Plunder

I woke up near dawn and walked the beach to the lip of the bay where all the fishing boats come to gather, el encuentro. Bopping like toys in the near surf, men hauling buckets full of fish all shapes and colors ashore. Others weighing, measuring, bargaining on the sand all red with blood. Old blue Latin style pickups backed up on the beach and tables thrown up of planks with woman skinning and fileting. Rusty weighing scales, fish guts, and vultures. The local cur dogs patrolling the crowds nabbing scraps and brawling amongst themselves while the local boys gossip over the mornings catch.

Long lines, trawl nets, seine nets, all depths and meters and narry a regulation or limit to the plunder. How long will this bounty last and at what cost I can´t help but wonder. Big dead fish eyes staring back vacant and lifeless. Sword nosed marlins, manta rays, and huge thresher sharks lying beached dead and bloody in the sand.

Encuentro, meeting place, arena of land and sea. Production and consumption. Man and nature played out every morning on the beach of Puerto Lopez...