Nature in Motion
I hear the fishermen set out each morning against the roar of waves. The wind carries their voices through our small bathroom window. The voices hint of solemn anticipation-- the mumble and mutter before a maritime hunt, the ebb and hush of a church congregation in communal prayer. The fisherman dock along a narrow stretch of beach that is coincident with the front of our compound gate. Their boats are painted bright blue and if it weren’t for their parched yellow cracked wood frames, the boats in the water would appear invisible, their oarsmen suspended above the sea like magnificent West African Knights
The scarred hull of the boats
To make it out to sea against the stubborn tide, the fishermen transform. Sinewy powerful bodies subsume oar along a narrow parabolic arc, violent at the plunge, but then steady at the torque as the ocean is pulled along the boats’ hull. Hush. Hush. Hush. I am told that when the wind is strong, it is possible to use an engine. When I look around and see no engines, I ask what engine and I am shown matter of fact, with a point, on the sand, mast and sail.
The mast is a sturdy limb, straight with a diameter that takes two palms to encircle. Its substance has become hard as rock from unrelenting heat and chronic sea spray. The sail is a patchwork quilt of old garments, tarp, twine and rope. Many a Midwestern clothing drive has contributed to this fine sail. There is hint of culture clash as one still sees in faded print, “Boulder High Lacrosse” or “Gore/Lieberman 2000”. Where are the owners now? Who among them could have imagined the migration of cotton polyester blend, incidentally made in China, worn thin for warmth and advertisement, but now used for propulsion on the flip side of the world.
Inescapable hand made and mended fish nets
The men are out to sea eight hours a day in two shifts. Their skin is thick and the ripple of their muscles front to back natural, brutal and earned. Once out at sea, the men cast out fine nets which arc across the sky in a firework-like display. The nets settle like patterned debris on the water’s surface before slowly sinking to ensnare that which flits to and fro or ambles hither and thither in between. The net spaces are small like that of a Swiss filtration system and miss nothing. The catch is peaceful for its efficiency, mercilessness and “is plenty”. The more life struggles in this brand of net, the more it is ensnared in its layers. Once on land, when extended, items dangle in the air as if hung on deliberate display, nature’s inner overcoat of assorted trinkets. There is little struggle. Large and small lobsters, red Crouper, silvery sleek Cassava, oblong tuna, crabby crabs, and splattered jelly fish on a bed of twigs, snail shells, sea weed, plastic bags and occasional shoe. The extrication of life is both exhilarating and defeating. For this is death but money, rent, education and food. But this is the first catch of the day. The cycle necessarily begins again. Before the women from the local fish shops start moving toward the fishermen, clambering with excitement and annoyance at that which the fishermen did or did not catch, the nets must be picked clean, examined, mended, then rolled again. The men for the second phase of the hunt chosen. A quick communal snack of rice and potato greens with dessert of green mango with little said. The wind questioned for the possibility of engine use. The decision to set out without. The crashing waves destabilizing the vessels initially but the men steely and resolved behind them. They forge steadily ahead. They make it over the break and the sea calms. The fishermen jump into the boats as if springing from land. They grab the oars from the gunnels placing the blades swiftly into the water to move into position.
The catch in seller's bucket
