What I don’t know about starfish…
My relationship with starfish will never be the same since I witnessed two seagulls bickering over a large, bigger-than-my-hand pink starfish the other morning alongside the wharf. It was hard to know who had done the initial plucking, the older gull of the juvenile. Noticing other vulnerable starfish lying atop the mudflats under the morning sun, I presumed it wasn’t laborious work; if they stopped caw caw-ing at each other, they could very well pluck out one each. They were both steadfast in their want of this one, however, and for a few minutes I watched on as they took turns caw-ing and snatching the leg (?) of the starfish out of one another’s’ beaks.
Our coastal village is a different world during low tide. We are now renting a 1915 Fisherman’s cottage 150 meters from the beach, which also happens to be situated in a 4/5G dead spot. Whilst we wait for internet to be installed (satellite being the only option, which I’m honestly not happy about…) we enjoy the 20-minute walk into town each day along the Goyen River before nabbing internet from local cafes.
Along the way, we discover an array of creatures as they come into view on the outgoing tide. There are the usual suspects one might expect to find along the sparse Breton coast: seagulls, crabs, oysters, mussels, and plenty of kelp. I was ignorantly surprised, though, to discover starfish – quite big ones, too - having always associated them with coastal rock pools or shallow ocean sandbars, not in rivers or marinas.
As a teen growing up visiting the remote west coast of South Australia, we dodged bright blue and purple starfish underfoot on the low tide walk out to surf a sharky left-hand point break. We would watch out for urchins, too, but I distinctly recall being particularly careful not to squash a starfish. Occasionally I’d pick a dried one up from the sand, hard to touch and hollow inside. I didn’t grow up with starfish stories, though; Patrick – Spongebob’s goofy pink sidekick (Spongebob Squarepants) – would come in to my life later as a mum of boys.
Embarrassingly, I realize I know nothing about starfish.
What kind of creatures are they? How do they go about their days? Who are their closest kin and how do they interact? How do they get their brilliant colours? Why are they so vulnerable on the low tide and how long does it take for them to dry to death? And, who other than lazy seagulls eat them?
Video: not quite exposed on the low tide, a starfish lying on the seabed of the marina, just doing its thang (what, exactly that means I am here to learn!).
Back at the Fisherman’s cottage, I’m stuck with my questions and no internet to search for answers. My books are still in storage, but I don’t have any about starfish anyway. This makes me ponder society’s heavy reliance on the internet and books for knowledge exchange, whilst also considering access discrepancies. I think about disinformation, too, how it spreads like wildfire online, and what it might take to preserve knowledge exchange practices that, by keeping us grounded in kinship relationships, help us discover ‘right’ stories (Tyson Yunkaporta, 2024). For now, though, I’m still new to the community and don’t feel confident yet to yarn over coffee about starfish with my broken French.
How do you even say starfish in French? Etoile de mer, Remy tells me. Star of the sea, wow, I really like that translation!
I am not a marine biologist, though as a kid I had a brief longing to become one in order to work with dolphins after my first visit to an aquarium on the Gold Coast in Australia. I do not advocate for such aquariums today, and over a decade ago I supported my friend’s dolphin advocacy work by translating tense conversations between surfers and dolphin fishermen in the middle of the night in Japan for The Cove movie.
Starfish really weren’t on my agenda when we moved here a month ago (until that seagull fight); it is oysters and mussels, bilvalves – or the ‘lungs of the sea’ - who I’ve been curious to learn more about. Since discovering the impact end-of-life fiberglass boats (and, likely, surfboards and other marine craft, too) have on these filter feeder shellfish, I opened a personal line of inquiry into human-oyster kinship relations, both scientifically – learning what scientists know – and their historical representation in art and literature - oyster stories.
Scientifically, new research reveals the accumulation of fiberglass particles in the digestive glands of oysters and mussels (who ingest the particles indiscriminately) shed from end-of-life boats can impair their health, affecting feeding, growth, and reproduction, potentially leading to population declines and broader ecological impacts. Thinking of fiberglass like ‘asbestos of the sea,’ as my scientist friend and collaborator Dr. Corina Ciocan explained it to me, raises alarm bells about the broader impact that marine leisure (and commercial) craft have on aquatic ecosystems and biota - oceans and estauraies and coral reefs; surely these are places we want to keep healthy for both our pleasure pursuits and, importantly, for our survival.
In storytelling, oysters have featured prominently in art and literature over the ages; our historical relationship with them is worth better understanding. One story I dug up online (before the move when I took WiFi for granted [the website has since been taken down so I’m can’t as yet verify the information]) suggests oysters are the very reason we humans exist today; somewhere in southern Africa quite a long time ago, we faced extreme food shortages and, one day, a brave ancestor of ours took a punt and ate the very first oyster. I presume that, should the tale be true, he or she didn’t die and as the story suggests, with this new food in abundance, others followed suit and shucked away their hunger.
Other stories and representations in particularly European and American art depict oysters as more of a food for the rich, whilst archaeologists inform us oysters were an important staple of Indigenous cultures such as Aboriginal Australians; middens dating back tens of thousands of years are documented in recent literature.
One artist’s story I admire is that of Megan Cope, who questioned the use of art in museums and galleries, creating living oyster reef sculptures under the guideance of Indigenous elders from her community, using art as a living contribution to conservation rather than as static artifacts.
