Sketch of a Kalk Bay crayfisherman repairing a rusted trap, 21 July 2025 — a quiet winter scene in a harbour facing deep uncertainty.
By Chesney Bradshaw
22 July 2025
Yesterday afternoon, I found myself sitting in the soft winter sun at Kalk Bay harbour, watching a few fishermen quietly repairing crayfish traps. The metal frames were rusted, and the ropes were frayed and broken, but the men worked steadily, binding the traps with care and quiet expertise. We exchanged a few words — light chatter about the sea, the cold, and the season. Watching them work, I felt a mixture of admiration and sadness.
It wasn’t always like this.
Years ago, commercial crayfishing wasn’t the primary pursuit here. The boats used to chase snoek, yellowtail, and other once-abundant fish. The harbour rang with the cries of returning linefishers, their catches hauled up in gleaming silver heaps. Crayfish? That was something we caught for the pot. I remember winter afternoons with my father, mending ring nets — simple hoops with mesh — not these battered steel cages. Ours were homemade but never rusty.
Now, the scene is different. The colourful boats remain, but their numbers are fewer. The fish have thinned out. And even crayfish — once plentiful off these rocky shores — are now scarce.
A Fishery in Crisis
Kalk Bay’s crayfish (or rock lobster) fishery, like the rest of South Africa’s West Coast, is under immense strain. The 2024/25 season’s Total Allowable Catch (TAC) has been slashed nationally to just 550 tons, a fraction of what it once was. Kalk Bay’s share? Likely less than 10 tons annually. That’s not a typo. Ten tons — for the entire harbour.
It’s no surprise then that there are only a handful of licensed boats left in Kalk Bay permitted to catch crayfish — five or fewer, by some accounts. Even those with permits face tight quotas, bureaucratic hurdles, and stiff competition.
According to the Department of Forestry, Fisheries and the Environment, the West Coast rock lobster population is severely depleted. Scientific reports estimate that stocks are below 2% of historical levels. The reasons are well known: overfishing, poaching, environmental degradation, and mismanagement. Local fishers, many of whom come from families who’ve fished these waters for generations, now struggle to make ends meet.
Holding On
Despite the bleak numbers, a quiet determination still lingers at the harbour. Watching those men work on their traps — no shouting, no grumbling — I was reminded of the resilience that defines so many fishing communities. It’s not an easy life, and it never was. But now, more than ever, it seems harder to hold on to this way of life.
The sea still glitters in the sunlight. The gulls still wheel above the harbour wall. But the fish are gone, and with them, a part of Kalk Bay’s soul risks vanishing too.
It’s hard not to feel nostalgic. Harder still not to feel angry.
Why It Matters
This isn’t just a story about fish quotas or rusty traps. It’s about heritage — the passing down of skills, of pride, of identity. It’s about small-scale fishers who are being edged out by policies that favour bigger players and by a system that often seems blind to their realities.
When the traps grow too rusty, and the catch too meagre, what happens to the knowledge passed down in boats and at harbourside benches? What happens to places like Kalk Bay if they become little more than postcard scenes — pretty, but hollow?
I don’t have the answers. But I do know this: watching those fishermen yesterday reminded me that even in tough times, there’s still heart and dignity in the work they do.
And that’s something worth recognising — and protecting.
