Patagonia NZ

Jase is at home here on the river as he is inside a 15-foot slab on a bodyboard… or even a surfboard for that matter. A talented waterman with a six-year career in professional bodyboarding, he is known for packing huge barrels and launching unhinged airs. Only a month earlier, Jase had scored the only 10-point ride of the prestigious Shark Island Challenge.

A Bawley Point local and family man, Jase had tried his hand at school teaching, but after deeming it not quite the right fit, he was introduced to oyster farming by his brother-in-law. As Jase put it, “I guess once I started driving up the river in the mornings, it just kind of got hooked into me. It’s beautiful.” Ten years later, Jase had proudly gone out on his own, starting Moonlight Oysters with leases located on the prized Moonlight Flat, a location known for producing beautiful oysters that go into top restaurants. Moonlight Oysters focuses primarily on the native Sydney rock oyster, a species with deep ties to this coastline. But like most oyster farms, it has also diversified with Pacific oysters to build resilience and safeguard from disease.

After stepping onboard the punt and being greeted by deckhand Alfie, we made our way upriver. The water was sheet glass, reflecting the colours of the sunrise. The only movement in the landscape came from cormorants moving in and out of the oyster leases, catching breakfast, and the wake from the punt.

The Bhundoo River catchment was a unique drowned valley estuary, which sees rainfall flow from inland mountain ranges with dense eucalypt forests (primarily under National Park protection) through mangrove-rich wetlands and rare salt marshes, into the river and out into the Tasman Sea. The incoming tide brings oxygen and saline-rich seawater, phytoplankton and organic matter, feeding the biodiverse ecosystem. This river system is pristine, as Jase explains. “I probably didn’t appreciate that straight away. I was a bit uneducated, but there’s very minimal farmland, just National Parks and State Forests. There’s no development, so there is no street run-off into it.”

We drove upriver towards Moonlight Flat, a location unique in that it is sheltered enough to accommodate an estuary bed of silt, yet close enough to the rivermouth to receive oceanic tidal flush which enables high nutrient flow. Oyster farming was aquaculture, but with no inputs. Jase surmised, “I think it is one of the only farming methods where the river does the work in terms of food sources. Really the oyster farmers are just manipulating their shape slowly over years.”

Jase dropped a long white pipe off the back of the punt, sticking its base into the dark silty bottom, locking us into position like an anchor. From up close I could now see the oysters arranged in their baskets attached to a wire, suspended above a seagrass bed in the water column. Oysters are filter feeders, each pumping up to 150 litres of water a day, filtering out phytoplankton and nutrients. This process helps the river.

“They manage the health of the river by not allowing too high levels of phosphorus and nitrogen, which can end up causing algal blooms,” Jase explained. He credits the oysters for helping to “control the levels that are naturally fluctuating in the river,” but admitted that with the Clyde River National Park as a backdrop, “there wouldn’t be as many fertilisers leaching into the river as there would be from agricultural land.” The oysters’ filtration also clears the water, allowing sunlight to reach the riverbed and allows the seagrass beds to thrive. Seagrass stores carbon, oxygenates the water and provides habitat for fish and crustaceans.

As Alfie started to shiver, Jase started the outboard motor and we continued deeper into the river system, travelling away from the ocean into a more unknown landscape. The banks of the Bhundoo were lined with mangroves, their roots exposed by the low tide. Jase pointed out a white-bellied sea eagle, an eastern grey kangaroo and waved to some of the other oyster farmers who’d headed out on the river to start the day’s work.

Jase pointed out an eerie skeletal mangrove patch which had burnt in the 2019 bushfires, still yet to regenerate. Jase filled the silence with a sentiment I was also comprehending. “It’s astonishing because I don’t think there are many places where the heat and intensity of a fire can rip through a mangrove ecosystem that’s half in the water and totally waterlogged.” A neighbouring oyster farmer had watched as a cascade of wombats and roos jumped into the water in front of the fire wall as it ripped down the hill. Still looking out towards the harrowingly white mangroves, Jase adds, “Then we had some major flooding the following year.” While not having the long-term perspective of some other farmers, who’ve been operating for over 40 years, he recognised that he’d seen the intensity of the events ramp up.

The further into the catchment the narrower the Bhundoo became. At one bend our wake wrapped around the bank so perfectly it looked like a set rolling through firing Kirra Point. We laughed at how that was the sort of thing only a surfer would notice. Now able to see the ‘nursery’ section of the river, we pulled up alongside some more leases. The long cylindrical baskets housed up to 5000 spat or baby oysters. I asked Jase about how they got the spat into the baskets and was surprised to learn the eggs were so small they fell through the fine mesh baskets. “They wait for a big rain event which triggers the spawning and that flush of water allows them to travel as far and wide as they can,” explains Jase. The spat swim and land wherever they choose, but oyster farmers had catching slats which they settle under and hide from fish. The oysters then calcify and grow a shell. After five or six months they are strong enough to be stripped off the slat and put into baskets, so they are easier to manage.”

Any spat which landed on the rocks or clustered on oyster reefs are left alone. “It provides habitat for other things, which is natural,” explains Jase. “The more oysters the farmers can produce to a mature size, the more reproduction will happen in the river, and that spread of spat goes far and wide. It’s not just for our own benefit.”

This natural repopulation of oysters in the Bhundoo River was essential as it had been plundered in early colonial days. “There was a period where this river was really stripped clean,” explains Jase, “especially of the native angasi oyster. They were bottom dwelling, and people just stripped the bottom by dredging.” The oysters had been a good source of protein, and the lime-rich shells could be burnt to create cement.

Alfie climbed off the bow and stood between Jase’s legs at the back of the punt as he started the motor back up. The cold air made my eyes water as we drove back towards the shed. As we came into a narrow, sheltered passage, oyster sheds appeared, nestled between mangroves. Moonlight Oysters’ wharf was towards the end of the passage. Here was where the oysters were sized, maintained and processed.

One of the unique aspects of oyster farmers is their connection to the river, and the health of the waterway. Without a clean river they’re unable to harvest their crop, and so there was a relationship of stewardship for the waterway. Recently, the oyster farmers and wider community of Batemans Bay worked together to prevent a housing development on top of Moonlight Flat. “The oyster community and its supporters banded together and ended up stopping that development from happening,” recalls Jase, “keeping its natural mangroves and gum tree forest to the edge.”

Jase hopes to see more education and support for oyster farming, and for the community to celebrate an industry that keeps the river healthy. Unlike other forms of aquaculture that can take more than they give, oysters are caretakers – filtering, cleaning and feeding the river system. Next time we paddle out into clear pristine water, it’s worth remembering that a thriving oyster population is part of the reason it's possible.

This story featured in Roaring Journals, Edition Two.