edit Edit 4: Low key (darker) colour image with white balance set to daylight Edit 6: Low key (darker) black and white image

For SeaChange, Edit 5 (Fig. 9.7) was chosen to depict a dramatically beautiful portrayal of a place that is sometimes seen as muddy and boring. As we found in the CoastWEB study, colour can be an important element in personal engagement with the coast. So what happens when these colours are manipulated (or even removed) in this way for the purposes of engagement? While black and white images can be dark and foreboding (so can colour images, as we see in Edits 2 and 4 above), they also tend to convey more intimate feelings about the subject (Zettl 2004), and are often associated with ‘truth’ because there is no distraction by colour, and due to connotations of news photographs that were traditionally printed in black and white (Goodnow 2010). Although the subject is the same, the pictures have very different moods. Bright colour images with warm tones (centre, Edit 3) may have had a more positive effect on participants, with warmer tones being associated with positive emotions (Malpas 2007). However, the meaning of colour is not easily standardised (Kress and Van Leeuwen 2002): warm, colourful photographs may well have emoted greater feelings of efficacy about mitigating or adapting to sea-level change—but this is conjecture and warrants further research.

9.5 Conclusions In this chapter, we have offered a reflexive account of two case studies in which photographs were used for coastal research and engagement. In both, we found that photographs were effective in achieving cognitive and emotional engagement specific to place. In the CoastWEB project,

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four types of images helped us understand how relational values are shaped at the coast, building a picture of shifting relationships with saltmarshes. We learned about these relationships changing from necessity to symbolism in the case of the Laugharne cockle; about the importance of social relationships and solitude; and about the significance of colour in people’s enjoyment of the coast. In the SeaChange project, photographs helped participants engage with sea-level change on a local level, with images and quotes working in tandem to attract attention and provide information. In exploring the production and consumption of visual images in these two case studies, we have elucidated two themes running through them: the value of various levels of participation and the importance of considering how something is represented by way of an image. The appropriate ‘level’ of engagement depends of course on project aims, as well as on practicalities. In the CoastWEB project, we found that varying levels of participation led to valuable insights: while participant-­ generated images provided an understanding of social/wildlife interactions, lighter touch engagement involving researcher-generated (stack) images focused on comparisons between environments and preferences for certain elements of a habitat (such as colour or exposure to the elements). Participation in the SeaChange exhibition involved less direct input from participants, but the level of engagement was adequate in provoking thought and even ‘inspiring’ action (whether actions were taken, we do not know). Deciding who participates, and how they participate, is a key element in designing an engagement exercise (see Thomas et al. 2018 for a discussion), and we have shown here that various levels of participation using different types of photographs can provide valuable insights. The images produced by our participants in CoastWEB and those that the lead author produced for SeaChange can be described as ‘pensive’ images, open to interpretation (Morris and Sayler 2014). In CoastWEB, it was these interpretations that constituted our data—we were interested in the conversations that arose from engaging with the images. Likewise, it was not immediately apparent how the SeaChange images were linked with sea-level change, and this open-endedness encouraged participants to discover more. In both projects, images were used to generate thought

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and discussion rather than represent ‘truths’. Indeed, as we have seen, achieving a ‘faithful’ representation of the coast, or a relationship with it, is an elusive goal. What does an image represent if the participant does not know why they took it? What does it mean when something is included or omitted? Does it matter that a picture is enhanced? Whose vision does it represent? Questions like these complicate the landscape of coastal engagement but also add to its richness. We conclude that remaining cognisant of such questions and designing engagements carefully can contribute to effective communications and lead to rich, nuanced understandings of coastal issues. Acknowledgements  We would sincerely like to thank all the participants who took part in the CoastWEB and SeaChange projects. The CoastWEB study formed part of the Valuing Nature Programme (valuing-nature.net) which is funded by the Natural Environment Research Council, the Economic and Social Research Council, the Biotechnology and Biological Sciences Research Council, the Arts and Humanities Research Council and the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs. This research was supported by the UK Research Councils under Natural Environment Research Council award NE/ N013573/1, Title CoastWEB: Valuing the contribution which COASTal habitats make to human health and WEllBeing, with a focus on the alleviation of natural hazards. We would like to thank members of the Understanding Risk Group at Cardiff University for their help in setting up the SeaChange exhibition, and Stuart Capstick and Christina Demski for co-running the Philosophy Café. The sea-level change PhD project was made possible by funding from a President’s Research Scholarship from Cardiff University and the Climate Change Consortium of Wales (C3W), and the exhibition was funded by the ESRC Festival of Social Science.

Contributions  KH and NP conceived of the CoastWEB work package reported here. MT led on the design of the methodology. MT and ER collected the data and performed the analyses. MT conceived of and ran the SeaChange exhibition, collected and analysed the data. MT led on the writing of the chapter, with contributions from all authors.

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References Adams, Ansel, Andrea Gray Stillman, and William A.  Turnage. 1992. Our National Parks. Boston, MA: Little, Brown. Arnstein, Sherry R. 1969. A Ladder of Citizen Participation. Journal of the American Institute of Planners 35 (4): 216–224. Bell, Sarah L., Cassandra Phoenix, Rebecca Lovell, and Benedict W. Wheeler. 2015. Using GPS and Geo-Narratives: A Methodological Approach for Understanding and Situating Everyday Green Space Encounters. Area 47 (1): 88–96. Chan, Kai M.A., Terre Satterfield, and Joshua Goldstein. 2012. Rethinking Ecosystem Services to Better Address and Navigate Cultural Values. Ecological economics 74: 8–18. Chan, Kai M.A., Patricia Balvanera, Karina Benessaiah, Mollie Chapman, Sandra Díaz, Erik Gómez-Baggethun, Rachelle Gould, Neil Hannahs, Kurt Jax, and Sarah Klain. 2016. Opinion: Why Protect Nature? Rethinking Values and the Environment. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 113 (6): 1462–1465. Codesal, Diana Mata, Sónia Pereira, Concepcón Maiztegui-Oñate, Edith Ulloa Chevez, Eztizen Esesumaga, and Andrea López del Molino. 2018. “Walking Around With a Camera”. The Uses of Photography in Participatory Research and Social Intervention Processes. Forum Qualitative Sozialforschung/Forum: Qualitative Social Research. 19: 1. https://doi.org/10.17169/fqs-19.1.2577. Conti, Joseph, Terre Satterfield, and Barbara Herr Harthorn. 2011. Vulnerability and Social Justice as Factors in Emergent US Nanotechnology Risk Perceptions. Risk Analysis 31 (11): 1734–1748. Fairchild, Tom P., Mike S.  Fowler, Sabine Pahl, and John N.  Griffin. 2018. Multiple Dimensions of Biodiversity Drive Human Interest in Tide Pool Communities. Nature Scientific Reports 8 (15234): 1–11. https://doi. org/10.1038/s41598-018-33155-x. Flick, Uwe. 2018. Triangulation in Data Collection. In The SAGE Handbook of Qualitative Data Collection. London: SAGE Publications. Glaser, Barney G., and Anselm L.  Strauss. 1967. The Discovery of Grounded Theory: Strategies for Qualitative Research. Chicago, IL: Aldine Transaction Publishers. Goodnow, Trischa. 2010. Visual Bias in Time’s “The Great Divide”: A Semiotic Analysis of Clinton and Obama Photographs. American Behavioral Scientist 54 (4): 406–416.

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Gould, Rachelle K., Sarah C. Klain, Nicole M. Ardoin, Terre Satterfield, Ulalia Woodside, Neil Hannahs, Gretchen C.  Daily, and Kai M.  Chan. 2015. A Protocol for Eliciting Nonmaterial Values Through a Cultural Ecosystem Services Frame. Conservation Biology 29 (2): 575–586. Graves, Robert, and Didier Madoc-Jones. 2012. Postcards from the Future http://www.postcardsfromthefuture.com/, accessed 03/11/2020 Henwood, Karen, Fiona Shirani, and Mark Finn. 2011. ‘So You Think We’ve Moved, Changed, the Representation Got More What?’ Methodological and Analytical Reflections on Visual (Photo-Elicitation) Methods Used in the Men-as-Fathers Study. In Visual Methods in Psychology, ed. Paula Reavey, 362–377. London: Routledge. Henwood, Karen, Fiona Shirani, and Christopher Groves. 2018. Using Photographs in Interviews. When We Lack the Words to Say What Practice Means. In The SAGE Handbook of Qualitative Data Collection, ed. Uwe Flick, 599–614. London: SAGE. Hurworth, Rosalind. 2003. Photo-Interviewing for Research. Social Research Update 40: 1):1–1):4. Jude, Simon. 2008. Investigating the Potential Role of Visualization Techniques in Participatory Coastal Management. Coastal Management 36 (4): 331–349. Kress, Gunther, and Theo Van Leeuwen. 2002. Colour as a Semiotic Mode: Notes for a Grammar of Colour. Visual Communication 1 (3): 343–368. Lorenzoni, Irene, and Lorraine Whitmarsh. 2014. Climate Change and Perceptions, Behaviors, and Communication Research After the IPCC 5th Assessment Report-a WIREs Editorial. Wiley Interdisciplinary Reviews: Climate Change 5 (6): 703–708. Malpas, Phil. 2007. Basics Photography 03: Capturing Colour. London: Bloomsbury Publishing. Mannay, Dawn. 2016. Visual, Narrative and Creative Research Methods: Application, Reflection and Ethics. Abingdon, Oxford: Routledge. Millennium Ecosystem Assessment. 2005. Ecosystems and Human Well-Being. Vol. 5. Washington, DC: Island Press. Misstear, Rachael. 2015. The Story of How a Welsh Town Continues Its 700-Year-Old Medieval Tradition Today. Wales Online, October 6. https:// www.walesonline.co.uk/news/wales-news/story-how-welsh-towncontinues-10204413. Morris, Edward, and Susannah Sayler. 2014. The Pensive Photograph as Agent: What Can Non-Illustrative Images do to Galvanize Public Support for Climate Change Action. In Image Politics of Climate Change: Visualizations,

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10 Applications of Archival Sources and Historical Methodologies in Interdisciplinary Coastal and Marine Research Alanna Casey

10.1 Introduction Climate change is impacting coastal and maritime spaces and societies. These environmental changes are part of complex cultural and political systems, with roots in the historical past (Carey et  al. 2014; Cronon 1993, 1995). The organisations and agencies working towards climate change adaptation similarly have regulations, agendas or perceptions embedded in a historical context (Adamson et al. 2018), with past problems or inequities often permeating current management efforts (Chakrabarty 2009, 2012, 2014). It follows that climate change is a critical area of study to employ a historic perspective and better understand how past environmental perceptions and decisions interact with modern practices.

