Trump Strikes Back: Obama’s Ocean Fishing Ban Scrapped for Jobs

Paul Riverbank, 2/7/2026Trump revokes Atlantic fishing ban, reigniting the debate pitting jobs against ocean conservation.

That tug-of-war was thrown into sharper focus when President Trump rescinded commercial fishing restrictions in the area—a decision that landed with a heavy thud in both fishing communities and environmental groups, though the sound was different in each. Supporters of the move speak in measured hope: John Williams, who manages the Atlantic Red Crab Company up in Massachusetts, didn’t conceal his relief. “We deserve to be rewarded, not penalized,” he told me, the phone line carrying a kind of weathered triumph. “We’ve shown we can fish sustainably—there’s no need to treat us as the enemy.”

It’s not just about red crab. Lobstermen in Maine and the steely crews who launch from Rhode Island coves have long argued they know these waters better than any Washington rulebook. To them, the monument (first protected by President Obama in 2016 and reinforced under President Biden) sometimes felt like an arbitrary line drawn somewhere offshore, one with real wallets attached. Decision-makers in D.C., they’d point out, were more likely to have seen a lobster in a tank than hauled one dripping from a trap.

President Trump’s team framed the rollback as a pragmatic measure. Fishermen, they argue, are already keeping a careful watch on these habitats, and marine laws offer all the protection that rare corals and ancient seamounts might need. “Appropriately managed commercial fishing would not put the objects of historic and scientific interest that the monument protects at risk,” the President declared, putting faith in local know-how and existing regulations.

On the other aisle, environmental voices rose promptly. They described the canyons and seamounts as a last sanctuary—a kind of living archive of the deep Atlantic, home to creatures and corals whose names aren’t familiar but whose value, scientists say, is inestimable. “Strong protections here aren’t optional,” asserted Gib Brogan of Oceana. He wasn’t alone; green groups were soon preparing for courtroom battles, convinced that disturbances to these habitats can echo for decades and that some wounds, once opened, may never close.

This seesaw is, of course, familiar. It plays out every time an administration reconsiders the nation’s patchwork of marine protections. The Obama-era designations, the Biden administration’s return to stricter rules, and Trump’s push for regulatory relief all reveal the same underlying question: Who gets to define stewardship, and whose livelihoods tip the scales?

Some advocates for the fishing industry argue that their fortunes have too often been sacrificed for “science-based governance” imposed from afar. “Restoring fairness and transparency,” as Bob Vanasse from D.C.-based Saving Seafood put it, was overdue. They chafe against what they see as a system that casts them in the role of villain, even as they wring their living from waters their families have known for generations.

The struggle stretches far beyond this pocket of the Atlantic. Trump’s earlier effort to alter protections in the Pacific Islands Heritage Marine National Monument tripped the same wire, instantly becoming the grist for headlines, legal filings, and statements from marine biologists in conference calls.

What’s clear is that no line drawn in saltwater is ever static. Today’s announcement may be tomorrow’s reversal; the only constant is the underlying tension between two visions for America’s oceans—one pragmatic, rooted in coastal economies and traditions, the other resolutely focused on preservation, sometimes at the cost of present-day harvests.

As the debate grinds forward, both sides marshal evidence, rally supporters, and, at times, talk past each other. But from the deck of a fishing vessel or the quiet office of a marine scientist, what happens to these canyons and seamounts is not an abstraction. It’s a living, breathing question, and for now, its answer is anything but settled.

For anyone who’s spent time scanning the horizon from the New England coast, news about the Northeast Canyons and Seamounts Marine National Monument probably sounds either like salvation or cause for concern. This swath of the Atlantic, a sprawling five thousand square miles just east of Cape Cod where the sea floor plunges off the continental shelf, has tugged at both the hearts and livelihoods of people in these parts.That tug-of-war was thrown into sharper focus when President Trump rescinded commercial fishing restrictions in the area—a decision that landed with a heavy thud in both fishing communities and environmental groups, though the sound was different in each. Supporters of the move speak in measured hope: John Williams, who manages the Atlantic Red Crab Company up in Massachusetts, didn’t conceal his relief. “We deserve to be rewarded, not penalized,” he told me, the phone line carrying a kind of weathered triumph. “We’ve shown we can fish sustainably—there’s no need to treat us as the enemy.”It’s not just about red crab. Lobstermen in Maine and the steely crews who launch from Rhode Island coves have long argued they know these waters better than any Washington rulebook. To them, the monument (first protected by President Obama in 2016 and reinforced under President Biden) sometimes felt like an arbitrary line drawn somewhere offshore, one with real wallets attached. Decision-makers in D.C., they’d point out, were more likely to have seen a lobster in a tank than hauled one dripping from a trap.President Trump’s team framed the rollback as a pragmatic measure. Fishermen, they argue, are already keeping a careful watch on these habitats, and marine laws offer all the protection that rare corals and ancient seamounts might need. “Appropriately managed commercial fishing would not put the objects of historic and scientific interest that the monument protects at risk,” the President declared, putting faith in local know-how and existing regulations.On the other aisle, environmental voices rose promptly. They described the canyons and seamounts as a last sanctuary—a kind of living archive of the deep Atlantic, home to creatures and corals whose names aren’t familiar but whose value, scientists say, is inestimable. “Strong protections here aren’t optional,” asserted Gib Brogan of Oceana. He wasn’t alone; green groups were soon preparing for courtroom battles, convinced that disturbances to these habitats can echo for decades and that some wounds, once opened, may never close.This seesaw is, of course, familiar. It plays out every time an administration reconsiders the nation’s patchwork of marine protections. The Obama-era designations, the Biden administration’s return to stricter rules, and Trump’s push for regulatory relief all reveal the same underlying question: Who gets to define stewardship, and whose livelihoods tip the scales?Some advocates for the fishing industry argue that their fortunes have too often been sacrificed for “science-based governance” imposed from afar. “Restoring fairness and transparency,” as Bob Vanasse from D.C.-based Saving Seafood put it, was overdue. They chafe against what they see as a system that casts them in the role of villain, even as they wring their living from waters their families have known for generations.The struggle stretches far beyond this pocket of the Atlantic. Trump’s earlier effort to alter protections in the Pacific Islands Heritage Marine National Monument tripped the same wire, instantly becoming the grist for headlines, legal filings, and statements from marine biologists in conference calls.What’s clear is that no line drawn in saltwater is ever static. Today’s announcement may be tomorrow’s reversal; the only constant is the underlying tension between two visions for America’s oceans—one pragmatic, rooted in coastal economies and traditions, the other resolutely focused on preservation, sometimes at the cost of present-day harvests.As the debate grinds forward, both sides marshal evidence, rally supporters, and, at times, talk past each other. But from the deck of a fishing vessel or the quiet office of a marine scientist, what happens to these canyons and seamounts is not an abstraction. It’s a living, breathing question, and for now, its answer is anything but settled.