Number 6 in the Voices Series 1.05.25
A Hawaiian Monk Seal’s Plea from the Waters of Papahānaumokuākea
I am ‘īlio holo i ka uaua—the dog that runs in rough water. In your language, you call me the Hawaiian monk seal. I am speaking to you from a sun-warmed beach in the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands, my flippers tucked beneath me, my pup nursing at my side. I am one of only 1,570 of my kind left in this world. We exist nowhere else but here, in these Hawaiian waters that have been our home for fifteen million years.
My ancestors swam through the Central American Seaway before it closed, separating us forever from our Caribbean cousins. They are all gone now—extinct since 1952. But we remained, evolving in isolation across these volcanic islands and atolls, becoming something unique, something irreplaceable. The kupuna knew us. In the Kumulipo, the Hawaiian creation chant, all life emerged from these northwestern waters, from the coral polyps to my kind. We were woven into the sacred balance of this place. To harm us was to harm creation itself.
But not everyone understood this.
In the 1800s, hunters came with clubs and guns. They killed us for our pelts and oil, slaughtering us on the beaches where we hauled out to rest and birth our pups. By the early 1900s, we were nearly gone—reduced to a few hundred scattered souls clinging to the most remote atolls. We nearly became ghosts, like our Caribbean relatives. I would not be here today if that trajectory had continued.
My Second Chance
Something changed on November 23, 1976. I don’t remember it—I wasn’t born yet—but my grandmother was alive then, and she survived because of it. We became the first marine mammal listed under the Endangered Species Act. Suddenly, there were laws protecting us. Scientists began counting us, rescuing seals tangled in fishing gear, relocating aggressive males who killed our pups, vaccinating us against disease. The Marine Mammal Center built Ke Kai Ola, the first hospital dedicated solely to saving my species.
Then, in 2016, President Obama expanded Papahānaumokuākea Marine National Monument to 582,578 square miles—larger than all of Alaska’s land. In these protected waters, commercial fishing was banned. No longlines cutting through the darkness where I dive for octopus and eels. No gillnets waiting like invisible walls. No hooks meant for tuna that catch me instead.
Here, I could hunt without fear. I could dive 1,500 feet down into the twilight zone, holding my breath for twenty minutes, searching the reef crevices for prey. I could haul out onto white sand beaches and sleep without the sound of boat engines. I could give birth to my silver-furred pup and nurse her for six weeks, teaching her to swim in the shallows.
And slowly, miraculously, we began to recover. For the first time in over twenty years, our numbers topped 1,500. About 30 percent of us alive today owe our lives directly to human intervention—rescues, medical care, protection. Some of my cousins even returned to the main Hawaiian Islands, hauling out at Waikiki Beach and Kaimana Beach, reclaiming territories we hadn’t visited in generations.
I felt hope. I thought maybe we had turned a corner. Maybe we would survive after all.
The Storm Coming
But now I feel the currents shifting again, and I am afraid.
The Trump administration wants to change the Endangered Species Act—the law that saved my life. They want to eliminate the “blanket rule” that automatically protects threatened species like me. They want to weigh economic considerations against habitat protections. They want to narrow the definition of “harm” so that destroying our habitat might no longer count as hurting us.
And Papahānaumokuākea—my sanctuary, my refuge—they want to open it to commercial fishing again. The Western Pacific Regional Fishery Management Council is asking President Trump to lift the fishing ban, to allow longlines from 50 to 200 nautical miles offshore, to permit bottomfishing and trolling closer to shore.
I know what commercial fishing means. I have seen the ghost nets—115,000 pounds of derelict fishing gear washing onto our reefs every year. I have watched my cousins become entangled in monofilament line meant for tuna, their flippers bound, slowly drowning or starving. I have felt the depleted reefs where the fish we need have been taken by industrial vessels. The spiny lobster fishery in these waters already collapsed once from overfishing. How many times must the same mistake be made?
I dive through waters that are warming, acidifying, changing in ways my kind has never experienced in our fifteen million years. We are already struggling. The last thing we need is more fishing pressure in our last stronghold.
I Cannot Speak for Myself
I cannot write letters to your leaders. I cannot testify before your committees. I cannot submit public comments or appear at hearings. All I can do is what my ancestors have done for millennia—swim, dive, breathe, give birth, and hope that the world will not abandon us.
But you can speak for me.
The public comment period closed on December 22, 2025. However, we are campaigning in Washington FDC to prevent any changes from becoming permanent.
The Endangered Species Act has saved 99% of the species it protects. It brought back the gray whale, the humpback whale, the brown pelican. It gave me—and my 1,569 relatives—a fighting chance after we were hunted nearly to extinction. To weaken it now, when we face climate change, ocean acidification, marine debris, and habitat loss, feels like turning your back on a promise.
We are ‘īlio holo i ka uaua. We run in rough water. We have survived ice ages and volcanic eruptions. We have persisted for fifteen million years. But we cannot survive without you.
Your Voice Can Save Us—Act Today
Visit Shark Stewards to add your voice: https://sharkstewards.org/voices-of-extinction/
Submit comments directly to the federal government at Regulations.gov:
I am hauled out on this beach, watching the sun set over Papahānaumokuākea. My pup is beside me, her eyes still closed, her whiskers twitching as she dreams. She doesn’t know how close we came to extinction. She doesn’t know that her existence depends on laws written by humans, on protected waters, on people she will never meet deciding whether we deserve to survive.
I want her to grow up. I want her to have pups of her own. I want our ancient lineage—fifteen million years in the making—to continue.
But I cannot guarantee that. Only you can.
Please. Speak for us. Today.
Don’t let us become another extinction story.
Don’t let Papahānaumokuākea become just another monument to what humanity failed to protect.
We are the dogs that run in rough water. We have earned our place in these islands.
Give us the chance to keep running.
Part of the Voices of Extinction series by Shark Stewards