A. Casey (*) University of Rhode Island, Kingston, RI, USA California Coastal Commission, San Francisco, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 M. Gustavsson et al. (eds.), Researching People and the Sea, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-59601-9_10

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To explore these issues, my doctoral research examined decision-­ making overtime in three coastal public spaces managed as U.S. national parks, using disciplinary perspectives from environmental history and coastal landscape studies. In this chapter, I ask what a historical perspective can contribute to the management of cultural resources in the context of sea level rise, storm surge inundation and coastal erosion. I also examine the limitations and challenges of applying a historical approach to critical climate change studies; in particular, a mixed approach of archival documentation, key informant interviews and coastal landscape case studies. Through the application of these methods and approaches, several assumptions were identified, along with patterns and policies, that shape the context in which managers are working to address climate change. At these three case study sites, past managers have responded to coastal change by engineering shorelines, rather than relocating or adapting their patterns of use. These patterns of use have contributed to legislation that requires preservation efforts to focus on structures immediately along the shoreline and which retain its historic extent. Such requirements may need to be reconsidered given climate change related sea level rise, storm surge and coastal inundation. Additionally, while the recreational uses and commemorative priorities in coastal public spaces have changed overtime, the legislation for deciding which sites and structures to preserve in National Park Service (NPS) spaces has not always kept up. Those structures and sites that have benefitted from long-term preservation attention may well be in a better condition today than those that were previously excluded but often valued by and representing the experiences of Black, Indigenous, enslaved, queer and other Americans. As managers make preservation decisions in the face of climate change, the inequities of historic preservation programmes, rather than just the condition of the sites and structures, should therefore be part of the decision-­ making process. While the methodological approach applied in this study revealed these insights, it also had some important limitations that are worth noting and reflecting on. Using a combined environmental history and cultural landscapes approach meant relying on archival sources and interviews. The availability of these archival sources was at times a

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limitation, as was my own interpretation of the historical record. Furthermore, scaling-up or making broad conclusions from individual historical case studies was a challenge. The following section discusses the methodological roots of this approach, especially in the cultural resource community of practice and environmental history literature. In the subsequent section, I outline the archival research and key informant interview methods I used in this study. I then reflect on the challenges in analysing the combination of archival materials and key informant interviews and comparing historical case studies. Finally, I highlight some of the past and enduring management patterns in these coastal spaces that were traced through this methodological approach.

10.2 A  pproaches to Coastal Climate Change Research and Cultural Heritage The central question in this research was about how national park managers were establishing climate change adaptation plans for cultural resources. In the United States, national parks include natural and human-made features that speak to the history of an area. These human-­ made features or cultural resources include tangible objects and sites, as well as intangible artistic expressions and practices that hold value for communities (ICOMOS 2002). Today, coastal erosion, submersion, storm surge and inundation are impacting both tangible and intangible cultural resources and will continue to do so in the future (Morgan et al. 2016; Daire et al. 2012; Sabbioni et al. 2010; Fitzpatrick et al. 2006).

10.2.1 C  ultural Resources and Climate Change Vulnerability Climate change research on cultural resources is taking place in a variety of disciplines and employing academic and pragmatic approaches (Fatoric and Seekamp 2017). Nevertheless, many studies still exclude historical perspective or context (Adamson et  al. 2018). Focusing only on the

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present and future may disconnect current policies from the history of political decisions and environmental alterations that have continuing or cumulative impacts on coastal spaces. Taking a historical perspective may allow managers to challenge policies that perpetuate an outdated status quo or do not allow them to directly address current priorities. In the context of historical and archaeological resources, work on climate change adaptation is often focused on assessing the observed or projected physical impacts of climate change on artefacts and sites and on the capacity of the management system to monitor, fund or staff different adaptation options, such as excavating in situ artefacts, constructing physical barriers along shorelines or allowing resources to succumb to the sea (Morgan et al. 2016; Daly 2014; Glick et al. 2011; Sabbioni et al. 2010). In this adaptation response, the information from vulnerability assessments is integrated with values, goals or priorities to inform managers’ decisions (Sabbioni et al. 2010; Cassar 2005). Amongst an extensive body of work examining historical roots of vulnerability in the modern context, Bankoff (2018) looks at the terminology of vulnerability, resilience and adaptation. This work highlights that of these, only vulnerability allows for any rethinking of the historical context and causes of modern problems because conceptually, vulnerability accumulates over time giving it a clear historical dimension. However, in practice, vulnerability assessments often only refer to the physical vulnerability of an artefact, based on the materials it is constructed from or its location relative to an eroding shoreline or rising sea levels. The historical explanation of why the site is vulnerable may not be considered. The U.S.  NPS frames the response to climate change as a planning challenge: if managers can predict, the impacts of climate change, limited financial, personnel and engineering resources can be used to make ‘tough decisions’ about which sites to protect and document and which sites to leave to be claimed by the sea (Beavers et al. 2016; Morgan et al. 2016; NPS 2015; Jarvis 2014). During this study, I worked as part of a team conducting a climate change vulnerability assessment at Colonial National Historical Park. Work with this team introduced me and gave me access to some of the park managers I would later interview. I observed that the process of developing climate change adaptation strategies in these park spaces is difficult, but also that some of the legislative

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obligations managers have to preserve historic resources seemed to be in conflict with how these public spaces are currently used and valued. I wanted to explore how environmental perceptions and historical processes were at play in managing climate change adaptation. Although occurring simultaneously with the NPS designed and funded climate change vulnerability assessment at the Park, this research was financially and methodologically independent from the federal vulnerability assessment process.

10.2.2 E  nvironmental History and Coastal Cultural Landscapes To understand how managers are currently working towards climate change adaptation policies in these coastal public spaces, I examined how, overtime, managers in these spaces have addressed environmental change. Environmental historians have shown that past patterns of settlement, environmental perceptions and policy decisions inform the ways in which people modify their natural and built environment. These past decisions can continue to impact the modern context. Changes to coastal and oceanic spaces can occur through direct design and action or as an unintentional alteration that is related to a broader set of goals (Rozwadowski 2013; Grove 1996; Whitney 1996). In addition to the legacy of historical planning decisions, people may also shape and reshape the environment to connect to global trade networks, physically display their cultural values and perpetuate social norms, amongst other causes (Kahrl 2014; Clapperton 2012; Chiang 2005; Cronon 2003a; Grove 1996). Coastal national park spaces, in particular, are designed and managed with specific goals (Wakild 2011; Scott 1998; Hays 1999; Nash 1968). The broader goals of managers in these spaces may include arousing nationalistic feelings or provoking other behaviours or understandings that work towards political agendas (Wakild 2011; Scott 1998). To adhere to the national park setting, managers may remove certain features from the landscape to create a more ‘natural’ or expected setting (Watt 2010; Cronon 2003c). As such, I traced the environmental history of these spaces through engineered structures such as seawalls, engineered

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features such as artificial sand beaches, and human-made features such as forts, adopting the perspective that built structures cannot be separated from the environment or landscape in which they are set (Sutter 2013; Melosi 1993; Tarr and Jacobson 1987). In interpreting and analysing information, I used a ‘coastal cultural landscapes approach’, a method of landscape analysis that originated in coastal and maritime spaces. In doing so, I viewed the coastscape itself as a living document that shows evidence of changing goals and values over time (Jensen and Hartmeyer 2014; Mather and Jensen 2010, 2011; Cronon 2003b). The approach allows for the landscape to be understood as a complex system, considering data from the natural sciences, historical documentation, archaeological evidence and other sources, to understand the relationship between nature and patterns of human activity (Jensen and Hartmeyer 2014). This approach is especially valuable in the coastal and maritime space where many overlapping uses and public and private interests, such as transportation, fishing, military defence and water-based recreation, may all intersect (Jensen and Hartmeyer 2014; Mather and Jensen 2010, 2011). This approach examines how historical patterns of environmental use continue to influence or be reflected in modern spaces (Mather and Jensen 2010). Outside of the cultural resource context, authors have also shown that a historical perspective can contribute to a better understanding of the roots of settlement patterns, environmental perceptions and policy decisions that continue to impact coastal development and policy today (Barclay et al. 2019). For example, in a study of the historical roots of vulnerability in New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina, Rohland (2017) found that historical preconceptions about how to contain and move water within an urban setting, as well as historical planning decisions on where to locate housing and public works within that setting, have continued to influence community vulnerability to modern storm events and climate change. Similarly, in their examination of hurricane risk in Dominica, Barclay et al. (2019) found that the legacy of colonial development and land tenure in the country continues to affect how people are exposed to and experience risk.

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10.3 A  n Archival Research, Key Informant and Case Study Methodological Approach To address this question of what a historical perspective can contribute to the management of cultural resources in the face of climate change, I selected three coastal national parks in the United States as case study sites: Colonial National Historical Park (Virginia), Gulf Islands National Seashore (Florida and Mississippi) and San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park (California). At each site, I conducted interviews with current park managers, conducted research in local and national archives, and documented the modern landscape through repeated visits. While each of these sources and study design elements provided valuable information, each also came with certain limitations.

10.3.1 Case Studies National Park Service management priorities, as well as climate change vulnerabilities, are site-specific and dependent upon the resources in each park (Smith and Travis 2010; Schroter et al. 2005). I selected the three case study sites through an information-oriented process that sought maximum variation (Flyvbjerg 2006; Yin 2003). The sites were selected from a pool of coastal national parks (n = 97) with an identified coastal climate change risk (NPS 2016). From these parks, I looked for sites with different coastal locations, morphologies and the cultural resources represented at the site. I also considered whether I would be able to access the sites repeatedly, for extended periods of time, for research purposes. Table 10.1 shows the selection criteria and case study sites. As a researcher, it was easy to see similarities between the sites and assume them to have similar causes. However, my methodological design did not test or eliminate other variables from the context, thus the potential similarities or comparisons across sites cannot necessarily be scaled­up to represent a causal pattern. As I was interpreting data from each site, I considered the themes that emerged across the landscapes by asking

San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park

Heavily altered by Projected sea Virginia, shoreline Northeast level rise protection devices, Region and coastal grading changes Tidal river system, (Schupp marshes et al. 2015) Heavily altered by California, 43% high infill of shoreline, Pacific-West exposure shoreline Region (Peek et al. protection devices 2015) Rocky and sandy shoreline, tidal mudflats

Colonial National Historical Park

Heavily altered by shoreline protection devices, sand nourishment Barrier island system

81% high exposure (Peek et al. 2015)

Florida and Mississippi, Southeast Region

Coastal Park location, characteristics and morphologies NPS region

Gulf Islands National Seashore

Park

Climate change risk factor

Table 10.1  Case study site selection criteria Historical themes interpreted for visitors

Coastwise Partner projects transport, have examined Chinese vulnerability and immigration, adaptation for features within the AfricanAmerican park; No maritime overarching experience project underway

Completed through the Geoscientists-­ in-­the-Parks Program

Spanish colonial, Civil War, World War II, Native American archaeological sites Underway under the American Revolution, leadership of the archaeological NPS Northeast sites, early Region Climate colonial Change Program

Vulnerability assessment process

9

5

6

Number of key informants

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whether the theme was broad enough to be explained by different landscape drivers at each site. While certain legislative structures may be comparable across sites and are important to consider in the broader context of cultural resource management and climate change, other features such as historical events and climate patterns at each site are tied to local context. The results that emerge when using historical methods are always context specific. Therefore, I chose to expand the study to multiple case study sites to better understand how the features of each site, as shown in the categories in Table 10.1, may be intertwined with manager perceptions at those sites. While the results are dependent on the unique context of each location, the themes that emerged at and across sites can provide important insights into the preservation policies and structures that may be in place in other coastal public spaces (Flyvbjerg 2006).