Back on foot down along the banks of the Goyen, upriver from the Seagull fight, I stop before a partly submerged, clearly end-of-life boat, rotting in the water meters beside a public walking path and RV rest stop, covered hull to mast in thick algae. I pull out my smartphone to capture photos, video, and mark the GPS locations on a mapping application. Later, at home, I’ll upload this data along with details such as the vessel type (recreational), primary habitat (estuary, mudflat, oyster reef), vessel inspection notes and other information to the ‘Bad Boats’ database I’ve created for citizens to report data on problematic GRP boats to support further research and policy change.
I discover oyster ‘parks’ just around the river’s bend, so now I’m really stressed about this abandoned boat, likely shedding fiberglass particles and other toxic substances (paint and resins, for example) directly into this delicate living ecosystem. Researchers have spoken to me about their theories on how fiberglass impacts softshell organisms like worms - critical in keeping sea and riverbeds healthy - and other species like lobster, whom may be asphyxiated by fiberglass should studies prove fiberglass particles get trapped in their lungs. More research is required; the database aims to help scientists identify hot spots in which to focus their studies.
(I am currently fundraising to support the management of the ‘Bad Boats’ Database. If you’d like to make a financial contribution, you can do so easily via our Floating Stories Lab PayPal, HERE.)
Video: the diversity of the Goyen River is apparent. A short walk from that abandoned boat I found oyster beds, from my understanding these are working oyster farms. I hope to meet the farmers and learn more about their processes, whilst attracting scientists to come and sample the water for fiberglass particles.
Now, I’m starting to worry about the impact of fiberglass on starfish, too. And the seagulls who eat the starfish. And us, who eat the oysters and mussels and lobsters whilst relying on them all to help keep our oceans clean and healthy. The irony, then, that our human production of fiberglass to serve our leisure desires and commercial needs is wreaking havoc on species we depend upon for our existence.
Everything is interconnected; we are an integral part of these living ecosystems and the simple reminder that we participate on Earth AS nature, rather than as something separate, might be the key to influence regenerative living practices.
We also need more stories. About starfish and oysters and lobsters and worms, sea fleas and kelp and mussels and things we cannot sea or seem to ignore. Digging up these stories is my prerogative, sharing them with you, my service. My research methods will be mix – online, books, scientific studies, field-based observations, and yarning with folks who know far more than me.
When I first dreamed up the Floating Stories Lab, our family’s upcoming regenerative sailboat studio, the idea came from a place of wanting to enable place-based, regenerative research methods to better understand how humans can live more regeneratively. My previous magazine editorial and documentary film work took me all over the world – a great privilege – yet these trips were too often short, fly-in-fly out, with little time to grow deeper connections within local living systems. I began to question how I might see and understand the world if given more time disconnected from the commercial world (i.e., floating across the ocean with no internet connection), and experiencing new places and the communities – human and other – who call those places home. Importantly, I wondered how this slower pace of travel and place-based research could impact my creative practice and the stories I communicate outwards.
The next step in this dream project is the creation of our exploration vessel: the boat. Inspired by the stories of Polynesian voyagers and their wooden double canoe sail craft, our boat – a Wharram Designs Narai Mk IV – which is looking like it will be built right here, along the Goyen river, with our own bare hands (and all those who come to help). When the day soon arrives to cut the first pieces of timber, coat them with resin, and begin nailing the pieces of our boat’s hulls together, we will not be able to escape the presence of starfish, seagulls, oysters, and all whom co-inhabit the very locale where our boat’s life will take shape. Over the next two years, we will share this habitat with our marine neighbours, and when splash day comes, we will float our wooden creation atop the waters these creatures help keep clean and healthy, waters that will carry us on new adventures, waters that help to keep us alive.
I wonder: what do the starfish think about all this?
If you’re new here, welcome. My name is Angie Richard and I’m a mother, multi-disciplinary storyteller, academic researcher, and soon-to-be wooden boat builder. I come from Adelaide in South Australia but have lived semi-nomadically for the past two decades, majority of that with kids. A month ago, my French husband Remy and I moved our little family (again) 800km across France to resettle in a remote part of south Finistere, a place that reminds me of the wild coastal landscapes I miss back home in Australia. We came here to re-center our lives in all things ocean whilst creating our Floating Stories Lab, whilst creating a bit of space around us (read: the southwest of France is really crowded along the coast).
Kinscript is an outlet to share tales of kinship through the twists and turns of living abroad, motherhood, and hand-building a wooden catamaran with my family. I also write a separate Substack for the Floating Stories Lab, where we will be documenting in detail the boat build process, along with our science, art and storytelling initiative, Regenerative Tides: Sailing for Solutions.
I have lost sleep (literally) about the Substack paywall and recently decided I will be turning it off for all Kinscript posts. Limiting access to those with lesser resources doesn’t sit well with me, however, this newsletter is subscriber-financed; the more of you who can contribute financially, the more I can prioritize the time and resources to write and share here, which I really enjoy!
There are three tiers to paid membership: 5€ monthly, 50€ annually, or 150€ annually for Founding Members – I am in deep gratitude to all of you (and free subscribers!) for your support. As an extra token of thanks to Founding Members, I send out a hand-written, local post card by snail mail from the post office downtown alongside the river, once per year.
I also created a Buy Me A Coffee page for readers who want to chip in for a cuppa. Fun fact: I never drank coffee until I moved to France, and now enjoy sipping a café alongé at local coffee shops here in the village or around the peninsula, writing whilst Sahara naps in the pram, or discussing the next stage of our boat build with my husband.