As NAMA’s new Program Director, I’ve spent the past few months immersing myself in our network’s movement to uplift community-powered fisheries and aquaculture. But my journey back to the water began before I knew it would become my calling. 

I remember the first time I saw oyster seed, tiny and fragile, scattered like gems in my hand. That autumn day three years ago in coastal Maine, I knelt at the water’s edge and felt an overwhelming humility. When I leaned over, carefully placing the seeds into mesh bags, a quiet hope took root that the waters would nurture these small beginnings. As the waves rippled against my boots, I experienced the sea as its own entity, not something to possess but to partner with.

Those seeds represented not just oysters but a relationship — one rooted in respect, balance, and the understanding that the ocean gives freely, yet not infinitely.

But my connection to the water wasn’t always so tangible. I grew up far from the roaring ocean tides, in the vibrant and gritty pulse of New York City. My family settled in the Bronx after migrating from the lush coastlines of the Dominican Republic, where our story was once entwined with the rhythms of land and sea. Yet in the concrete jungle, water became a distant memory.

In the Bronx, I learned to navigate scarcity and determination, where to discourage a dream was often a form of protection. My parents wanted us to succeed in ways they could envision. The ocean, once central to my family’s life in the DR, became more of a myth than a reality, something glimpsed on rare summer trips or conjured in books, as unreachable as the stars. As a child, I couldn’t imagine that I’d ever return to it.

Even when I moved to New Hampshire years later, the ocean still felt distant. It was part of the landscape, but I was an inland New Hampshirite, and I hadn’t yet had the opportunity to connect my surroundings and the quiet pull I felt toward the water. Then one day, the ocean came to me in the most unassuming way: through the briny kiss of an oyster.

It was 2021 on the New Hampshire coastline. I was on a boat, touring the Great Bay oyster farms, when I found myself tasting the sea — a reunion with a piece of me that I hadn’t realized was missing. That natural affinity was electrifying, grounding me in the raw vitality of the ocean’s offerings. At that moment, I realized my work wasn’t only about justice and sustainability; it was about rekindling the bond between people, land, and water. It was this oyster, this salty ambassador, that reignited this sense of purpose. 

Since then, my journey into aquaculture has been one of learning and unlearning.

When I moved to Maine during the global pandemic, I met an oyster farmer whose weathered hands held the stories of tides and toil. In exchange for my help on the farm, they taught me the intricate dance of cultivating life in the water. The simplicity of planting and harvesting oysters belied complex ecosystems at play. 

I’ve since learned that responsible practices like sustainable water stewardship, equitable leasing rights, ecological connectivity between marine species, and community-supported business models could easily be disrespected or ignored by corporate gatekeepers in favor of greed-driven practices. With unsettling frequency, I read and hear of unchecked industrial aquaculture: how it deprioritizes communities and taints ecosystems, elevating profit above people and planet. I fear the same for the pristine waters in Maine that I’ve grown to love so deeply.

In my work at NAMA, I see this fight against extraction up close. I hear it in the voices of small-scale fishers and their place-based knowledge, in the stories of Indigenous guardians and caretakers, in the frustration of communities being edged out of their home waters. By listening to the people who have worked these waters for generations, I’ve learned that aquaculture isn’t just about growing food; it’s about protecting a way of life. 

As NAMA’s Program Director, I’m exploring what these aspirations look like in the real world, building relationships with people and organizations steeped in the work. Most recently, that has included the Atlas for Values-Based Aquaculture, Slow Fish, and Quonnie Fish Co. Together, we’re working to uphold the public trust doctrine, making sure the ocean remains a shared inheritance rather than a privatized commodity. This is a future where coastal communities thrive, and where the water that held and sustained my lineage continues to hold and sustain generations.

For me, and for all of us in this growing movement, uplifting values-based seafood demands that we create systems that shift power away from industrial behemoths and make space for community-scale fishers and aquaculture farmers — like those who taught me the trade — to thrive. It’s food sovereignty that isn’t abstract; it’s the oyster farmer who can afford to pay their mortgage, the kelp grower who revitalizes depleted ecosystems, the youth who sees aquaculture as a viable career, the fishery workers who labor in dignity, and the waters and life within that remain flourishing.

Along this journey, I’ve found my way back to the ocean, a connection that for so long seemed lost but has always been part of me. I’m grateful to be building with so many visionaries and changemakers in this movement driven by shared values.

I’d love to hear from you — whether it’s about your own experiences, thoughts on policy and strategy, or just to say hi! Let’s keep this momentum going, together.

Until next time,

Pedro