10.3.2 Finding and Using Archival Evidence For each park, I visited multiple archives with relevant collections and analysed materials including published documents, media releases, grey literature, correspondence, photographs, maps, newspaper articles and field notes. I sought evidence that offered a time series including congressional records, Army Corps of Engineers documents, NPS superintendents’ reports and annual reports, in addition to local natural and cultural histories. Where possible, I accessed primary and secondary records of environmental change and responses in these areas by Indigenous and colonial managers to better understand the context of each site before U.S. federal management began. Table 10.2 contains a list of the archives I visited, the relevant case study site and collections viewed. In the archives, I searched for documentation related to the U.S. government bureau or agency managing each location—usually a military branch followed by the Department of the Interior. Within these documents I sought information that described the coastline and coastal environment, as well as texts that described the construction undertaken at these sites, environmental factors that influenced the location, materials or methods of construction, and the reasoning behind choices made. I

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Table 10.2  Archives visited and collections referenced National park focus

Archive

San Francisco Gulf Colonial Islands Maritime

Collections viewed

New York Public Library Archives, New York City, NY Library of Congress Archives, Washington, DC

×

×

Journal of William Chandler, 1835–1836; Joseph B. Loring Letters; U.S. State Notes on Florida

×

×

National Archives, College Park, MD University of California, Berkeley, Bancroft Archives, Berkeley, CA

×

×

The Records of Archivo National de Cuba; Jamestown Tercentenary Exposition Collection; Historic American Buildings Survey: Virginia; The Jeannette Thurber Connor Collection Administrative Records of the NPS

University of West Florida Archives, Pensacola, FL

×

×

×

Bancroft Reference Notes for California; Regional Oral History Office, San Francisco Bay and Waterfront Collection, 1900–1965; Regional Oral History Office, Maritime History and International Longshoremen Series; Archivo General de Indias Records W.H. Chase Letters; Braxton Bragg Papers; Creel Richardson Collection; Gulf Islands National Seashore Records; Fort Barrancas Papers; Individual File Collections (continued)

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Table 10.2 (continued) National park focus

Archive

San Francisco Gulf Colonial Islands Maritime

Maritime Research Center, San Francisco, CA

Library of Virginia, Richmond, VA University of Rhode Island, Kingston, RI

×

Joseph Paul Henry Papers; Voyage to California from the Port of Boston in the Ship Masconomo 1853; A Tribute to Mendocino Coast Commercial Fishing; Don Maskell photographs Administrative Records of the NPS

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Government Publications— Army Corps of Engineers Records; California Department of Fish and Game

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Collections viewed

used the documents I retrieved from the archives to interpret governmental or agency priorities, and scientific dilemmas and questions related to the local environment. When I was able to access records published on a consistent timetable or that spanned a longer timeframe, I traced the shifting perspectives of these bodies and agencies over time. Archival sources come with certain limitations. Unlike other primary data sources in the social sciences, such as interviews or focus groups, archival documents cannot be directly questioned but must be interpreted. Critically, to the best of the researcher’s ability, these sources must be interpreted for their meaning in the historical context in which they were created. Moreover, certain gaps inevitably exist in the historical record, as not every document is preserved or made available. Therefore, it falls to the historian to validate the research within the broader historical context using additional primary and secondary sources and to interpret materials within this context. This allows researchers to draw meaning from potentially fragmentary evidence (Cronon 2004; Smith and Lux 1993; Grigg 1991).

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10.3.3 Key Informant Interviews While the plans and policies of past managers in coastal national park spaces were represented in archival materials and in some cases, in the landscape itself, current managers’ perceptions may not yet be part of the publicly available written record. I therefore interviewed managers to gain their perspective on actions taken in the coastal national park spaces they manage, that respond to and create change in these littoral environments. For a 10-month period beginning in 2016, I conducted research interviews with 20 key informants from the three National Parks and the corresponding regional offices. I spoke with resource managers, cultural resource maintenance experts, natural resource managers, historians, natural resource specialists, climate change leaders and park educational professionals, who played a role in the protecting cultural resources from climate change impacts or interpreting climate change for the public. The semi-structured interview format allowed key informants considerable leeway to introduce topics they believed to be most important and encouraged informants to discuss their observations of situations that arise in their daily work. I focused on observations of environmental change during the tenure of the interviewee, rather than interpretation of climate change impacts. I also asked what changes the managers expected to see in resource condition moving forward. The semi-structured interview guide was divided into three themes that focused on observed changes in the condition of cultural resources in the park, the value of cultural resources and landscapes in the park and prioritisation of cultural resources for preservation. In analysing the interview transcripts, I took an inductive approach, grouping and analysing statements for emergent themes and patterns using an open coding framework (Babbie 2013; Toulmin 2003; Attride-Stirling 2001; Neuman 1997).

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10.4 Reflections on Archival Research While conducting interviews and working in the archives, I found that certain archival best practices helped to streamline data discovery. Although the challenges of working in the archives cannot be eliminated, communicating fully with archivists and preparing for archival searches by focusing on understanding the context of materials, much as a researcher would prepare for qualitative interviewing, may help to overcome some of the challenges of archival research.

10.4.1 Conducting Archival Research Although careful planning of archival visits is an important part of the research process, ultimately it can prove difficult to fully understand and anticipate the quality, quantity and relevance of materials, for addressing the research question. Gold (2008, 18) highlights, though we may apply a critical lens or favor a particular theoretical approach, the basic methodology of archival research remains the same: read absolutely everything and try to make sense of what happened. It is a bottom-up process and messy as hell—and more to the point, scary, requiring faith that something will be found, even if it's not what you first went looking for.

Thus, archival work is an iterative process, which requires constant and intentional revisions of thoughts, ideas, understandings, relevant secondary sources and the research questions driving the study. There are many practical challenges to be considered (Gold 2008; Jordanova 2000; Grigg 1991). For example, archives often have different systems for organising the materials they host and are at different phases of processing and cataloguing the materials they have. Some archives have sophisticated online search systems. Other archives do not, but still have valuable materials; here services such as WorldCat Beta’s Archive Grid are making archival collections more easily searchable. As I searched for collections, I noted the search terms I used, and the dates I conducted the searches, to avoid

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repetition and provide consistency between search engines and archival collections. Often as the research continues, lists of search terms will expand to include local, period or specific terminology for projects or ideas. Once I had identified a collection of interest, I found that finding aids (the tables of contents outlining the materials in an archival collection) may be outdated, oversimplified or difficult to interpret. I often turned to archivists and archival staff, who are often vastly knowledgeable about what materials are available in the collection. Archivists should not be regarded as passive players in research but as important facilitators in access to data (Lorimer 2010). To be successful in the archives, I found it necessary to communicate with them fully and effectively to gain access to the best and most appropriate collections for my research question. In order to clarify my requests for archivists, I focused on being able to describe my research in detail to express what records I was hoping to find. It was also valuable to describe my project to archival staff ahead of visiting the archives. Once I was at an archive, if I was not finding the types of materials I needed, I found new ways of explaining the project and what kinds of resources I was seeking. Often, archival staff would refer me to colleagues with a disciplinary expertise or experience with the record groups I sought.

10.4.2 Interpreting Archival Materials Archival work requires attention to appropriate interpretation and use of sources. Material written, captured, mapped or otherwise produced in the past were not produced for the twenty-first-century researcher. Therefore, understanding the intended audience and purpose, as well as who the author was, are all important parts of interpreting the meaning of the material (Jordanova 2000; Hodder 2003). The use of secondary analyses and other sources on the topic and time period provides an additional frame of interpretation for these texts. Climate along the coastlines has always been volatile; however, the current rate of climate change is unlike previous changes in recorded history. It was important to avoid reading and interpreting climate change

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implications into past managers’ decisions. Keeping the documents and perspectives of the period grounded and contextualised in the broader local and political climate of the time was necessary in accurately interpreting and using historical sources. Additionally, when designing a research question, the archival researcher needs some awareness of the influence of modern geographic and political boundaries on research design. When seeking information on specific locations, I therefore began by determining the many historical and local names for the three coastal parks in my study. In my searches for data I used each of these place names from periods in which political boundaries and local names and languages were different. As part of my methodology, I analysed interview transcripts alongside archival documentation. In this process I found that many key informants saw their own role in the parks as divorced from the ongoing administrative history of the park. It was, at times, difficult to trace the progression from the actions of past managers to those of present managers, because the ways in which archival documents and informants described a continuum of activity was very different. In some cases, informants were able to point me to features within the park that had interesting modifications to suit environmental conditions. However, I found park managers were not always familiar with the actions and goals of their predecessors. Because I was seeking broader information on environmental perceptions, to see continuity between archival material and the present park situation, I contextualised the perceptions expressed by managers in park reports, other documentation and evidence on the landscape, such as interpretive displays for park visitors.

10.5 O  utcomes and Insights from a Historical and Coastal Cultural Landscapes Approach At each of these three coastal parks, management patterns emerged that may continue to affect climate change adaptation in these spaces. By examining this history of management, I found that the goal of

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preserving how Americans have related to the sea in each place, often at one specific period of time, as well as incorporating recreational uses, has had a physical impact on the shoreline. The commemorative uses of each landscape have informed construction, shaped the coastline and motivated the preservation of specific sites, and these ongoing patterns merit consideration in the context of climate change adaptation.

10.5.1 Commemorative Landscape and National Identity At each site, the commemorative uses of the space have been and continue to be influential on the design and construction of the coastline. Colonial National Historical Park has been carefully managed to create and preserve a specific origin story in American history, potentially at the expense of other sites and events that contributed to the early formation of the United States. A large and visible coastal construction project aimed at protecting the historic sites in the area was the construction of a 450-metre seawall. In 1893, the Army Corps of Engineers built a 450-­ metre seawall to protect Jamestown Island in Virginia (Papers Relative to the Completion of the Monument of Yorktown 1885). Letters written by the director, appointed to the newly formed Colonial National Historic Park in 1931, indicate that the purpose of the seawall extended beyond protecting the island. It also aimed to recreate the 1607 shoreline to represent the space at the time English settlers arrived in the area (Peterson 1931a, b; Albright 1930). For the landscape to continue to inspire nationalist sentiment, twentieth-century park managers focused on making the space clean and well manicured, to visually represent the organised and modern nation started at the site (Fig.  10.1). Under NPS purview, managers determined that: if Colonial is to yield its maximum in inspiration, visitor stimulation, and in arousing national pride and understanding of our past, the proper environment is required … This includes, as much as is feasible, a return to the original scene that marked the area’s period of maximum greatness. (NPS 1954)

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Fig. 10.1  A portion of coastline in Colonial National Historical Park before (left) and after (right) the space was graded by Civilian Conservation Corps workers in 1935 (‘Narrative Reports Concerning CCC Work in NPS Areas’ 1935)

Today, the focus of understanding and preserving American history is targeted at maintaining and protecting archaeological sites as primary sources of material in their current location and the seawall continues to serve this purpose. The symbolic nature of the shoreline is still being used to inspire values, with reports from non-profit groups and NPS emphasising that climate change is causing America to lose its birthplace, with the goal of inspiring action (Ricci et al. 2019; Holtz et al. 2014).

