A Cayuco at the Side of the Boat
A local indigenous fisherman drops by with a delivery
A knock on the port side of our hull draws a frown from Alex. “Not sure I want any lobster,” she says. She assumes it is Esteban. He is a local indigenous Ngöbe from a village a few miles away. He paddles by once a week, around noon, and usually on Tuesdays.
I nod. I don’t feel like dealing with it either. I ask, “What if they are the big ones today?” Alex thinks, shrugs, “Yeah, maybe.”
Esteban’s cayuco is next to our hull, but does not touch. He floats inches from the boat, pushes away with a gentle touch of his hand when his craft drifts into the gravity of ours. He smiles. Greets me. Sweeps his hand to show off the nine lobsters lined up for my view. Then he laughs. It is a good haul.
The lobsters are between his feet, on the floor of the shallow cayuco. He arranges them in order of size. A large one at the end moves to crawl away from the lineup, but he pushes it back with the heel of his bare foot. Four are large, almost too large for our pot. The rest are regular or on the smaller side.
“Twenty-four dollars for all of them. For nine,” he says. “Normally thirty, but twenty-four for you, my friend,” he flashes his teeth. They are small and white, except for two on a side that betray his age with the signs of slow decay. I don’t know how old Esteban is. I guess older than forty but younger than seventy.
Life carves the lines on locals’ faces without fairness. Some are burned by the sun, which turns them old before half a century. Others are caressed by it, looking youthful into their sixties. Maybe it is not the sun, but a fortune they struck with a choice of a mate, toughness of their chosen profession, or the difficulty of their children. Or maybe it is just dumb luck of a genetic draw.
Many fishermen look older. The lines on their foreheads are deeper. The vertical line of worry carved by furrowed eyebrows is prominent. But, so are the happy laugh lines around the eyes. The competing features of these lines are imprinted on their faces by the changing luck of their trade.
Not many indigenous cayuco fishermen are left. Those who can afford a panga and a motor have shifted to ocean fishing for tuna. They sell to local restaurants and to people on the docks.
I still see the cayuco fishermen in the channels and bays between the islands. The line-fishermen float their cayucos close to mangroves or above the steep drop-offs. They do not use fishing poles. Only a handheld line that they feed into the water. They tug on it with a careful rhythm to fool the fish into believing that the dead bait is alive and worth pursuing. Or, they simply let the swell do the work. The waves lift the shallow canoe and tug the line, then release it in a trough.
Esteban is a different kind of fisherman. He is a diver. His snorkel and mask are behind him in the aft of the boat. They are on top of small fins more fitting for a child. He dives down to corral heads and through channels with rock formations where families of lobsters hide between feedings. Lobsters and crabs, he catches with his hands. Fish, he spears. He dives for hours each day, on his own breath, against the pressures of the depth.
“Alex,” I yell. “They are good ones.”
She pokes her head from the inside, “If you think so. We have cash.”
I find the empty ‘Do-It Center’ white bucket and pass it to Esteban. He loads the lobsters one by one. He is careful. The lobsters here do not have claws, but an angry defensive slap of the tail can hurt. He hands the bucket up to me. The lobsters are trying to climb up the slippery side.
“You have a cold beer, amigo?” Esteban asks. It is a hot day.
I nod. I pass the bucket to Alex down below, and she passes me a beer. Esteban, touches the cold can to his forehead, opens it and sips. His eyes widen. “Strong!” He is used to the light Panamá or Atlas beer. The IPA bites his tongue.
“How long does it take to paddle here?” I ask.
“Two or three hours, depending on the wind and waves.”
It seems far, but I know it is worth it for him. The local workers make between twenty and thirty dollars a day. He just made twenty-four dollars, and he still has fish to sell, plus a few crabs. His maintenance cost is paid for in his time. He has no fuel to buy. And some of the catch is food for his family.
Esteban bales the water from the bottom of his porous canoe. Quick, practiced strokes with a one-gallon plastic vinegar jar, cut in half. He sips the beer one more time, sets it between his legs, and picks up the paddle. It is the traditional hand-made wooden paddle: long, narrow blade with a handle on top in the shape of water buffalo horns. He gently bows his head towards it as a thanks for my business. I wave and nod my head. Then, with strong, silent strokes, he disappears around the mangrove.
He makes no noise. He makes no waves. A quiet human living a quiet life. He takes just enough from the world to keep on living in tranquility. Mostly happy, I imagine, if the deep laugh lines tell a true story. In harmony with the sea. Yet, I suspect I am wrong.
The image is my projection of what I want to run away to from the stress of my Western job. I know, it is a foolish dream. I have it easy. I don’t bob on the swell, caught in an unpredictable torrential downpour in the midst of thunderstorms. I don’t fret that someone discovered my secret fishing spot and emptied it to feed the tourists. I have different worries, but I suspect they look trivial from inside his cayuco.
We did not want lobster today, but I am happy we bought it.
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