Imagine the sheer awe of watching a brand-new island burst forth from the ocean depths – a pristine testament to nature's wild creativity, untouched by human hands. But here's where it gets controversial: could this untouched paradise hold the key to understanding how our world might heal if we just stepped back and let it be? Dive into the story of Surtsey, and you might find yourself questioning everything we think we know about ecosystems.
Back in November 1963, the crew of the Ísleifur II were out in the waters off southern Iceland (https://www.theguardian.com/world/iceland), wrapping up a regular fishing haul with their nets. Suddenly, the early morning sky darkened with an ominous mass hanging over the Atlantic. Alarmed, they dashed to the radio, assuming another boat was ablaze on the waves – but no distress signals matched their location.
Then, their vessel started drifting in an unexpected way, heightening the tension. The ship's cook hurried to rouse the captain, fearing they were caught in a dangerous whirlpool. Gazing through binoculars, they finally spotted towering plumes of ash shooting from the sea – a volcano was erupting beneath them!
As dawn broke, the sky clouded with dark ash, and a ridge began to rise just below the water's surface. By the next day, it had climbed to 10 meters. A day after that, it soared to 40 meters. And just like that, an island was emerging from the depths.
Two months on, the landmass stretched over a kilometer and peaked at 174 meters high. They named it Surtsey, drawing from Norse mythology's fire giant Surtr. Locals from the nearby Vestmannaeyjar archipelago, including islanders and fishermen, observed dramatic lightning illuminating the volcanic display, which fluctuated in ferocity against the winter's dim light. The eruption raged for two full years before finally subsiding.
'It's incredibly uncommon for an eruption to create a lasting island like this,' explains Olga Kolbrún Vilmundardóttir, a geographer at Iceland's Natural Science Institute. 'Events of this kind occur roughly every 3,000 to 5,000 years here.' Many such new lands, she adds, get swiftly eroded by relentless ocean waves.
The birth of Surtsey offered scientists an unparalleled chance to study life's natural progression on an island free from the pervasive human impact that dominates much of our planet. Other islands have appeared since the 1960s, but researchers note they've lacked the ecological steadiness of Surtsey. The most recent comparable event before this was the formation of Anak Krakatau in Indonesia back in 1927, yet it was soon overrun by human activity. Icelandic experts vowed this time to keep things different.
In 1965, the government officially designated Surtsey as a protected site. Access was strictly limited to scientists and occasionally supervised journalists – no grazing sheep or casual visitors allowed. That same year, the first plant appeared: a cluster of sea rocket, likely carried by waves from Iceland's mainland.
'When the initial researchers set foot on Surtsey in 1964, they noticed seeds and plant remnants already washed up on the shores,' Vilmundardóttir recalls. 'Birds were even flying in to investigate the commotion. The eruption was still active when the first plant was discovered – it happened remarkably fast.'
Experts had anticipated that algae and mosses would pioneer the colonization, gradually forming soil to support more complex vascular plants. But that stage was overlooked entirely. Over the ensuing years, additional plants arrived via the tides and clung to the stark volcanic terrain. However, progress plateaued after about a decade.
Pawel Wasowicz, head of botany at the Natural Science Institute, notes: 'Folks wondered, what's next? Only around 10 species had taken root on Surtsey by then, with vegetation cover remaining sparse. And this is the part most people miss: Then the birds showed up.'
In the early 1980s, black-backed gulls began nesting on the island's rugged sections, braving the ferocious Atlantic storms. Their presence ignited a veritable boom in life. The gulls' droppings, rich with nutrients, dispersed seeds that sprouted grasses across the landscape, transforming barren rock into lush green patches for the first time.
'It's astonishing,' Wasowicz adds. 'Since Darwin's era, scientists believed only plants with juicy fruits could hitch rides with birds. Yet Surtsey's species lack those fleshy fruits. Nearly every seed here arrived in the gulls' feces.'
A key takeaway from this natural laboratory is that recovery after upheaval doesn't adhere to a rigid, linear script. Instead, it's influenced by a mix of unpredictable elements, often defying expectations. For instance, think of how a single animal's arrival can cascade into ecosystem changes – a domino effect that beginners in ecology might not anticipate without seeing it firsthand.
Nowadays, grey seals are the newest players driving biodiversity shifts on Surtsey. The volcanic outcrops serve as vital 'haul-out' spots for seals to lounge, shed skin, and breed, shielded from lurking orcas. Their waste – including feces, urine, and even placental remains from births – infuses the land with nitrogen, fostering further expansion of life.
Yet, the researchers caution that Surtsey's colonization could eventually reverse. The grey seal refuge is gradually wearing away under the relentless sea. Projections suggest that by century's end, much of that section may vanish entirely.
Over time, the island's biodiversity might reach a high point before declining, leaving behind a jagged, cliff-edged rock adrift in the Atlantic. Still, the insights endure.
'As Wasowicz puts it, 'Even in the toughest conditions, adaptation and rebirth are achievable.' Surtsey inspires optimism and actionable wisdom for restoring environments ravaged by conflict, toxins, or overuse: given room to breathe, nature rebounds – often swifter and more inventively than we dare imagine.
Vilmundardóttir reflects: 'Iceland is truly gifting humanity a profound treasure by safeguarding this spot. On the mainland, human traces are inescapable. But on Surtsey, you're immersed in pure wilderness – just the chorus of birds, orcas patrolling the shores, and seals curiously peering out.'
This raises a thought-provoking debate: Is nature's 'creative' path, as seen on Surtsey, always superior to human-assisted recovery? Could intervening with things like planting seeds or controlled animal introductions speed up healing in damaged areas, or does that undermine the authenticity of letting ecosystems evolve organically? Some might argue that in a world facing rapid extinction, we can't afford to be hands-off – but others contend that true resilience comes from minimal interference. What do you think? Should we emulate Surtsey's isolation more widely, or is there a middle ground where human innovation helps without dominating? Drop your opinions in the comments – let's spark a conversation on balancing preservation with progress!
For more on the age of extinction, check out our series here (https://www.theguardian.com/environment/series/the-age-of-extinction), and follow biodiversity journalists Phoebe Weston (https://www.theguardian.com/profile/phoebe-weston) and Patrick Greenfield (https://www.theguardian.com/profile/patrick-greenfield) in the Guardian app for ongoing nature updates.