10.5.2 Continually Engineering Coastal Change For almost two centuries, American coastal managers have built immediately along shorelines to make use of the unique features of coastal spaces, then built protective structures as the naturally eroding and ambulatory border between ocean and land has moved. Along the northern Gulf of Mexico shores, U.S. federal and state governments have continuously modified and altered the sandy islands that seasonally fringe the shore to stabilise the area for military and, more recently, recreational purposes. This was first implemented by the military and later through the NPS. The Secretary of the Navy documents on Pensacola, annual reports from the Chief of Engineers and reports of the Gulf Islands National Seashore

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Steering Committee, all show that the question of maintenance in the Gulf Islands has long focused on technologically enhancing the shorelines to suit military and recreational purposes. For example, when the United States gained control of the area in 1821, the Army Corps of Engineers immediately began constructing masonry forts around Pensacola Bay, some built by enslaved people, to protect entry to New Orleans, amongst other strategically important positions. Throughout the nineteenth century, the Army Corps of Engineers worked to retain land under eroding fortifications. In 1907, the U.S.  Secretary of the Treasury stated: the experience at these forts shows that until seawalls and revetments of sufficient height and strength to withstand the strains produced by storms have been constructed for the protection of the sites there will always be danger of loss. (Secretary of the Treasury 1907)

This comment represents the long-held perspective of the military that they can engineer shorelines permanently in position. As seen in Fig. 10.2, the Army Corps of Engineers built seawalls and raised shelves where munitions were stored to prevent them from becoming soaked during hurricanes or storms. For the first half of the twentieth century, the area transitioned from an active military space to a recreational one. In 1970, NPS established Gulf Islands National Seashore with the goal of providing more public coastal spaces for water-based recreation (Director of the NPS 1969). NPS management goals for the cultural resources in the park established that they would ‘stabilize or reverse deterioration of natural and historical resources’ (‘Purpose of the National Seashore' 1973). While the interpretive plans for the park emphasised teaching about barrier island turnover, park managers were confronted by the natural movement of the islands while working to preserve forts and found that: as far as the site characteristics of Ship Island, it is one of the barrier islands … affected by the drifting of the island to the west and, as a result of this, Ship Island today is partially standing in shallow water. (‘Gulf Islands National Seashore Advisory Committee Meeting’ 1973)

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Fig. 10.2  Raised munition supports in a casemate at Fort Pickens in 2016

Although barrier islands, or the sandy islands that fringe the U.S. Gulf Coast and other coastal areas, are naturally mobile features, this comment illustrates that managers understood the island to be fixed in one location rather than a moving structure. In 2016, park managers indicated that preservation and daily maintenance were the biggest issues facing the park, with the seasonal change in the system obscuring and overwhelming potential climate change impacts. Despite the long-term impacts of climate change, the day-to-­ day management and preservation of the structures at Gulf Islands National Seashore due to the wet and humid Gulf Coast weather, hurricanes and sand movement is intensive in terms of staff time and financial resources and does not allow managers to focus on these longer-term prospects and plans. In 1969, for example, Hurricane Camille cut in half Ship Island, one of the uninhabited islands at the park. Army Corps of Engineers managers are still working to repair the island breech with the

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stated purpose of protecting mainland Mississippi from future storm impacts. The preservation requirements of NPS parks appear not to have changed since the parks were established and these requirements may obligate the parks to protect areas that may not be integral to their current uses as a recreational space. As such, plans that focus on constructing barriers against rising seas and storm surge may have more precedent and procedures in place than other options.

10.5.3 Prioritisation, Preservation and Perpetuation Increasingly, managers must prioritise which resources to protect and which resources to let go of in the face of climate change threats. Managers in this study indicated a variety of different mechanisms they employed for doing so. Some key informants indicated they would prioritise the most vulnerable sites, while others would select the least vulnerable sites with the best chance of remaining in good repair in the face of climate change. Some managers mentioned the Historic American Building Survey as an established documentation method to record information about structures before they are lost. Almost all managers mentioned that National Historic Landmark sites are maintained to a higher standard and should receive the most attention. Most of these mechanisms for prioritisation focus on sites that have been documented in the park and sites with tangible resources. At each of the sites, documents on the original design of the park indicate which resources were considered for protection and often discuss the story the park is designed to tell. However, the risk with prioritising resources from existing lists, and within existing legal boundaries of what is in good or bad condition, is that it may perpetuate the stories selected at the time, and which do not necessarily represent the diverse history of the United States. For example, in the last five years, sites that focus on Indigenous peoples, people of colour, women, enslaved people, industrial labour, LGBTQ and the civil rights movements have been designated (Crosson 2017). Archaeological sites may contain the only representations of people whose experience has not necessarily been included in the textual

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record and this should be considered in the prioritisation of cultural resource conservation in the face of climate change (Mahoney 2015). However, if these histories are not part of the current interpretation of parks, they may not be fully considered in climate change adaptation planning. Moreover, if such sites have not been the focus of previous preservation efforts (and as a result are in a poor state), they may be excluded by adaptation approaches or legal obligations that focus on preserving those sites in the best condition (Mahoney 2015; Morgan et al. 2016). In addition to tangible artefacts, intangible resources are protected at parks (including cultural landscapes, viewscapes, culturally significant species and sacred places), but current climate change adaptation methods may exclude these values from adaptation practices. For instance, Native American sites are only explicitly protected resources and histories in some parks. Native American sites are absent from the summarised history of resources protected at the three parks discussed here. A first step to prioritisation may therefore not be choosing what to protect from existing resource inventories, but instead to revise the standards that lead to the development of inventories, and to seek broader input on what resources are valued and considered for preservation. While managers may be working to preserve both tangible and intangible resources in parks (Ricci et  al. 2019), revising the national standards may enable improved adaptation processes.

10.6 Conclusion By combining key informant interviews and archival research to examine environmental management histories, the methods employed here traced the roots of issues that continue to arise today. As park managers work towards the preservation of coastal cultural resources in the context of climate change, the methodologies employed in this study revealed that certain patterns of action, codified either through policy or through cultural meaning ascribed to artefacts and sites in coastal national park spaces, continue to influence ideas about the preservation of these spaces. These results suggest that different strategies may be necessary to

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accomplish climate change adaptation or coastal preservation that is relevant to how people relate to the sea in each of these three park spaces today. However, the process of interpreting the written work of past managers and interviews with current managers is complex and far from seamless. This is because the information provided by key informants and archival documents may not entirely align. Information on the legacies of coastal uses and views can be complemented by other methods to address the scope of climate change challenges. As coastal managers address climate change, the examination of historical patterns of how people have related to the sea along coastlines and managed these spaces can reveal what policies and assumptions may still be in place. These policies and assumptions may need to be examined to determine if they still represent and enable the values ascribed to these maritime spaces as climate change becomes more extreme.

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Beavers, Rebecca L., Amanda L.  Babson, and Courtney A.  Schupp. 2016. Coastal Adaptation Strategies Handbook. NPS 999/134090. Washington, DC: National Park Service. Carey, Mark, Philip Garone, Adrian Howkins, Georgina Endfield, Lawrence Culver, Sherry Johnson, Sam White, and James Roger Fleming. 2014. Forum: Climate Change and Environmental History. Environmental History 19 (2): 281–364. Cassar, May. 2005. Climate Change and the Historic Environment. London: Center for Sustainable Heritage, University College London. http://discovery.ucl.ac.uk/2082/1/2082.pdf. Chakrabarty, Dipesh. 2009. The Climate of History: Four Theses. Critical Inquiry 35: 197–222. ———. 2012. Postcolonial Studies and the Challenge of Climate Change. New Literary History 43 (1): 1–18. ———. 2014. Climate and Capital: On Conjoined Histories. Critical Inquiry Autumn 41: 1–23. Chiang, Connie Y. 2005. Shaping the Shoreline: Fisheries and Tourism on the Monterey Coast. Seattle, Washington: Washington University Press. Clapperton, Jonathan. 2012. Desolate Viewscapes: Sliammon First Nation, Desolation Sound Marine Park and Environmental Narratives. Environment and History 18 (4): 529–59. Cronon, William. 1993. The Uses of Environmental History. Environmental History Review 17 (3): 1–22. ———. 1995. The Trouble with Wilderness or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature. In Uncommon Ground: Toward Reinventing Nature, ed. William Cronon, 7–28. New York City, NY: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc. ———. 2003a. Changes in the Land: Indians, Colonists, and the Ecology of New England. New York City, NY: Hill and Wang. ———. 2003b. Changes in the Land: Indians, Colonists, and the Ecology of New England. New York City, NY: Hill and Wang. ———. 2003c. The Riddle of the Apostle Islands. Orion, June, 36–42. ———. 2004. Getting Ready to Do History. Carnagie Essays on the Doctorate, 1–18. Crosson, Tom. 2017. National Park Service Applauds President Obama’s Diversity Commitment and Outlines Efforts to Engage All Americans in Their National Parks. National Park Service Office of Communications (blog). January 13. https://www.nps.gov/orgs/1207/01-13-2017-promotingdiversity.htm.

