Moondance

Eight of us met on the Jambiani beach in the afternoon and worked on shifting a heavy, half-buried seine net form above the high tide mark into the boat. This dhow of the day was bigger than the Gambaguru, heavier, and most appropriately named Doza’, as in “bulldoza’”, because it was capable of handling so many people and lots of gear. Filling up the ranks for Captain Mahamoodi were Pandu, Hadji, Ahmed, Ali (a different Ali than we’ve met before), Ari, Mosquito, and one pale-skinned accessory. After the gear, we all climbed aboard and poled out to sea, as there wasn’t enough wind to push the beast along.

The fishing council discussed options for the day's set as we alternated poling duties. The spot finally settled upon was about four feet deep, with a bottom of dark coral and seaweed. A big rock anchor and a large buoy, attached to one end of a long net, was tossed overboard. The boat carved out a broad U with the net, with the opening facing up-current and southward. The net hung about three feet deep in the water and stretched several hundred meters. Immediately, across the opening, a thick line with palm frond “brooms” tied in every three meters or so was laid in the water. These brooms serve to sweep fish down into the belly of the net, closing the mouth of the U-shaped set. To my mind, when seen from underwater, each frond bundle looked like an octopus in attack mode. Whatever it looks like through fish eyes, it was effective at turning the catch around and back within the cup of the net.

By now the water had dropped to around three feet. Between us, there were five masks and snorkels. All but one man jumped out of the boat and took up a position along the perimeter of the net or on the line between the octopus dummies. We gradually sealed the mouth of the net and continued so that the ring described by the dark blue net slowly telescoped smaller. Those of us with masks kept tabs on the underwater activities and gave updates on where the concentration of fish was. (I tried to help with pointed fingers, waving hands, and grunts of “Poa!”). When the net had been drawn to a ring around 30 meters in diameter, Ahmed and Ari carried over a separate piece of net- this one much shorter- and a black rectangle of fine mesh. The black rectangle is the final trap into which the fish are herded, with the aid of the short stretch of net. As the mass of fish converged on the black mesh box, its mouth is closed, and the bundle of fish is carried over to, and dumped into, the Doza’. Snorkelers do a sweep for straggling fish, and the herding process can be repeated if need be. Kelp and seaweed are sorted from the finned quarry. The coordination required for this sort of fishing is impressive. The fish will feed eight Jambiani families as well as their friends and neighbors.

The process was incredible to watch from underwater. Even when knowing well that fish caught were going to good use, I couldn't help but sympathize for individual fish as they watched their boundless reef paradise hatch walls, and for the walls to rapidly encroach on their freedom. There was a brief period of panic as they tried to escape their new foreign environment, but the black mesh box seemed to attract them like a magnet as a place of safety. A false refuge. Life for a fish is hard, with or without humans.

We made a total of three sets, and each set took around two hours from start to finish. There were lots of laughs all around- this was a feat of teamwork and cooperation, without oil and machinery to share any of the load. The second set was laid out in the rain just after dusk, and the third set was done by moonlight. I’d guess that each set yielded about 20 kilograms of fish. Sometimes Mosquito tells me that a single set will fill the boat to the gunwales (which I’d guess is several thousand kilograms of fish), and that the fishermen are then forced to swim home (smiling no doubt), and then there are feasts, spontaneous beach parties, and lots of fish for the market. The tale of a boatload of fish is the equivalent of the rare giant bluefin sunning himself just in front of the boat in the Gulf of Maine, the big piraracu biting on the Solimones in Brazil, the winning numbers on the lottery, guessing the day right for Alaska's Nenana Ice Classic. A rare event, almost a miracle, but the exciting thing is that it might happen any old day.

Attempting to prove my usefulness, during the second set I noticed a spot where the bottom of the net was hung-up above the sea floor. I rushed over to close the leak as a few small fish zipped out and away. Just as I blocked the gap, a large pufferfish was huffing his way to the exit. We had a showdown: my arm-flailing bravado versus his patient beady gaze. I thought about trying to push him back in with my hand as he seemed frozen in the water column. Just then he triggered his quirky defense tactic and inflated into a spiny football in front of my face. He and I both popped to the surface in surprise. I let the prickly danger blimp float away free.

Heading in by the light of a waxing moon, surrounded by happy shouts in Swahili, and now with wind to carry us effortlessly, I couldn’t help but smile like the rest of the gang. The passing rain had already cleared for the stars to poke out, and unknown southern constellations dancing out in the blackness. Once on the beach, Mahamoodi generously sorted the fish into eight even piles, after taking a few choice fish as owner of the boat, as is the custom. The group had automatically given me a share of fish, and this action meant a lot to me. Mosquito was quick to quietly dissuade me from returning my share back to the group, as he was eager to acquire an extra portion, under the vague promise of a grand barbecue for the mzungo. I never did see the the barbecue, but it was a fine trip and I'm sure the fish all went to good use in and around Mosquito's home.