The fishermen at work

The other morning, we watched, and as it turned out, listened to the fishermen bring in the day’s catch. It is a monumental process for scant reward. They push out to sea in darkness, captaining crude, basic crafts hewn from enormous trees cut mostly in the eastern Volta region.

I’m no boater, and I’m certainly no fisherman, but to the untrained eye it’s actually something of a wonder these behemoths float. When idle on the beach they sit dumb and heavy on the sand like an abandoned parade float.

Some do employ basic sails that look like something cooked up by Tom Hanks in “Cast Away.” But most seem to rely on human power, attested to by the physiques of the fishermen themselves. These men are specimens, bodies hardened and chiseled like the very wood of the boats they navigate. It’s hard not to feel like a fillet of cod when standing beside them.

At about 8 a.m. the boats come and the herculean task of bring in the lines begins. This takes upwards of 30 men or more, with most manning the lines as if in a pitched tug-of-war with the ocean, which is, in fact, what it is. Meanwhile, other men at varying depths do what they can to guide the net still in the water. And during the entire process, which drags the men down the beach, they … sing. This is “Graceland” kind of stuff, songs to give you chills. “Come in, fish. Yeah, yeah. Come in, fish.”

This goes on for perhaps an hour, tugging and singing, shouting, moving down the beach. When the net is finally beached, hopefully as full of fish as this one was, it is shared among all who participated. A line of men with large metal bowls forms, removing piles of wriggling fish to a safe distance. Piles are dispersed as a retinue of gleaners scurries about to retrieve any scraps left behind.

And then just like that it is over. The fish are on their way to the market, while the men gather up the hundreds of feet of net over their shoulders to make their way back to the boats, where they prepare to do the same thing tomorrow.