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Daire, Marie-Yvane, Elias Lopez-Romero, Jean-Noel Proust, Herve Regnauld, Soazig Pian, and Benheng Shi. 2012. Coastal Changes and Cultural Heritage: Assessment of the Vulnerability of the Coastal Heritage in Western France. Journal of Island Coastal Archaeology 7: 168–182. Daly, Cathy. 2014. A Framework for Assessing the Vulnerability of Archaeological Sites to Climate Change: Theory, Development, and Application. Conservation and Management of Archaeological Sites 16 (3): 268–282. Director of the National Park Service. 1969. H.R. 10874 To Provide for the Establishment of the Gulf Islands National Seashore. Record Group 79 Records of the National Park Service, Administrative Files, 1949–1971, Box 1998. College Park, MD: National Archives. Fatoric, Sandra, and Erin Seekamp. 2017. Securing the Future of Cultural Heritage by Identifying Barriers to and Strategizing Solutions for Preservation Under Changing Climate Conditions. Sustainability 9: 21–43. Fitzpatrick, Scott M., Michiel Kappers, and Quetta Kaye. 2006. Coastal Erosion and Site Destruction on Carriacou, West Indies. Journal of Field Archaeology 31 (3): 251–262. Flyvbjerg, Bent. 2006. Five Misunderstandings About Case-Study Research. Qualitative Inquiry 12 (2): 219–245. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 1077800405284363. Glick, P., B.A.  Stein, and N.A.  Edelson. 2011. Scanning the Conservation Horizon: A Guide for Climate Change Vulnerability Assessment. Washington, DC: National Wildlife Federation. Gold, David. 2008. The Accidental Archivist: Embracing Change and Confusion in Historical Scholarship. In Beyond the Archives: Research as a Lived Process, 13–19. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press. Grigg, Susan. 1991. Archival Practice and the Foundations of Historical Method. The Journal of American History 78 (1): 228–239. Grove, Richard H. 1996. Green Imperialism: Colonial Expansion, Tropical Island Edens and the Origins of Environmentalism, 1600–1860. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gulf Islands National Seashore Advisory Committee Meeting. 1973. Gulf Islands National Seashore Papers Box 3, Folder 4. University of West Florida Archive and West Florida History Center. Hays, Samuel P. 1999. Conservation and the Gospel of Efficiency: The Progressive Conservation Movement, 1890–1920. Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press. Hodder, Ian. 2003. The Interpretation of Documents and Material Culture. In Collecting and Interpreting Qualitative Materials, 155–175. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications.

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Neuman, W.  Lawrence. 1997. Social Research Methods: Qualitative and Quantitative Approaches. Boston, MA: Allyn and Bacon. NPS. 1954. Mission 66 for Colonial National Historical Park. Record Group 79, Division of Interpretive Planning, Records of Public Input Documenting Interpretive Planning Activities, 1955–1999, Box 57. College Park, MD: National Archives. ———. 2015. Cultural Resources Adaptation. December 26. http://www.nps. gov/subjects/climatechange/adaptationforculturalresources.htm. ———. 2016. Green Parks Plan: Advancing Our Mission Through Sustainable Operations. Washington, DC: National Park Service. Papers Relative to the Completion of the Monument of Yorktown. 1885. Washington, DC. Peek, Katie McDowell, Robert S.  Young, Rebecca L.  Beavers, Cat Hawkins Hoffman, Brian T. Diethorn, and Shawn Norton. 2015. Adapting to Climate Change in Coastal Parks: Estimating the Exposure of Park Assets to 1 m of Sea-­ Level Rise. NPS/NRSS/GRD/NRR. Fort Collins, CO: National Park Service. Peterson, Charles E. 1931a. Memorandum to the Director: Choosing a Date for Jamestown and Other Recommendations. Record Group 79 Records of the National Park Service, Classified Files, 1927–1931, Box 53. College Park, MD: National Archives. ———. 1931b. Peterson to the Director. Record Group 79 Records of the National Park Service, Classified Files, 1927–1931, Box 53. College Park, MD: National Archives. Purpose of the National Seashore. 1973. Department of Interior, National Park Service. Record Group 79, Division of Interpretive Planning, Records of Public Input Documenting Interpretive Planning Activities, 1955–1999, Box 137. College Park, MD: National Archives. Ricci, Glenn, Donald Robadue Jr., Pam Rubinoff, Alanna Casey, and Amanda L. Babson. 2019. Integrated Coastal Climate Change Vulnerability Assessment: Colonial National Historical Park. Natural Resources Report 1945. Fort Collins, CO: National Park Service. Rohland, Eleanora. 2017. Adapting to Hurricanes: A Historical Perspective on New Orleans from Its Foundation to Hurricane Katrina, 1718–2005. WIREs Climate Change, September. https://doi.org/10.1002/wcc.488. Rozwadowski, Helen. 2013. The Promise of Ocean History for Environmental History. The Journal of American History, June. https://doi.org/10.1093/ jahist/jat069.

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Part IV Translating Across Disciplines and Policy

11 Integrating Social and Ecological Research on the Impacts of Offshore Wind Farms in North America Talya ten Brink, Tracey Dalton, and Julia Livermore

11.1 Introduction Although offshore wind farms have become well established in Europe and Asia, only one has so far been built in North America, the Block Island Wind Farm (BIWF). Here, however, the sector is set to significantly expand. The BIWF consists of five turbines situated within the state waters of Rhode Island off the northeast coast. Its siting was guided by the Ocean Special Area Management plan which aims to provide a balanced approach to the development and protection of Rhode Island’s ocean-based resources (Smythe and Mccann 2018). Lessons learned from

T. ten Brink (*) • T. Dalton Marine Affairs, University of Rhode Island, Kingston, RI, USA e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] J. Livermore Division of Marine Fisheries, Rhode Island Department of Environmental Management, Providence, RI, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 M. Gustavsson et al. (eds.), Researching People and the Sea, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-59601-9_11

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the BIWF will inform how the US responds to growing demand for offshore wind. Fifteen active proposals for the East Coast currently cover over 1.7  million acres of marine space (Bureau of Ocean Energy Management 2019). These active proposals include over 21 GW of total capacity and over US$473 million in bids. The lease areas in southern New England (excluding BIWF) total just over 900,000 acres (Boutwell 2020). The US Bureau of Ocean Energy Management (BOEM), the federal agency charged with managing the development of US Outer Continental Shelf energy and mineral resources, is also planning offshore wind farm leases in New York, South Carolina, California, and Hawaii. At present, the largest offshore wind farm in the world is Hornsea One, which is located 120 kilometres off England’s Yorkshire Coast. The farm is expected to be built out in three phases; phase one was completed in 2019. The first phase has two 600 MW subzones that span a collective 407 square kilometres and will generate up to 1218 MW (Ørsted 2019). Projects proposed along the US Atlantic coastline are also expected to be large in scale. The project in US federal waters closest to development, Vineyard Wind, was recently awarded a 20-year electrical contract by the state of Massachusetts (Commonwealth of Massachusetts Department of Public Utilities 2019) to provide 800 MW of power to the state. Vineyard Wind is slated to begin construction offshore in late 2020 (Vineyard Wind 2018). Given the large scale and number of offshore wind farms proposed, their development may result in wide-ranging and multi-dimensional effects. In preparation for this growing industry, we therefore conducted an interdisciplinary study to understand the social and ecological impacts of the first US offshore wind farm and to gain insight into approaches to integrating social and ecological assessments. Researchers have increasingly acknowledged the importance of integrating social and natural sciences to understand complex socio-­ecological systems (SES) (e.g., Leenhardt et al. 2015; Lowe et al. 2009). Collaboration between natural and social scientists is essential for addressing important societal issues (Rylance 2015). Integrative research is critical to advancing a more comprehensive understanding of how coupled human-natural systems respond to change (Ostrom 2009; Miller et  al. 2010) and to

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address some of the world’s biggest challenges related to climate change, safe drinking water, sustainable food systems, environmental conservation, and energy demand. Yet there are many obstacles to developing and carrying out successful interdisciplinary projects, such as figuring out how to build effective teams, developing integrative research questions, and working effectively with researchers from different disciplines (e.g., Pickett et  al. 1999; Campbell 2005; Christie 2011; Alexander et al. 2019). Previous studies have explored the integration of social and ecological science in fisheries and environmental management. They have shown the difficulties associated with combining ecological and social models (Phillipson et  al. 2009), marrying issues of scale (Ommer et  al. 2008; Perry et al. 2010), addressing costs of translation (Leenhardt et al. 2015) and finding a balance between mandate dependent and independent research (Christie 2011). Yet few studies have focused on offshore wind development, as an emerging use of the world’s oceans. Using a project on the Block Island Wind Farm as a case study, this chapter documents how social and ecological research was integrated to better understand the impacts of offshore wind farms and explores the benefits and challenges of adopting an SES research approach.

11.2 S  ocial and Ecological Assessment of the BIWF The project design was originally initiated by biologists working for the Rhode Island Department of Environmental Management Division of Marine Fisheries (RI DEM). RI DEM was tasked with analysing ecological data from monthly demersal fish trawl surveys and ventless lobster trap surveys in and around the wind farm to determine if installation and operation of the BIWF was affecting ecological communities. The ecological data had been collected by the project developer (Deepwater Wind, Limited Liability Company (LLC)), through a consulting firm (INSPIRE Environmental) working with commercial fishermen, and were provided to the RI DEM through an agreement between the

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developer and the state of Rhode Island. Data were collected within the wind farm site, or impact area, and at comparable sites near the impact area (control sites) starting two years prior to construction of the wind farm and ending three years after it was built (at the time of writing, project analysis included only one post-construction year). It used a standard ecological survey design, a Before-After, Control-Impact (BACI) multispecies bottom trawl survey (Politis et  al. 2014), because it is a method that captures a variety of demersal fish and shellfish species. The trawl methods used (i.e., net design and measurements recorded) were modelled after the Northeast Area Monitoring and Assessment Program (NEAMAP) Southern New England/Mid-Atlantic Nearshore Trawl Survey to allow for data to be incorporated into longer time series data for use in stock assessment and monitoring. This type of study design allowed for assessment of temporal (before-after) and spatial (control-­ impact) ecological changes associated with the installation and operation of the BIWF (e.g., Green 1979). Recognizing that local users had valuable knowledge of the site, RI DEM ecologists invited social scientists into early project planning discussions to identify ways to incorporate this local knowledge into the overall project design. During these conversations, social scientists described methods that could be used to gather data on users’ perceptions, attitudes, knowledge and behaviours (i.e., structured surveys, semi-­ structured interviews, focus groups). In turn, the team decided to employ a qualitative approach to collecting social science data. Recreational and commercial fishermen who had historically used the BIWF site would be interviewed to document their observations of change due to the construction and operation of the BIWF. Both natural and social scientists on the team thought that semi-structured interviews would be useful for revealing how fishermen understand the wind farm and their relationship to it (e.g., Miles et al. 2014) and for providing rich insights about feelings, thoughts, and emotions that do not always emerge in more quantitative research methods (Strauss and Corbin 1998). As presented in the project proposal, the social and ecological components of the study were initially expected to run simultaneously but independently. At first, the plan was for ecologists to examine the ecological system and for social scientists to examine the human system—and then to

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compare the different datasets. The project was therefore initially envisaged as multidisciplinary, in which the ecological survey and the social science research were conceived as operating in parallel, on their own terms, whilst addressing the project’s overall shared goals. The social and natural science datasets were going to complement one another, allowing for more comprehensive understanding of how this new infrastructure was impacting existing ecological communities and human activities in the BIWF study area. However, as our conversations progressed, our approach evolved into an interdisciplinary endeavour, with integrated data, tools and expertise from across the participating disciplines (e.g., Institute of Medicine 2005). As researchers interested in integrating social and ecological research, the team embraced this shift from a multidisciplinary to interdisciplinary approach and the new areas of investigation it uncovered. For instance, questions about biological conditions posed by fishermen during the interviews were used to dig deeper into the biological data, providing unexpected, yet valuable, insights. During the course of the project, we encountered several challenges to integrating social and ecological science, but unexpected benefits also emerged due to feedbacks between the social and ecological components and certain enabling conditions of the case. In this chapter, we first briefly describe the overall findings from the project before discussing the benefits and challenges of conducting socio-ecological research on this emerging use of marine space.

