#valentina crast

[a-modernmajorgeneral]

It takes an hour to drive from Tórshavn all the way up north to Hvannasund, a fishing village of 248 people. Marshfield and Østrem won’t tell me if someone tipped them off, or if there’s another way they heard about the hunt. But they do share their plan: to document everything, even if it means breaking the law by flying a drone over the site of the hunt.

The roads are drilled straight through mountains to save the trouble of climbing up or around, and each time we exit a tunnel, I catch my breath. Waterfalls flush down emerald hills, dotted with small sheds for sheep, and tumble into glittering fjords. Marshfield talks about how nervous he is. It’s his first grind; he’s unsure how he’ll handle the blood.

Østrem has more experience with it. He was here for a couple of months in 2022 after several years of volunteering with other animal rights organizations in Oslo, Norway. He’s horrified by the way people treat animals around the world, including at fish farms in Norway. To him, the grind is just one example of the way humanity abuses other beings.

Marshfield is similarly resolute. He got involved with Sea Shepherd about eight years ago, after seeing an online photo of a slaughtered whale that left him deeply upset. His activism gradually scaled up; he started by donating, then sharing things on Facebook and selling T-shirts. Eventually, he joined Sea Shepherd campaigns in Sicily and Iceland. Now, he’s here. He grows more solemn as we drive, steeling himself to see a dead whale in person.

Watson’s followers have a long history of fighting the grind. Activist groups, including Sea Shepherd, first started protesting the tradition back in the 1980s, putting the archipelago under global scrutiny. “People were telling us it didn’t look nice,” says Bjarni Mikkelsen, marine mammal specialist at the Faroe Marine Research Institute.

According to Mikkelsen, environmentalists grew troubled over whether the hunt was hurting pilot whale populations. “People walked around with banners, saying it was unsustainable,” he says. Around the same time, sighting surveys were launched to estimate population levels. The North Atlantic Marine Mammal Commission, a body comprising the Faroe Islands, Greenland, Iceland, and Norway, has since carried them out every six years.

Using standard international sampling techniques, surveyors most recently estimated the population of pilot whales in the Faroes–Iceland area to be around 380,000. Survey to survey, this number changes, depending on timing and coverage. But scientists consistently report abundances that can sustain the Faroese catch. “The population is high compared to other species in the North Atlantic,” Mikkelsen says, and there’s no significant downward trend.

Greenpeace eventually abandoned their opposition. But Sea Shepherd held firm. In 2014, under Watson’s leadership, around 70 volunteers descended on the islands for Operation GrindStop, donning black hoodies stamped with Sea Shepherd’s distinctive Jolly Roger insignia and physically intervening in hunts by jumping into the bay. The following year, the organization returned with the same conduct, resulting in fines, arrests, and court cases.

Resentment for the disturbances lingers among many of the Faroese, especially since Sea Shepherd Global continues to fight the hunt, though in softer ways. “Sea Shepherd’s history with the Faroe Islands has been quite aggressive and colorful,” says Valentina Crast, the group’s current Stop the Grind campaign coordinator. Now, she’s working on a tamer strategy, focused on building a local community of supporters.

Watson’s new foundation, meanwhile, wants to maintain the same level of pressure Sea Shepherd once brought. “We’re living in a world where there is no enforcement of international conservation laws,” Watson says. “The high seas are the Wild West. And we’re sort of vigilantes.”

The 73-year-old self-proclaimed pirate (a title confirmed by a United States Court of Appeals in 2013) is against the killing of whales on moral grounds, no matter who does it, or how. He has carried out his brand of vigilantism for nearly 50 years. Talking to him is like talking to a buccaneer who shares stories of sirens and sword fights, except Watson’s tales consist of ramming Portuguese whaling vessels, sinking Icelandic ships, and tricking Soviet soldiers. He’s been criticized for targeting Indigenous peoples over their traditional subsistence hunting practices, including seal hunters in Canada and teenage whalers in Alaska.

After the crackdown by the Faroese government, protests quelled for a while. But in recent years, social media and an increase in tourism have put the grind back in the spotlight. The Faroe Islands now receive about 100,000 visitors a year, and the nation is often included on top destination lists for its dramatic landscapes. During the summer when seabirds breed, bird lovers flock to spot puffins, guillemots, and other species that nest by the thousands on the steep cliffs. Hilton opened a hotel here in 2020, and the local airline is testing out a weekly direct route from New York. Unaware tourists might encounter a whale hunt occurring in the harbor, as those on a docked cruise ship did last summer; in that instance, most were not happy about the spectacle. Such stories, along with rather gruesome photos of the hunt itself, can be shared worldwide. The Captain Paul Watson Foundation seeks to capitalize on this.

Seizing its moment after splitting from Sea Shepherd, the Captain Paul Watson Foundation sent its first vessel—the John Paul DeJoria, registered in Jamaica and named after the cofounder of John Paul Mitchell Systems hair products—to the Faroe Islands in July 2023 to stop the whale hunts. But the Faroese government barred the ship’s entry to the archipelago via executive order. Ultimately, Watson made only two brief, albeit dramatic appearances, entering the nation’s waters once in an unsuccessful attempt to reach a grind and again 10 days later at news that someone had spotted a pod.

After the second breach, Jamaica stripped the ship’s registration at the request of the Faroese government, and the John Paul DeJoria was ported in the United Kingdom. Land crew, including Marshfield and Østrem, remained in Tórshavn to document what they could.