To cull or not to cull: Greenland debates fate of world’s slowest shark as reflected on by Sensei Michael Jinpa
Before dawn here in Harborview Point, fishing boats slip quietly past our zendo windows. Their low diesel thrum vibrates against the wood of our meditation hall. Out on the docks, the ledger of human survival is clear: crates of cod, tangled gear, and iced holds. When a fisherman pulls up torn line, or loses an entire day’s catch, frustration is not abstract. It represents bread on the table, fuel in the tank, and the relentless strain of staying afloat in an unforgiving sea. This tension fuels the ongoing Greenland shark debate.
Far north in the freezing waters off Ilulissat, Greenland, that same tension plays out. Longline fishers encounter Greenland sharks. Fishers long considered these slow-moving creatures pests. They pull sharks from the icy dark, blaming them for cutting lines. Sometimes they feed the sharks to sled dogs instead of returning them to the depths. Now, scientists and community members find themselves in a heated discussion. They debate whether to formally cull or actively protect a creature. Its lifespan can stretch across four centuries.
Embracing the Greenland Shark Debate
To sit with the reality of a Greenland shark humbles us. We encounter time on a vast scale. A shark swimming through arctic fjords today may have been born before the telescope turned toward the stars. It lived long before the industrial engine reshaped our planet’s atmosphere. Moving through pitch darkness at less than two miles per hour, its heart beats to an ancient, patient rhythm. In Buddhist practice, we often speak of impermanence. This reminds us of life’s brevity. However, impermanence also contains the vast tapestry of deep time. It reminds us that we are recent arrivals in a sanctuary never solely ours.
It is easy to cast the working fisherman as callous. He simply wants to clear the lines that feed his family. In my years as an environmental counselor and hospice chaplain, I learned much. Fear and economic precarity quickly narrow our compassion. When livelihood feels precarious, every obstacle becomes an enemy. Yet suffering multiplies whenever we draw a sharp line. We separate our own well-being from the life around us. The shark is not malicious. It merely follows its hunger in the cold depths, just as the fisherman follows his on the surface. This perspective is vital for the Greenland shark debate.
Finding Interdependence in Shared Waters
Zen asks us to look directly into the web of interdependence. Thich Nhat Hanh called this “interbeing.” We cannot separate the health of the halibut fishery from the quiet, apex presence of the world’s slowest shark. Nor can we separate the dignity of coastal communities from the health of the oceans they depend upon. When we choose to cull simply because an ancient species inconveniences our harvest, we treat the living ocean as a private storehouse. We mistake it for a shared household. Consequently, we mistake short-term extraction for enduring security. We must consider this deeply.
True care requires us to hold both the fisherman’s exhaustion and the shark’s antiquity. We give them both the same tender regard. Solutions cannot simply demand that northern communities absorb financial ruin in silence. Furthermore, they cannot permit the eradication of a creature carrying four centuries of living history in its flesh. Practical innovation, such as modified gear and economic support for lost catch, must meet contemplative restraint. We have to learn how to yield some portion of our claim to the world. Ultimately, we seek harmony.
As the bell rings for morning practice, the harbor lights dim in the rising sun. The water reminds us that we share this fragile world. We share it with lives far older and quieter than our anxieties. Cultivating radical presence means learning to share the waters. It means recognizing that the breath moving through our chests is part of the same vast tide. This tide sustains the ancient swimmer in the arctic dark.
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