11.3 Overview of Study Findings Based on our analysis of the trawl survey data from 2013 through 2017, no change in biological diversity, measured as species richness, was observed during or after BIWF construction. Species assemblages were not distinct from one another when grouped by sampling site (impact area vs control area) or by construction phase (before, during, and after) (Fig. 11.1). According to the initial trawl survey data analysis, no individual species demonstrated changes in localized abundance or size distribution, with the exception of monkfish, which had different size distributions by construction phase for certain sites; though further

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Fig. 11.1  Map of the BIWF Demersal Fish Trawl Study Area, where APE refers to the Area of Primary Effect (impact), REFE refers to the Reference East area (control), and REFS refers to the Reference South area (control)

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analysis did not suggest that wind farm construction was responsible for the differences in size distribution. Based on analysis of ventless lobster survey data through 2017, no pattern emerged demonstrating that construction phase size distributions, sex ratios, shell disease ratios, or abundance were distinctly different from years before or after. It is important to note that 2018 data had not been analysed at the time of writing and 2019 data were underdoing quality assurance and quality control. While no changes were detected at that stage, potential biological changes may take years to occur or be detected (Maclean et al. 2014), with data analysis ongoing. Semi-structured interviews were conducted with 18 recreational fishermen and seven commercial fishermen in 2017 to better understand perceived impacts of the wind farm on human use and on the ecology of the area (ten Brink and Dalton 2018). Interview questions asked fishermen about their fishing experience, use of the area, and perceptions of change due to the construction and operation of the BIWF. Interviews were recorded, transcribed, and coded using an applied thematic analysis approach (e.g., Guest et al. 2012). During the interviews, fishermen described multiple social and ecological impacts of the BIWF. For instance, most fishermen observed an increase in recreational fishing in the BIWF area, which was viewed positively by most recreational fishermen and negatively by commercial fishermen who felt crowded out by the increase in recreational fishing. Many fishermen felt that the wind farm functioned as a ‘structure’, ‘reef ’, or a ‘fish aggregating device’ for fish to cluster around the turbines. Some fishermen observed new fish species in the area, and other fishermen noted that they saw fewer fish species in the area during construction. Some fishermen described the establishment of large numbers of blue mussels on the turbine structures, and it was suggested that some turbines were more ecologically beneficial than other turbines. Other perceived impacts of the BIWF included the negative effects of sound and increased turbidity during construction and an increase in cod in the area. Fishermen also highlighted lost fishing ground and gear, as well as benefits in terms of reduced demand for diesel generators and availability of compensation for negative impacts of the wind farm construction.

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Preliminary findings from the interviews and ecological component of the project were presented in a collaborative forum with fishermen hosted by the Rhode Island Marine Fisheries Institute in December, 2019. In part, the participants’ feedback aligned with the emerging findings, such as their perception that the turbines were functioning as a ‘reef ’ for fish and mussels in the area. As the ecological survey had not yet detected impacts that could be attributed to the BIWF, it was acknowledged by the ecologists that this could be a function of the statistical power of the survey design. This led to opportunities being discussed for more advanced analytical methodologies and the incorporation of additional post-construction data for the ongoing ecological study.

11.4 B  enefits and Enabling Conditions Encountered During the Project As a more integrative approach to data collection and analysis emerged in response to ongoing discussions, feedback and interactions among the social and natural scientists, several benefits to this socio-ecological approach were realized. Feedback and observations from interviews with fishermen provided valuable insights regarding species of commercial and recreational importance in Rhode Island, informing the biological analysis and helping to identify key parameters that should be evaluated. For instance, as the project progressed, dialogue among project members led to additional biological analyses that had not been initially considered. This reciprocal relationship between biological and social science findings allowed for new understandings. For instance, preliminary analyses of the interview data indicated that fishermen perceived more cod around the BIWF, prompting additional analysis of cod biological data. It would transpire that neither the construction phase nor the sampling site contributed to the change in cod abundance, with temperature being the only contributing covariate. Therefore, the increase in cod abundance observed by the fishermen may be attributed to factors beyond the wind farm, though the drivers for this change are less well understood (Langan et al. 2020).

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As offshore wind farms have been documented to act as artificial reefs (Wilhelmsson and Malm 2008; Inger et al. 2009; Langhamer 2012) and black sea bass are a structure-oriented species, the ecologists had hypothesized that local abundance of black sea bass could potentially increase near the wind farm due to the introduction of additional hard substrate of the turbine structure. However, while there was an increase in black sea bass abundance in the impact area in August 2017, and black sea bass abundance was mentioned by interviewees in the social science component as a target species, ecological analyses through 2017 data did not support this hypothesis. As with the cod analysis, temperature was the only significant covariate, which suggested that the increase in black sea bass was part of a larger trend, potentially the population distribution shifting poleward, rather than a beneficial impact of the wind farm (e.g., Bell et al. 2015). It was evident that some characteristics of the research team and the BIWF itself were helping to facilitate an integrated approach within the project. For instance, there was direct alignment between the goals of the biological and social science components of the research. As biological data collection had been initiated prior to the start of the social science portion of the project, the interview questions were developed to gather supplementary data. What was potentially a narrow framing of the social science contribution to the study around biological species impact goals is discussed further in Sect. 11.5. Previous studies on interdisciplinary methods have found that a major challenge of SES research is that goals to fulfil fisheries management interests are not always aligned with biological research interests. Sievanen, Campbell, and Leslie (2011, 318), for example, observe in their interdisciplinary study that ‘conceptual challenges emerged from divergent worldviews among project participants’. In our project, research participants across the disciplines shared similar views; in particular, we were interested in addressing stakeholders’ questions and concerns associated with biological changes at the BIWF, while valuing environmental conservation and sustainable fisheries management. Despite using different methods of data collection and analyses in each component, the overall goal of the project strands was similar: to provide insights about the social and ecological system associated with the wind farm to aid in future project planning and management.

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The spatial scale of the BIWF was such that it also enabled integration of the social and ecological data. Because the BIWF is limited in size, with only five turbines located within state jurisdictional boundaries, our study area was relatively compact focusing all researchers’ efforts within a manageable geographic area. It is possible that larger marine areas with more fishermen and more types of fishing, additional government authorities involved in planning and management, and more species of interest, will face added complications for integrated socio-ecological assessments of offshore wind development.

11.5 Overcoming Data Integration Challenges The project’s enabling conditions were vital in helping to overcome a number of principal data integration challenges. Four issues stood out in particular, which we now consider in turn: the combination of quantitative and qualitative data, mismatch of scales, differences in priorities for focal species, and project framing.

11.5.1 Integrating Qualitative and Quantitative Data A major challenge we experienced in our project related to the integration of qualitative and quantitative data. Qualitative data from open-­ ended narrative interviews are especially valuable for capturing unanticipated phenomena, receiving participants’ input directly, and providing additional variables necessary for further study (Maxwell 1996; Rust et al. 2017; Moon et al. 2018). In turn, quantitative research enables the testing of hypotheses across large samples (Patton 2015) and the modelling of changes to social and ecological systems (e.g., Dewsbury et al. 2016). While both traditions provide valuable insights individually, combining their inputs can offer a more complete picture. However, it is not always immediately clear how to practically combine qualitative and quantitative data in order to derive new understandings. Qualitative data cannot be easily input into a statistical model and quantitative data does not necessarily provide readily transferable insights into an emerging

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theoretical framework. In our project, it was not obvious to the team how we should go about linking the qualitative social science data from the interviews with the quantitative ecological data from the trawl and trap surveys. However, through an iterative process and ongoing opportunities for the research team to share insights into their respective methodological approaches, we were able to identify feedbacks in each strand of work that could inform data collection and analysis in the other. Awareness of this challenge and acknowledgment of how to address it earlier on in the project would have helped establish a more integrative study from the outset.

11.5.2 M  ismatch of Temporal and Spatial Scales of Data Differences in spatial and temporal scales of biological communities, human uses, and political boundaries can make it difficult to compare data across ecological and social systems (Sayles 2018; Cumming et al. 2006), and this also turned out to be the case in our project, both within and between its research strands. The biological study design involved otter trawls, targeting demersal species, in specific control and impact areas, each month for the duration of the project. Its design had acknowledged limitations in relation to issues of scale. While monthly monitoring at fixed sites is adequate for assessing biological changes over a period of years in an impact assessment, there is localized temporal and spatial variability that may not be captured using this method. Also, site-specific biological surveys are only able to sample species’ life history stages occurring in the study area, so they may fail to encompass all species’ ecological boundaries and other stages which may occur elsewhere. The social science component captured recreational and commercial fishermen’s observations of benthic and pelagic species within about a 10-nautical mile radius of the turbines in the years preceding the turbines, during construction, and one year after construction. Fishermen’s observations were therefore not confined to the specific sampling sites used in the trawl survey. In addition, their observations were not restricted

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to specific times, only broad time ranges of before, during and after construction of the wind farm. Unlike the trawl survey which occurred on certain times and days during the month, the fishermen were drawing on a longer-term, continuous, data series within which to look for patterns and anomalies. As others have noted, timescales are important and need explicit consideration in management of ecological systems (e.g., Hastings 2016). The temporal and spatial scale mismatches in our study made it difficult to directly compare the interview and trawl survey data; however, discussions among the researchers responsible for the different datasets were helpful for developing a wider multi-scale understanding of the impacts of the BIWF.  It was also evident that potential improvements could be made to each of the project’s components to elicit new understandings from the social and ecological research. For instance, our project would have benefited from additional ecological study sites and greater sampling frequency to yield more information about localized temporal and spatial variability in ecological measures and align better with the social science data. Interview questions could have aligned more directly with the ecological data as well. In the interviews, fishermen were asked to discuss observations in broad spatial and temporal terms (e.g. in terms such as before, during, or after construction). It is possible that fishermen in our study experienced recall bias affecting how they remembered an event that took place in the past, such as the numbers or sizes of fish caught near a turbine (e.g., Bernard 2006). We used landmarks as suggested by Bernard (2006), like the months when the wind farm was constructed, to reduce errors in responses. It might have also been useful to interview fishermen at distinct times over the course of wind farm development, such as in specific months during wind farm construction. Interview questions might also have been tied more directly to particular spaces like trawl survey sites, although fishermen may be reluctant to provide sensitive information on specific fishing ground locations.

