The kelp lines stretch across Frenchman Bay like underwater clotheslines, invisible from shore but marking territory that four generations of Johnson's family never thought to claim. It's 5:30 AM in early May, and Johnson's hands are already cold as he pulls up sections of sugar kelp grown thick as dock rope since February planting.
"My daughter asks me why I'm farming seaweed when I'm supposed to be a lobsterman."
Johnson hauls a line heavy with brown fronds. His eight-year-old had been sorting kelp on the dock the evening before, separating the good growth from the scraggly pieces, asking why they couldn't just catch more lobsters instead. Kids ask the questions adults learn to stop asking.
The Gulf of Maine is warming faster than almost anywhere else on Earth. Johnson's response has been to dig deeper into these waters rather than chase what's leaving. While other fishermen head further offshore or switch to different species, he's learning to grow food in the same bay where his great-grandfather hauled traps.
Some mornings, like this one, pulling up lines that should be thick with kelp but come up sparse, Johnson feels like he's gambling with the ocean instead of working it. The water temperature has to stay cold enough for kelp to thrive. Even that's not guaranteed anymore.
His wife Sarah tracks which lines produce and which don't, managing the relationship with Atlantic Sea Farms, the company that provides free seed and guarantees to buy back whatever they grow. It sounds secure until you think about what happens if the company changes its terms or decides Maine kelp isn't profitable anymore. Atlantic Sea Farms paid over $1 million to partner farmers in 2024, but that buyback guarantee is only as good as the company's business model.
Johnson's kelp operation depends entirely on Atlantic Sea Farms—a single buyer for a crop he's still learning to grow.
"The kids can still grow up here," Sarah says. Johnson hears the uncertainty in her voice. Their daughter is learning to read water conditions for crops that didn't exist when Johnson was her age. What if those crops don't exist when she's his age?
The timing works with lobster season in ways that feel almost planned. Kelp grows through winter when lobster fishing slows, using the same boat and dock space. Johnson has had to master new knots, different equipment, and timing that depends on biology rather than weather patterns he's known his whole life. Some lines produce better than others for reasons he's still figuring out. The learning curve has cost him more than he expected in lost crops and trial runs.
Johnson's neighbor Brent started his own kelp operation after watching Johnson's first successful harvest. "If it catches on up here, it'll be good supplemental income. It could help a lot," Brent says. Johnson notices he's hedging. Supplemental income, not replacement income.
Two more families are considering kelp farming for next season, asking careful questions about startup costs and whether Atlantic Sea Farms will still be buying in three years. The questions fishermen ask when they're not sure the ground will hold.
This choice means accepting dependence on a single buyer for a crop Johnson doesn't fully understand yet. It means his children might grow up thinking of him as a kelp farmer who also catches lobsters, rather than the other way around. It means betting that consumer demand for seaweed will keep growing and that the warming water threatening lobsters will help his kelp grow faster.
On good days, when the lines come up heavy and the kelp looks healthy, Johnson can see a future where Frenchman Bay remains a working waterfront, just growing different crops than his ancestors harvested. The bay's fishing families could stay put, adapting their skills to new species while keeping their boats, their docks, and their community intact.
But on mornings like this, when half his lines produce less than expected and he's burning fuel to tend crops that might not pay for themselves, Johnson feels the weight of betting everything on staying put.
The fog lifts as he finishes the morning harvest, revealing the same coastline his great-grandfather knew, just with different expectations about what the water might provide. Johnson loads his boat with what kelp he's harvested and heads back to the dock where Atlantic Sea Farms will turn his crop into products he's never tasted but trusts someone wants to buy.
His daughter will be there after school, ready to help sort today's harvest and ask more questions about why they're farming the ocean instead of fishing it. Questions that don't have easy answers, but deserve honest ones.