un-kissed lines frame Terry Shelley’s face like high tide stains a fishing dock. Today, those creases seem deepened by anger, but it’s the tone of his voice that gives it away.
Mr. Shelley has spent his entire working life as a commercial fisherman. Before he was a full-time oyster farmer and harvester, he spent the first part of his career harvesting shrimp and reef fish. He’s seen a lot, but not a pileup of challenges like now.
Back in September, Hurricane Zeta rumbled over small-town Port Sulphur, Louisiana, where the family’s oyster farm and processing center are based. The Shelleys lost half their cages, and they only managed to retrieve about half of that. Already by then, the COVID-19 pandemic had temporarily halted the supply lines Shelley Farms uses to sell its oysters.
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Massive, unexplained bivalve die-off sends many Louisiana oystermen back to square one
Halle Parker
Mitch Jurisich, a third-generation oysterman, dropped a long pair of oyster tongs into the Gulf of Mexico and lightly raked the water bottom.
When he brought up his catch several oysters that he laid along the side of his boat all but one were dead. The more resilient hooked mussels, typically found clustered along the area s oyster reefs, had suffered the same fate.
The stench of rotting bivalves filled the air. That s the smell of death, Jurisich said.
Early this month, millions of pounds of oysters in leases that line Plaquemines Parish s west bank creatures that had been healthy and alive the week before were found dead, their mouths open. It s unclear why.