Catembe and the Art of Fishing, sort of

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It seemed like such an extraordinary effort. They start out quite far down the beach from each other. Each team with a rope, and each man with a strap over his shoulder. They work together, silently, knowing precisely when to lean deep into a tug, and when to give a little slack as the anchor man releases his strap and moves towards the water, hooks his strap on the the rope and then sinks into the tug. Five or six men on each team, instinctually following a rhythm -- long lean in, anchor releases, few steps back, anchor reattaches closest to the water, long lean in, new anchor releases, few steps back. . .

We saw this rhythm from far down the beach. As we strolled they tugged, leaned in, unattached, and reattached their straps, all the while inching down the beach toward the other team.
Such a refined system. As the men inch into the shore and down the beach, the women coil the line, and the huge coil moves down the beach with them.

We stood and watched for what seemed like ages -- two teams of men and women, silent rhythmic work. Almost everyone in sport coats, except for the woman in a full-length trench coat. Sport coats with sweats, with shorts and flip-flops, with sarongs. Sport coats covered with sand and salty water, cuffs rolled high. Plaid, striped, grey, blue, black.

You can just imagine the journey -- you hear about it every few months on NPR -- huge shipments of donated clothes leave the US for the developing world and end up in second-hand clothing shops and on the backs of fisher men and women in Catembe, Mozambique.
Our anticipation grew as the teams closed in on each other. The white buoy that marked the head of the net bobbed closer to us, and we felt so lucky to be there to witness the great catch.
As the last few meters of the net came in, little silver fish flipped and flapped every which way, some making it out of the net onto the sandy beach. Those that leapt out of the net were gathered up and unceremoniously tossed to a pile on the shore.

The women waded in to the water in pairs, skirts flowing around them as they filled with water and moved with the whims of the waves. Dampness rising on the trench coat, kissing the tails of the sports coats. The pairs of women unfurled fine nets strung between two poles, almost like a hammock made of mosquito netting. They caught all that slipped out of the main net. That was their job, and it looked important.

The bounty was hidden in the waves. We leaned forward, trying to get a glimpse of what was to emerge. So much human effort, so much practice. A livelihood through generations.
The yield was carefully divvied up between fishermen --- each getting his share of the two little flapping, silver piles of fish, not a one more than a few inches long.

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