There's a ute parked out on a rock in Killiecrankie Bay. Three dogs and two men are working.
Crays are rustling around in a big wooden pen called a cauf. The tide is coming in and the rock has become an island.
"There are 288 crays in there," 80-year-old Jack Wheatley says.
This is his last load of crayfish.
He's hanging up his cray pots after 70 years in the commercial southern rock lobster industry.
Killiecrankie sits on the northern tip of Flinders Island in Bass Strait.
There are no shops and just one gravel road in.
In its heyday, there were eight boats catching crayfish out of the bay and about 15 elsewhere on the island.
Then it was just Jack.
Now, unless someone local buys one or more of Jack's 36 cray pot licences — about $70,000 a pot — there will be no crayfishers based on the island catching Flinders Island crays.
It's the end of an era.
"This is a sad day, a very momentous day," says Jack's wholesaler, Mick Grimshaw.
Mick is tagging and sorting the last catch.
"This is a big deal for the whole island," he says.
"We should be the capital of the cray. We are home to the Crayfish Festival. Crayfish are an iconic part of who we are.
"Jack Wheatley — the old bloke's a legend around here. He could catch crays in his sleep."
Jack grew up in Killiecrankie with 10 siblings; five brothers and five sisters.
Eighty years of his life have been linked to the tides and cycles of Killiecrankie.
"There's salt in my blood," Jack says.
"It seems better out there than what it is on the shore."
'Too much red tape'
So what's happened here? Jack blames bureaucracy.
"That's why we're getting out of it — all the regulations. We can't fish all the summer like we used to," he says.
"There's too much red tape."
Mick agrees.
"For smaller-scale fishermen like Jack it's getting harder," he says.
"It works on zones and each zone is only open for a certain amount of time and then there are caps to how much you can catch in each zone."
Jack says in the zone his boat can access, with shrinking timeframes and quotas, the "big fellas" with larger boats and crews come in and take what's allowed before he even gets a chance.
Jack thinks there should be at least one licensed crayfisher on the island.
"You won't be able to buy local Flinders Island cray when you're on the island. We'll have to bring it over from Launceston," he says.
Boats from Tasmania will still fish for Flinders crays, but Flinders Islanders will have to buy their lobsters back from elsewhere in the state.
There will be no way of telling whether they are buying crays that were caught around the coast of Flinders or somewhere else.
It's an indication of the industry changing from being family-run to being dominated by big business.
Jack is hopeful he'll be able to sell his licences but says the cost makes it almost impossible for a local family to buy-in.
"Yeah, [it's] very expensive — very hard," he says.
"It's the big fellas that can stay in the industry now."
Karl Krause is president of the Tasmania Rock Lobster Fishermen's Association and says not many fishers own all their own quota anymore.
"Investors and superannuation companies own quota and lease it back to us," he says.
No more local crays for tourists
Stacked on the Killiecrankie Bay beach are some of Jack's cray pots.
Jack makes his own cray pots out of twisted tea tree. If one accidentally becomes jetsam it's biodegradable.
The tea-tree pots Jack uses give the crays a chance to escape.
"They can climb out the top if they try, so it's a fair game. A bit of skill and a bit of luck," he says.
Jack and Mick are sorting the last Flinders Island locally caught crays into plastic tubs in the back of the ute and a local restaurant owner has come to be a part of the final haul.
Aboriginal chef Toni Wood runs Mountain Seas restaurant on Flinders and is snaffling up the last crays to freeze and use over summer.
Toni says Flinders Island crayfish taste the best, and it will be disappointing not to be able to access them.
"We'll have to source from mainland Tassie. It's a sad thing. The tourists come here expecting to get local seafood," she says.
'You got to keep going'
Jack is boxing up the last of the load.
He can tell the weight of a crayfish just by holding it.
"This one's 1.5 [kilograms]," he says.
And on his last day as a professional crayfisher, Jack is reflective.
"I love the ocean. Being out there. I've been doing it all my life — [it's] hard to stop," he says.
"[It's] sad, but just another day. You got to keep going."
The Department of Natural Resources and Environment (NRE) Tasmania was asked if they had a plan in place to support the Flinders Island crayfish industry.
"Fishing licences are not tied to an area. Commercial rock lobster fishers are able to base themselves at home ports as they choose," a spokesperson said.
"NRE Tas is developing an overarching harvest strategy for the rock lobster fishery."