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11.5.3 Mismatch in Focal Fish Species There was also a mismatch in the focal fish species in the biological and social components of the project. Social scientists were primarily interested in focusing on organisms that were economically and culturally significant to people, such as those that fishermen were targeting to catch and those that divers observed around the base of the turbines. Ecologists focused on a broader suite of species, as well as the biological community structure and whether those communities changed in relation to the wind farm. Differences in the focal species between social and ecological parts of the project meant that certain findings could not be validated across the different components. For example, fishermen noted in the interviews that they saw mahi (Coryphaena hippurus) near the turbines, but since mahi is a migratory pelagic species, it was not captured in the demersal trawl survey. The social science interviews also found perceptions of an artificial reef effect, including fishermen’s observations of minnows, mussels and fish on and close to the turbines. While a demersal trawl survey is not a common method for targeting blue mussels, the survey did show a slight increase in blue mussels in the impact area following wind farm construction, suggesting that the fixed structures were providing new habitat for certain organisms. However, the trawl survey alone was unable to effectively sample migratory pelagic or reef-associated species whose abundances could serve as indicators of whether the turbine foundations were acting as artificial reefs. With the benefit of hindsight, it is clear that to better capture changes in recognizable, desirable and iconic fish that the fishermen discussed in the interviews, and allow for more direct comparison between social and ecological data, it would have been useful to deploy additional gear types, such as rod and reel surveys.

11.5.4 Framing It was mentioned earlier that the social science contribution to the project was originally designed to supplement the biological research. Its scope and framing focused on fishermen’s perceptions of biological

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impacts. However, through open-ended interview questions the social science research was also able to bring to the fore wider framings of impact. During the interviews, fishermen described numerous social impacts, such as displacement of fishing activity into other areas, changes to fishing patterns, and access to traditional grounds. However, because the interviews focused primarily on perceptions of biological changes due to the wind farm, several potential areas of social impact analysis, such as livelihood effects, participation of fishermen in the planning and siting of the wind farm, and governance arrangements, were not discussed by the fishermen. Findings from the study revealed important social and ecological impacts, but it also became apparent that other areas of social impact were outside the frame of study, but which would be important to a holistic understanding. Such choices pertaining to research framing come to the heart of interdisciplinary projects exploring socio-ecological systems. They deserve open and ongoing reflection from the early stages of project design.

11.6 Discussion More interdisciplinary and collaborative research on offshore wind farms is necessary to understand the cumulative impacts of offshore wind developments on a broader scale, both spatially and temporally. This chapter, drawing on the experience of our study into the impacts of the BIWF, has identified a number of benefits and challenges to integrating ecological and social approaches to impact assessment. Social science played a key role in facilitating the input of local fisher knowledge, which helped to identify important issues for further ecological analysis. Yet several challenges were encountered in data integration in relation to combining qualitative and quantitative data, mismatch of temporal and spatial scales, choice of focal fish species and research framing. Based on our lessons learned, future socio-ecological assessments of offshore wind farms may benefit from using additional gear types to collect ecological data, increasing the number of ecological study sites, and conducting interviews before the wind farms are constructed and throughout their construction and operation. More importantly, it is critical that social scientists and

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ecologists communicate at the earliest stages of project planning, framing and throughout the project. Our experience showed that using traditional data collection methods developed and refined within distinct disciplines and then trying to merge the data at a later stage is not sufficient for conducting fully integrative studies. We started out with social science and ecological strands of work that would each contribute different perspectives, allowing for more comprehensive understanding of the BIWF.  Yet, as the project evolved, it became clear that these separate components could provide valuable information to each other throughout the course of the project. The project itself evolved from an integrated multidisciplinary socio-­ ecological study into a more interdisciplinary approach, with feedbacks and synergies across data collection and analysis streams. Our experience supports calls for researchers to re-think how social and natural science data are being collected and analysed at the earliest stages of project design. Upfront and reflexive planning of interdisciplinary studies is necessary to address gaps in problem definition, data sets, and research questions among different disciplines. Our project on the BIWF serves as a valuable case study on which to design an interdisciplinary assessment framework for offshore wind farms in the US more widely. However, the BIWF featured only five 6-MW wind turbines in a single line, while future projects are expected to be many times larger in scale. The design of project surveys will need to adequately address the larger spatial and longer temporal scale of development (Ryan et al. 2019). Future study designs should therefore be logically bounded in time and space in an effort to identify metrics of change that can be linked to ecosystem function (Wilding et al. 2017). Metrics of change should also be nested within and connected to wider societal drivers and biological trends, as well as understanding cumulative impacts caused by regional offshore wind farms and other ocean uses, like fishing and shipping.

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11.7 Conclusion There are growing concerns about how to effectively conduct comprehensive, longitudinal assessments of the impacts of offshore wind farms, which are planned to cover hundreds of thousands of acres (Vineyard Wind 2018). Many offshore wind farm studies have tended to capture the biological or social impacts, but they rarely attempt to integrate their findings and disciplinary perspectives. Our research provides a test case of collaborative and multi-stage research design, from which lessons can be drawn to inform future environmental impact statements, with critical factors being the importance of early collaboration, aligned goals, and a reflexive awareness of research framing. Acknowledgements  This work was funded by Rhode Island Sea Grant. This chapter was prepared while Dr ten Brink was employed at the University of Rhode Island. The statements, findings, conclusions and recommendations are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the National Ocean and Atmospheric Administration, or the US government.

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12 Imagining the Coast: A Mixed Methods Approach to Elicit Perceptions and Conflicts on the West Coast of Ireland Maria Pafi, Wesley Flannery, and Brendan Murtagh

12.1 Introduction Over the last decade, the marketisation of coastal landscapes has intensified with the emergence of the European Commission’s Blue Growth Strategy. Within this strategy, Blue Growth is portrayed as an opportunity that will benefit coastal communities through the rapid growth of several key sectors, including marine renewable energy, aquaculture, biotechnology, seabed mining, and coastal and marine tourism (EC 2012, 2014, 2017). Blue Growth has, however, also been criticised for exacerbating changes and pressures in particular coastal communities, deepening their vulnerability and reducing their capacity to adapt (Flannery et al. 2018). Whereas coastal communities are often characterised by a lack of infrastructure and resources, which may prevent them from actively participating in the more capital- and technology-intensive Blue Growth sectors, M. Pafi (*) • W. Flannery • B. Murtagh Queen’s University Belfast, Belfast, UK e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 M. Gustavsson et al. (eds.), Researching People and the Sea, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-59601-9_12

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coastal tourism may be a more accessible option for community-led development. However, the expansion of market logics into the tourism sector, and the commodification processes of the coastal landscape, can mean that it is difficult for communities to become involved. There is a significant critical literature about the often shallow authenticity of coastal tourism processes and the way they can overshadow local understandings of landscape (Kothari and Arnall 2017; Ounanian 2019a; Egberts and Hundstad 2019). Much of the criticism tends to frame tourists as passive receptors of narratives that have been carefully crafted by the tourism industry to maximise consumption (i.e. the ‘tourist gaze’ by Urry and Larsen 2011). These depictions invariably cause contestation and tensions between local communities and tourism regimes, in which the growing numbers of tourists are often framed as part of the problem (Flannery et al. 2019). Conversely, the coast can also hold complex meanings and values for tourists, which both planning practices and the tourism industry can systematically devalue or ignore while delivering growth-orientated strategies (White 2018). Understanding the complex relationship between communities, tourists and the landscape is, therefore, imperative for sustainable planning and a more distributive type of Blue Growth. In our study, we conceptualised tourists as critical consumers who have the agency to question the credibility, authenticity and accuracy of what is presented to them by tourism producers (Murtagh et  al. 2017). Tourists—like host communities—attach special meanings to landscapes and hold complex perspectives about the coast, the sea and the nature of change. Tourist experiences are ‘not given a priori’, but they emerge through individual contact with landscapes and transform in a ‘dialogical interplay’ with local people (Bruner 2005, 11). We understand this dialogical interplay as a mutual exchange which invariably occurs in encounters between locals and tourists, suggesting that tourists do not only ‘gaze’ (Urry and Larsen 2011, 3) but are also ‘gazed upon’ (Gillespie 2006, 3). This encounter has potentially transformative power and, as a form of dialogical interplay, can enable the emergence of common understandings. It is this dialogue that leads many, but not all, tourists to challenge official interpretations and embrace local understandings, values and concerns.

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This argument led us to question if we could unpack this dialogical interplay and seek to understand how doing this would open opportunities for growth which could prove beneficial for communities, tourists and the coastal landscape. Our questions then were: How can we operationalise this dialogue between communities and tourists to identify common understandings and alignments? And how can we then transform such alignments into practical projects to empower coastal communities? In other words, what methodology could we use to investigate this complex relationship among tourists, communities and the coastal landscape, in a way that will be understood and embraced by communities? Our questions led us to explore approaches in which social science researchers have made significant contributions to understanding complex interactions between people, the sea and the coast, by bringing together diverse methodologies. For reasons that will be further elaborated in Sect. 12.3, we adopted a mixed methods approach using both qualitative (QUAL) and quantitative (QUAN) methodologies. Although the benefits of mixed (QUAL-­ QUAN) methods research are considerable, there are also several challenges that need to be examined critically when combining different methodologies. Of particular importance are methodological traditions, often associated with distinct epistemologies, which in turn underpin particular notions about the value of the coast (Hammersley 2013). There are epistemological and ontological differences too between qualitative and quantitative approaches. Yet, such differences have also overshadowed less obvious but equally significant challenges. Bryman (2007), for example, has highlighted the need for better quality mixed methods research, suggesting that greater effort needs to be placed on data integration. In this chapter, we discuss data integration challenges, but we also reflect on other less explored or under-acknowledged complications of using mixed methods approaches, relating to the time and resources needed to give sufficient attention to each methodological strand. We also want to reflect on our own motivations for deciding to use this methodology. The chapter begins with a review of the methodological diversity in the social science literature and how divisions between the qualitative and quantitative research traditions have led to a lack of attention to what is

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a key component of the coastal landscape experience: the dialogical interplay between local communities and tourists (Sect. 12.2). This is followed by an introduction to our mixed methods study on the west coast of Ireland (Sect. 12.3). The example is then used to discuss the issue of qualitative and quantitative data integration (Sect. 12.4) and the challenge of balancing research methods (Sect. 12.5).

