By the 1990s, I had left Alaska. I had loved living in a state where everything was still so fresh and new, so rich in possibility, but my wife and I wanted our children to grow up near other members of our families in New England.

Alaska was fresh and new, but also immemorially ancient. Because the state is so rich in wildlife, the Alaskan Bush remains one of the last places on earth where people still feed themselves primarily through hunting and fishing. The rest of the world, though, has not moved so far beyond that. We all remain dependent, to some degree, on one last wild food resource: the fish in our rivers, lakes, and oceans.

The historic wealth of New England, in fact, had been built with the sacred cod, the great treasure chest that was Georges Bank, the riches of its inshore fisheries. By the 1990s, however, foreign factory trawlers had fished Georges Bank nearly clean, and then wrong-headed fishery policies sent Yankee fishermen on a mission to finish the job.

What now? We still had our inshore fisheries, but they were buckling under pressure. I had a feeling—to be confirmed by experience—that commercial fishermen wanted there to be fish in the sea even more than the most ardent conservationist. But a fisherman also had to make a living, and pay the mortgages on his home and boat. I would find that it was like being drawn and quartered, to be pulled so hard in opposite directions.

In the early ’90s I went down to Cape Cod, and I forged connections with four fishermen, each working a different sector of the Cape’s inshore fisheries: lobsterman Brian Gibbons, long-liner Mike Russo, draggerman Carl Johnston, and quahogger Dan Howes. “Against the Tide” is the story of their fishing seasons in 1995-96, a time when every trip out of port was a high-stakes roll of the dice. Meanwhile, politicians, conservationists, and activist fishermen—like Brian and Mike—were trying to invent something in boardrooms that the world had never seen before: truly sustainable commercial fisheries.

“Against the Tide” is also the story of Cape Cod, its beauty and history; America, and its dream of an abundance that can always be replenished; and the coastal families and communities that have staked their all on that dream.

An excerpt: “Quickly down to zero”

But a straight shot was hard to run, as was a crisp turn around a buoy. In the wind and surf, and in a running tide that required the sluggish Honi-Do to crab-walk across its current, Carl found it difficult to keep a bearing. After the third flag he fought with the wheel as the depth sounder began its giddy slide from fourteen fathoms down to four, and then quickly down to zero, while the boat got pushed to the western edge of the channel. Either the Honi-Do was then able to plow back into deep water or else the bar just fell away, since three and then six fathoms of water filled in under the boat. But just as quickly the sounder was falling again: five fathoms, three, one, zero. “What’s that?” Dave said as a shiver ran through the boat, something like a tuning fork’s sympathetic vibration. The second grounding was more defined, lifting us to the balls of our feet. The swooning moan of thwarted steel rose to our ears.

Finally, with one more shuddering sigh, the Honi-Do seemed to hit, skid, float briefly again, and fall for a third and final time into the zero-fathom breast of the bar. The wheel spun uselessly in Carl’s hands. He killed the engine and turned toward Dave with a hard-edged smile, saying maybe we’d better get an anchor down; probably dropping the port door would be the best thing.

Bill Amaru’s voice crackled on the VHF: “Carl, how are you doing?”

Carl picked up the mike. “I got a funny feeling I just lost my rudder.” He clicked the mike off, speaking mostly to himself: “We wouldn’t have this problem if Carnes had just been willing to take the shrimp tomorrow.” Then he flicked the radio to channel sixteen, which the Coast Guard monitors. “Chatham Station, this is the Honi-Do. Chatham Station, this is the Honi-Do.”. . .