I’m in Sayulita at the moment, and every morning just before dawn, I take my place to watch the fishermen arrive. There are early-morning surfers barely visible in the low light, but it’s the fishing end of the beach that keeps me captivated. It’s always the same group of men, the same boats pulled up on the sand, the same nets laid out and waiting. There’s a certain kind of intimacy, a familiarity to it, the kind that comes from returning to the same place to do the same work, day after day.
They gather around their boats and get to work. Bags are loaded. Nets are lifted and shaken, checked for tears, mended where needed. There are pats on the back and laughter, and the low, familiar hum of people who know one another well and know exactly what needs doing.
They work closely together, like a well-oiled engine, and when it’s time, they push each boat into the water, steadying them against the pull of the waves. The seabirds gather around, hoping for any discarded treats, and then, one by one, the boats disappear around the point. Nets will be cast. The catch will be brought in, cleaned and prepared. Then food will make its way to tables, to families, to businesses that depend on it.
I find myself wondering if they listen to the news cycle, and then I realize it doesn’t really matter if they do or don’t. They already know what they need to know. They understand the weather, the seasons, the water. They know when to go and when to stay in. They know that some days are generous and others aren’t, and that both are part of the work.
There is something deeply grounding about this. The respect for craft and the usefulness of it. The care taken with their tools and with one another. This is work with purpose.
Each morning, they show up. They tend to what is theirs to tend. And tomorrow, before the sun is up, they’ll be back.
