Quellon, a serious fishing port

The chaotic fish dock in Quellon immediately brought to mind Melville’s description of the Nantucket waterfront in Moby Dick. Although currently a vague and distant image for me, I remember the author’s description of the place as being simultaneously chaotic, exciting, and intimidating. Quellon is certainly this. Several men wandering around who would fit the casting role for Queequeg. An Alaskan parallel, somewhat stretched, would pair Dalcahue with Homer and Quellon with Kodiak- slightly less hospitable, a touch more fish-crazed. Longer hair, more tattoos, a bit more trash on the sides of the streets. Piercing stares or no acknowledgement at all. Very few things are more intimidating in life than a commercial fisherman’s stare, even for those accustomed to the trade. I think the Quellon dock is fantastic.

Lots of fish come into Quellon. It is a major port for many of the boats which fish to the south, stretching towards Patagonia. Almeja (clam), merluza (hake), congrio (kingklip, the eel/cusk-like fish highly prized in Chile), dorado (a congrio-like fish, not the speedy and iridescent dorado, aka dolphin, often caught in the tropics), caracol, corvina, and peliyo are all commonly fished here. Luga (red algae) is harvested by divers, transported in larger vessels (tenders) back to the dock, and here in town there are two plants which dry the algae and ship to Santiago, where it is where it is used as a thickener in many products, including shampoo and ice cream.

Almeja are harvested by divers, using dive boats similar to those from Dalcahue. Today the dock is piled with clams, in places 3 feet high. Wild-eyed men shovel the clams into 40 kilogram bags. On average, I’m told boats will bring in between six and nine bags’ worth of almeja per day. This is the result of a long day’s work for five fishermen, three buseos (divers) and two marinos (men working the deck). Here and now, almeja are worth 170 pesos per kilogram. This works out to around $15 per fisherman the day.

I’m told that commercial divers for luga spend most of their days in 40-50 meters of water, but I’ve also seen divers in the intertidal harvesting what appears to the same leafy, inedible algae. Like those used to harvest almeja and navijela, most boats are between seven and eight meters in length. Boats are paid 200 pesos per kilogram for the crop. Like most of fishing, the pennies (or pesos) add up, bit by bit. These fishermen all take great pride in their boats, and most show every sign of really enjoying their chosen livelihood.

Pressure on divers’ ears when 50 meters below must be intense. I’m told that the acclimation is brief. I think tolerance for pain is pretty damn high in these parts.

Larger longliners are moored just off the dock. Pablo, a young deckhand on an 18-meter longliner, lets me in on a few details of his fishery. Pablo and the seven others aboard the Mar Bravo use fixed hook and line gear, very similar to that used in Alaska. Only the mantles of squid are used for bait, and they mainly fish for the congrio and dorado, both well-endowed with fins and valued for their firm white meat. Cod, one of the most evolutionary successful finfish in the world, are caught here too. The boat heads out to fishing grounds for 15 day stints, then returns to it’s native harbor for a week or so to rest it’s engine, it’s crew, and to restock. For many of the days on the water, when not in transit, the crew gets very little sleep. Fishing continues around the clock, and the larger crew allows for them to cycle through three-hour naps. Hooks always need rebaiting, fish need to be gutted and iced in the fish hold, gear has to be set out and hauled back. This is remarkably similar to much of the halibut longlining in Alaska, and Pablo and I, separated by language, culture, and around 10,000 miles of Pacific Ocean laughed at our parallel paths in life, despite the small differences. We headed into town for a celebratory beer.