The War for Cod

Consider your basic Gadus morrhua, otherwise known as the cod. Its skin is slimy. Its liver is smelly. Its mouth droops and its eyes bulge outrageously. Even its character seems less than admirable: the cod submits meekly to any fishhook in sight. Yet the lowly Gadus morrhua is hardly friendless. Indeed, for the third time in 17 years, Great Britain and Iceland have deemed their attachment to the fish so vital that they are engaged in another "cod war" against each other.

All three conflicts broke out when Iceland, which depends on fishing for 80% of its exports, unilaterally decided to extend its territorial fishing limit. Last July the Reykjavik government declared that no other nation, without prior agreement, could fish within 200 miles of Icelandic territory; the previous limit, established in 1972, had been 50 miles. Icelandic authorities claimed that new scientific studies showed a drastic decline in young cod, those that have not yet reached breeding age. If these underage fish continued to be harvested before reproducing, the total cod catch would decline ruinously within a few years.

London agreed that new conservation measures were needed. But, said Agriculture, Fisheries and Food Minister Frederick Peart, "we do not consider that the present state of the stock is so grave as to require extreme measures." The new rules proposed by Iceland would reduce the British catch, much of which winds up in fish 'n' chips, from 130,000 tons a year to 65,000 tons. Negotiations broke off last month after Iceland rejected London's counterproposal of 110,000 tons.

Recently Icelandic naval vessels were sent out to harass British fishing trawlers by dragging the waters with a device that cuts the fishing-net towlines. Enraged British fishermen demanded government protection, and Prime Minister Harold Wilson reluctantly dispatched three Royal Navy frigates and three ocean tugs to fishing areas near Iceland to run interference for the trawlers.

Inevitably, things got nasty. While crossing the bow of the British tug Euroman, the Icelandic gunboat Thor was rammed and damaged. The British claim it was an accident; the Icelanders believe it was deliberate. In any case, given the North Atlantic's chronic wintertime high winds and rough waters, such naval games of chicken were bound to produce collisions. A fortnight ago the confrontation grew more serious. While seeking shelter from a gale two miles off Iceland's coast, the unarmed British ocean-going tug Lloydsman was fired on by the Thor. Iceland says the Thor fired one shot, which struck the British vessel; Britain says the Icelandic boat fired three shots that missed.

Potent Weapon. Iceland was outraged by what it regarded as continuing British aggression, and last week took its case to the U.N. Security Council. Icelandic Ambassador Ingvi Ingvarsson noted that both West Germany and Belgium had already agreed to limit their fishing and he demanded that Britain do the same. British Ambassador Ivor Richard blandly suggested further discussions between the two governments.

Iceland feels that there is little room for negotiation. "The natural resources at stake here do not mean anything to the British economy as a whole," said Icelandic Foreign Minister Einar Agustsson. "But they are Iceland's only natural resources and therefore not only important but a matter of life and death for us Icelanders. Without fish we haven't even a chance of survival." Tiny Iceland, moreover, believes that it has one potent weapon in its not-so-funny war with London. If Britain refuses to give in, it may well close NATO'S surveillance station in Keflavik--a key to the protection of Britain's Atlantic lifeline in case of war.

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