Ten percent of the big fish still remain. There are still some

When Sylvia Earle proclaimed, “Ten percent of the big fish still remain. There are still some blue whales. There are still some krill in Antarctica. There are a few oysters in Chesapeake Bay. Half the coral reefs are still in pretty good shape, a jeweled belt around the middle of the planet. There's still time, but not a lot, to turn things around,” she was not merely speaking as a scientist—she was speaking as a keeper of the ocean’s soul. Her words carry both sorrow and hope, both mourning and commandment. They are the cry of a guardian who has seen the balance of creation slipping toward collapse, yet still dares to believe in redemption.

Earle, one of the most revered oceanographers of our time, has spent her life beneath the waves—swimming among coral cities, listening to the songs of whales, and studying the deep blue mysteries that cradle life itself. Her words emerge from firsthand witness to both abundance and loss. She has seen the ocean in its glory, when great schools of fish shimmered like living silver, and she has seen its silence after nets and greed stripped it bare. When she says “ten percent of the big fish still remain,” she speaks not in metaphor but in fact—an estimate drawn from decades of observation and data. Yet within this grim statistic, she plants a seed of defiance: there is still time. The Earth, though wounded, still breathes. The waters, though diminished, still hold life.

In the voice of the ancients, this quote would be heard as a prophecy of balance—a warning against hubris, like the words of Cassandra crying to a heedless city. Humanity, in its hunger for power and profit, has forgotten that the ocean is not a warehouse but a womb. Each act of destruction—each trawler tearing the seafloor, each chemical spill darkening the current—is like striking at the mother of all living things. Yet Earle does not curse mankind; she calls to its better nature. Like the philosopher-priests of old, she reminds us that to destroy beauty for convenience is to destroy ourselves, for the sea is the heart of the planet, and its pulse is our own.

History offers many reflections of her warning. Consider Easter Island, once lush with palms and birds, its people thriving. In their pursuit of monuments and status, they felled every tree until the island was barren, their civilization undone by its own blindness. So too do we stand at the edge of that same folly—tearing down the living forests of the sea for short-term gain. Yet Earle, unlike the prophets of doom, leaves the door of salvation open. “There’s still time, but not a lot.” It is both plea and challenge: to act while there is something left to save, to see that the remnants of creation are not merely relics but the seeds of renewal.

Her words about coral reefs—that jeweled belt encircling the planet—speak to the beauty that still endures. The reefs are not dead yet; they are gasping, glowing, calling for mercy. Half remain, their colors dimmed but not extinguished. In them lies the blueprint for healing, if only we would stop wounding. The same is true of the whales that still sing, the oysters that still filter water, the krill that still drift beneath Antarctic ice. Each is a miracle, a fragment of Eden left to remind us what once was, and what could still be—if we awaken in time.

Her message, though scientific, carries the rhythm of ancient morality. It tells us that the Earth is not a possession, but a trust; not a machine, but a living covenant between creation and consciousness. Earle’s warning is the same that the Delphic Oracle might have given to kings: “In your greed, you will consume the gift that sustains you.” Yet she also gives us the antidote: reverence. To revere is to restore. To restore is to live again in harmony with the laws of nature, which are older and wiser than all our empires.

So let this wisdom be carried forward: act while there is still time. Do not wait for the oceans to fall silent or the coral to turn to ash. Protect the remnants as you would protect your own blood, for they are your inheritance and your responsibility. Refuse the waste that poisons the sea; choose what heals over what harms; speak for the waters that cannot speak for themselves. For as Sylvia Earle reminds us, there is still time—but not much. The clock of the Earth still ticks, and its final rhythm has not yet been written. The choice between ruin and renewal lies in our hands, and the ocean—ancient, patient, forgiving—still waits for our redemption.