Merry Mariculture

I would be misrepresenting the marine fisheries of Chile if I didn’t at least mention the extensive aquaculture. Although my perspective may be biased towards the (more) wild and (more) natural fisheries, aquaculture may well be viable and sustainable for some species, despite the scowls it often receives in Alaska. The difference between aquaculture and wild fish, when examined closely, is somewhat hazy, and in this blurry gray lies hatchery-raised fish. “Pure” wild fish are more rare than many people realize.

Along the coast of Chile, few areas with decent protection from wind and swells are without the telltale buoys of aquaculture. By area, the aquaculture seems to be mainly devoted to salmon (I believe mostly Atlantic, but some coho), but by volume I suspect shellfish may account for the bulk of cultivated fish. Aquaculture specific to shellfish is known as mariculture, and around Chiloé mariculture abounds. From hilly vistas in most any coastal town, literally thousands of neatly aligned buoys can be seen, marking strings of growing shellfish.

In Dalcahue, I passed a few hours with yet another exceedingly patient Chilean by the name of Mario. Mario is a worker in one of the cultivo marinos located roughly a kilometer from the Dalcahue docks. He has nice wrinkles from smiling and sports a black gorro (hat) that has seen better times. While his days may not have the excitement of the unknown that characterizes the chase for wild fish, Mario spends his share of time in and on the water, and shows the roaming gaze into the distance common among mariners in any country.

Mario cultivates choritos (mussels) for a small mariculture business, one of roughly 1,000 such ventures in the Gulfo de Ancud, he estimates. A main line is stretched between two buoys 100 meters apart, each buoy anchored to the bottom. Between 30 and 80 lines drape down to a depth of eight meters below the surface off this main line, and farms are usually established in 15 or more meters of water. On these secondary lines which hang vertical, chorito hop on and grow in the sunny upper water column. No rocks needed. Mario’s company buys tiny seed mussels collected from the wild, and then carefully creates this webbed home in a food-rich zone for these shellfish to fatten. After a year of growth, the bivalves are ready for the market (although if you gave the choritos the choice, they’d probably politely decline, preferring to keep swinging on their artificial vines).

Mario tells me that cultivated choritos are superior to those harvested in the wild, but that on the market choritos are valued equally, regardless of origin. He works six days a week, eight hours a day, with duties ranging from setting up the buoy-line infrastructure, to planting the seeds, to harvesting. For this he brings home 160,000 pesos per month, Chilean minimum wage, roughly $260 US (or $11 per working day). His work as international mariculture spokesman was unpaid but highly appreciated, and hungry mouths around the world reap the benefit of his sweat. Mario smiled slowly when I told him this (what odd things gringos say!), and then ambled up the dusty street with his son for a late dinner. A farmer-fisherman swapping muscles for money, mussels for bread.