12.2 Rethinking Quantitative and Qualitative Divisions It is common practice for mixed methods to be used in the social sciences to capture different perspectives and dimensions of a phenomenon. The rationale for using more than one method to collect data is often based on the assumption that the drawbacks of using one method can be mitigated by the benefits of another (Creswell 2003; Hammersley 2013). ‘Mixing’, however, has also been viewed as abandoning key assumptions connected with methodological traditions. Consequently, mixed methods have been criticised by some as producing incompatible outcomes (Giddings 2006; Greene 2008). This debate is perhaps more commonly played out in the context of mixed quantitative-qualitative research designs, which attempt to intertwine quite contrasting epistemological roots. Quantitative methods naturally gravitate towards the collection of large datasets and the use of statistical analysis to draw inferences. As such, they are often associated with the economic and natural sciences and linked to a more positivist worldview, seeking objective, universal and value-free truths (Hemmersley 2013). As a result, quantitative methods have tended to be separated from qualitative research approaches and their endorsement of more value-laden and context specific perspectives (Hammersley 2017). Qualitative approaches are therefore broadly situated within a post-­ positivist paradigm which views the values people assign to places as a social construct and subjective in nature (Vaccaro et al. 2010). Equally, while the distinction between qualitative and quantitative methodologies is useful for organising data collection and analysis

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strategies, research methods are more independent of epistemological and ontological assumptions than is sometimes supposed (Creswell 2003). This reflection is especially true for research about the alignment (or divergence) of complex and multi-layered community and tourist perspectives, which could be made more visible with the integration of both qualitative and quantitative methods. However, most of the literature about people-sea interactions tends to follow clear-cut methodological divisions, which sometimes reify conceptual pitfalls. The Cultural Ecosystem Services framework (Haines-Young and Poschin 2018) and Landscape Values Typology (Brown 2006) are both examples of approaches that aim at quantifying the linkages between human well-being and a set of pre-defined cultural values assigned to the sea and coast. In so doing, they have frequently used social surveys, at times combined with participatory mapping, to quantify causal relationships between human values and coastal and marine environments (Fletcher et al. 2014; Gee et al. 2017). Elsewhere in the literature, multivariate social surveys have been used to assign a fixed value to non-market coastal and marine landscapes services (Hynes et al. 2014; Norton and Hynes 2018). Within such approaches, the selection of assessment methods largely determines what is recorded and what is perceived to be of value in the landscape (Stephenson 2008). Constructivist approaches in the literature view coastal landscape as a social construct. This epistemological position endorses the multiplicity and subjectivity of perspectives, while adopting qualitative methodologies that allow the elicitation of complex experiential values (Brennan 2018; Ounanian 2019b; Gustavsson and Riley 2018). Constructivists seek to understand people-landscape interactions, in which community values and lived experiences are viewed as important, with an emphasis on multi-sensory perceptions, corporeality, emotion and contestation (Murtagh et  al. 2017). Concepts like place attachment (Kearns and Collins 2012; Amundsen 2015), place-based identities (Stewart et  al. 2004; Farrell et al. 2017), memories and nostalgias of past places (Kothari and Arnall 2017), blue health and well-being (Britton et al. 2018), cultural and social practices (Ounanian 2019b) and social representations (Batel and Devine-Wright 2015), have all received attention in

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explaining the way the coast and the sea are evaluated and contested through intricate socio-cultural patterns. Both of these traditions suffer from, and reproduce, a partial understanding of coastal perceptions and conflicts. With few exceptions (i.e. White 2018), experiential values have primarily been considered from a community or local stakeholder perspective and predominately associated with the inhabitants of a place. In contrast, empirical studies in tourism have tended to ignore experiential values in favour of socio-economic and behavioural patterns, led by market logics and often operationalised via (quantitative) market segmentation studies. As a consequence, there is a limited appreciation of the potential commonalities and alignments that may emerge during a dialogical interplay between coastal communities, tourists and the landscape. This methodological division has reinforced a somewhat contrived conceptual division between insiders and outsiders, in which tourists, as outsiders, have often been viewed as uncritical and unsympathetic to coastal landscapes and communities and the challenges they face. We believe that reconciling qualitative-quantitative methodologies within a mixed methods approach can overcome this conceptual pitfall. This methodological reconciliation was the objective of our study into the complexity of community and tourist experiences of contested coastal landscapes in Ireland, which we introduce in the next section of this chapter.

12.3 E  xperiencing Coastal Landscapes: A Mixed Methods Research Design The Coastal Landscapes and Inclusive Planning (CLIP) study involved a PhD investigation into local and tourist experiences of coastal landscapes of the west coast of Ireland in the context of increasing pressures from Blue Growth.1 In recent years, Ireland has intensified the process of valorisation of its coastal landscapes (Flannery et al. 2016). The west coast has been converted into the Wild Atlantic Way (WAW)—Ireland’s first  The lead author is a PhD candidate on the project and is supervised by the other two authors.

1

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touristic long-drive route connecting the whole Atlantic coast (Fáilte Ireland 2015, 2018). At the same time, the government’s commitment to Blue Growth frames the west coast as a site for development to expand Ireland’s available blue assets (HOOW 2012; DAFM 2015; DCENR 2014). These policies potentially contradict the WAW portrayal of the coastline as a wild and unspoilt space and in future may lead to tension between Blue Growth developers and coastal communities reliant on tourism. The Connemara coast, Co. Galway, on the west of Ireland demonstrates signs of Blue Growth pressures and as such, it serves as an ideal area where contestation can be explored from both community and tourist perspectives. Connemara has been represented as one of the most iconic features of the WAW. Galway Bay was the site of deployment of a subsea ocean renewables test site in 2015, which coastal communities strongly opposed (DCENR 2014). Killary Harbour, on the north coast of Connemara, is a prominent location for seafood production, with extended rope mussel farms and salmon aquaculture spreading all along its 16 km coastline (DAFM 2015). Two coastal communities were selected as case studies for the research, as they both face growing pressures from Blue Growth and the intensified tourism brought by the WAW: An Spidéal (Spiddal, in English), on the coast of Galway Bay and Leenane, on the coast of Killary Harbour. An exploration of the complex relationship between local communities, tourists and coastal landscapes, was operationalised through a mix of qualitative and quantitative methods. Besides the benefits of mixed methods as discussed in Sect. 12.2, there were other underlying motivations which influenced this choice of design. To begin with, a PhD study offers a space to be creative and open, to explore and experiment with ideas, concepts and methodologies. A mixed methods approach was also an opportunity to explore different methodologies and obtain a range of useful skills. Furthermore, with quantitative methodologies tending to be more recognised by policymakers and government-facing agencies, and with the research funded by a government organisation (the Marine Institute), it was felt appropriate to include a quantitative component alongside a qualitative approach.

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A multi-stage mixed methods framework was developed that involved three stages of research during the summer of 2018, where stage two and three occurred in parallel following stage one (see Table 12.1). Stage one consisted of field observations and scoping interviews with members of the two coastal communities. Data obtained during this stage were used to develop the tourist survey, while some of the interviewees were invited to take part in a focus group at a later stage to discuss experiences of coastal landscape and change at the coast. Stage two followed the scoping interviews and consisted of community focus groups. Focus groups were adopted as a method because of their usefulness in eliciting collective community understandings and values, while allowing for contestation to be identified and negotiated (Acocella 2012). Two focus groups were organised around participant-led photo-elicitation. Photo-elicitation is a method widely applied in sociology to elicit deeper meanings through narratives created by the emotions triggered by viewing an image (Stewart et al. 2004; Beilin 2005). It has primarily been used in face-to-face interviews with one participant. Therefore, using it with a community group to address the study’s objective of assessing individual and community landscape representations was considered innovative, yet challenging. Participants took the photos during their personal interactions with the coast and the sea, a process which captured their individual landscape representations. Presenting their photos to other community members enabled some of the personal narratives attached to landscapes to be negotiated, reified and agreed upon collectively through the interactive nature of the photo-elicitation focus group. This methodology allowed for individual experiences of coastal landscapes to be situated within social meanings relevant to the wider community. It also kept the discussion vibrant; the participants typically engaged throughout the session and created a sense of ownership of the process, limiting the influence of the researchers to a minimum. As is common with focus groups, challenges arose with managing dominant participants. Photo-elicitation brought out another type of dominant participant, the ‘photo champion’. Some participants with an inclination for photography took an excessive number of photographs, which meant some participants were given less time to elaborate their

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experiences. To account for this, we carried out follow-up, one-to-one photo-elicitation interviews. Stage three consisted of a tourist survey. A self-administered questionnaire was developed, which consisted of (a) variables phrased as values, emotions and attitudes to be ranked on a Likert-type scale; (b) demographic variables; (c) pre-visit motivations and awareness of the WAW; and (d) an open-ended question to capture additional positive and negative values and perceptions (phrased as most and least liked aspects of the visit). As noted earlier, scoping interviews with members of the two coastal communities were used as a method to develop the survey. For example, most participants from both communities identified the restorative benefits of the sea as being very important both for physical and mental health. Accordingly, a variable was developed to reflect this value, phrased as ‘Being close to the ocean makes me feel healthier’. The rest of the variables were developed in a similar way. Overall, although the research methodology was designed to allow integration at the early stages of the research, in the end triangulating the datasets, whilst respecting their inherent differences, proved to be challenging, as we discuss below.

12.4 The Complexity of Data Integration The quality of mixed methods studies is often evaluated based on the degree to which qualitative and quantitative data are integrated (Bryman 2007). In other words, mixed methods research aspires to more than just the sum of the individual parts (Creswell 2003, 2011). Fetters, Curry and Creswell (2013) have provided a useful description of the integration principles and practices in three key stages of the mixed methods research process: (a) integration via design, which relates to the selection of one of the basic or more advanced designs of mixed methods (i.e. sequential, convergent, multi-stage etc.); (b) integration via methods, which pertains to connecting, building, merging or embedding different datasets or data collection activities; and (c) integration via interpretation and reporting, which can be achieved through narrative-weaving, data transformation or joint display. Accordingly, a ‘fit’ of data integration has been defined as

• Field observations • Scoping interviews —Two open questions —Interviews recorded via written notes —Interesting quotes captured verbatim

Sample

Data processing

Notes Residents, fishers, manually aquaculture coded stakeholders, farmers, tourism and heritage stakeholders, community representatives and governmental officers involved in Blue Growth sectors and other developmental policies related to the coast Transcriptions As in Stage 1, but • Participant-­led interactive photo elicitation Stage 2: were local residents —Prior to focus groups: Participants asked to take Community manually without a vested between 10 and 15 photographs of places within focus groups coded interest in Blue their localities which ‘meant something to them; This stage acted as through a Growth who felt either positive or negative’ an arena to elicit process of their voices were —During focus groups: Participants asked to take community inductive neglected in 10 minutes each to talk through their photos by experiences of coding decision-­making narrating the reasons they took them and what coastal change were prioritised they felt about the places depicted. The rest were free to interact and this instigated an open discussion —Focus groups were audio recorded and then transcribed Quantitative phase

Qualitative phase Stage 1: Scoping exercise This was a preparatory stage to recruit participants for Stage 2 and develop survey for Stage 3

Data collection instruments

Table 12.1   Overview of methods

• Thematic analysis of codes. • Photographs used for illustration and were not analysed separately

Thematic analysis and use of concepts to develop tourist survey

Data analysis

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Stage 3: Tourist survey

• Self-administered questionnaire distributed in two ways: —Recruiting participants on-site via convenience sampling at four locations and a bus tour route along the coast (participants invited to selfcomplete and return to researcher) —Dropping the survey at multiple outlets along the coast and collecting them at the end of summer period

Data collection instruments • 505 respondents • Majority young (