Nautical Midwives: When Fishing Becomes Like Childbirth

A Brown Girl’s Memoir on Ancestry, Fishing and The Undercurrents of Climate Change

Photo: DZiegler

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When I was a child, my father used to take us fishing. As a Bangladeshi immigrant, he had a nostalgia for things that reminded him of home. And this included fish. He was passionate about them — from catching them to eating them to examining the shining quality of their eyeballs at the market to determine their freshness. Dad’s face would light up at seeing a whole fish, whether on the Discovery Channel or in the supermarket. I suppose I inherited a bit of that spirit too, one that would show up in my adulthood as a surfer and traveler.

This time, I was headed back to a tiny island off the Northwest coast of Fiji. It was so small you could walk around it in 20 minutes. I had spent some time there whilst on my nonprofit sabbatical the year prior, and managed to return for some needed respite and waves.

After landing in Nadi, I boarded an open bow, longboat taxi that would transport me and another surfer out to the tiny island for our stay. Fiji had just been hit with a cyclone in the days prior, and so the ocean was wild that day. The chop of the water formed waves that collided with our boat, as if creating a ramp for our boat to swerve upward on the crest, only to come crashing down a few feet on the other side as our butts slightly flew off the built-in plastic benches. Though it was just another day at sea for the boatman, I hung onto the sides for dear life, as he nonchalantly maneuvered us through the chaotic sea until we reached the island.

The island was tiny and naked next to the vastness of the ocean. Its sandy edges bled into once crystal clear, shallow waters, which turned a murky emerald green before bleeding into deep blue the further you looked out to sea.

There were patches of palm trees and other greenery concentrated to one side of the island. A few feet up from the water’s edge, there was a bar and kitchen, which opened into a patio area with a few round tables and a small pool.

Looking out towards the ocean, there was a series of waves breaking a few hundred feet past a bed of turquoise and blue reefs. Pulses of water collided with the reef, forming a wave that crested and slowly crumbled from left to right as the white water moved slowly to devour the face of the wave.

As I walked up to the patio area of the island from the beach, I was greeted by the joyful smiles of the local Fijians, some of who were friends from my last trip. A smiling, young man came up to me, and leaned towards me to ask if I wanted to go into the bushes with him. Unsure what this meant, I smiled awkwardly and with a nervous giggle, politely declined. I mentioned the strange interaction to our host to which he replied, “Oh? He said that, did he?” Upon inquiring further, I understood going into the bushes was a direct invitation to “get it on.” I was surprised one would be that forward to someone having spent less than five minutes on the island.

Although I came to surf, it wasn’t always possible due to the unpredictable nature of the ocean. On one particular morning, the waves didn’t look so great. So I decided to invoke the spirits of my half-Bengali ancestry and try my hand at fishing. For me, it’s the next best thing to do when one is out of waves.

Docked several yards away from the shore was a medium-sized, white fishing boat that had three long poles jutting out from its stern. They were massive in comparison to the modest, small, pink and brown fishing pole my father gave me as a girl. The boat was operated by a 20-something, stocky Australian guy named James. James was a soft-spoken guy, had shoulder length, dirty blond hair, and a stocky build. He always wore a sleeveless T-shirt. There were a few others on our crew that day, including an Ozzie photographer who worked as a volunteer on the island, and two other traveling surfer dudes from Southern California.

That morning, we set out on the fishing boat to sea. As our boat got further out to sea, the tiny island slowly faded in the background. Soon, we had nothing but a horizon line to stare into on all sides that separated the navy blue of the sea from the baby blue sky.

The steering wheel of the boat was located between two fat, metal poles that held up a white, awning-type cover for shade. A GPS system and screen were showing what looked like maps of the reef below, and a tracker of where our boat was in relation to them. Despite all the gadgets and maps, the strategy to finding the fish relied on our human capabilities. It had to do with birdwatching. Where there are birds, there are fish.

Now scouring for flying birds, we moved through the ocean as our boat slapped and sprayed against the small ripples and waves, and the winds blew into our faces and cooled us from the beating sun. It felt invigorating, bumping up and down on the surface of the sea as I looked out cautiously, secretly hoping I would not get seasick from the ride.

After some time, we spotted a large, noisy flock of sea birds. Flying chaotically in circles just above the water, they catapulted themselves into the ocean, like an Olympic diver to a swimming pool. They surfaced moments later, with silvery fish flopping halfway out of their mouths.

James slowed the boat until the motor lowered to a modest rumble to observe the scene further. He decided there was enough of a feeding frenzy to warrant good potential fishing waters. So we started to ready up our poles in preparation.

My pole had a black handle covered with a layer of black neoprene. The tip of the line had fake bait made up of pink rubber tassels that looked like strips of pink licorice from a candy store. It was supposed to mimic a squid, a far cry from the brown worms my brother and I used to dig up from our yard as fishing bait when we were kids.

I gripped the bottom of my pole with my left hand and with my other hand, released the bail to let the fishing line come loose. I held on to its slack with my right hand so it wouldn’t run, swung the lanky pole back over my right shoulder, and then cast it forward in front of me towards the sea. The spool below the orange cartridge rotated rapidly as my bait and weights flew through the air, plopping into the ocean. I secured the bail, and slowly reeled the line back in towards me.

This act of doing something over and over again while adjusting with my knees to the gentle up-and-down pulses of the sea from the boat floor had somewhat of a meditative effect on me, as did looking out and seeing only the simplicity of a straight horizon line.

Moving my gaze away from the horizon, I noticed where my fishing line met the water, and the ripple and pattern it would make when I’d reel it in a bit. Focusing intently on these seemingly simple elements, I felt for subtle tugs on my line as I gradually reeled it in before another cycle of casting.

The guys were relatively quiet, as we cast out our lines and patiently waited for any hint of life below that might fall for our bait. And despite being the only female on the boat, I was 100% comfortable with my male fishing compadres.

Amid our meditative ritual, requiring us to focus and flow to the pulse of the sea, I suddenly felt a tug on my line.

To test if it was a bite, I pulled the pole upwards and toward me to examine the resistance. The tip of my pole started to bend slightly into an arc. I did this a few times and the resistance stayed. “I think I got something!” I exclaimed.

James rushed over to inspect. The other guys looked on, fixated on what might be below. And in that instant, our meditative fishing flow slowly transformed into the likes of a nautical maternity ward.

“Release the line,” James said to me calmly.

“Why?” I asked, perplexed.

“If you release the line, the fish will swim against the drag and get tired out. It will be easier to reel it in,” he explained. I released the line to let it run for a bit. I then secured the line and reeled it back in. I released then reeled it, over and over again like a corporate litigator purposefully dragging out a case to tire out and intimidate their tiny opponent.

I sat down on the edge of the boat to get a better grip on the pole. Even with lowering my center of gravity, the fish was strong. After some time, I began losing my leverage on the pole.
“Grab the belt,” James yelled. Belt? There’s a belt? Who knew? One of the guys then fastened a black nylon belt around my waist. It had a metal piece attached to rest the handle of my pole in, which tucked snugly into my belly. I inserted the handle in it, immediately gaining back leverage over the fish.

“Alright Farhana, keep reeling. You got this!” James, the fishing midwife, yelled as the weight of the pulls got more intense.

“Keep going, Farhana!” someone else yelled.

“This is getting haaarder,” I declared, now surrounded by my four nautical midwives, hovering on either side of me, with all eyes fixated on the water.

“I can see its head!” one of them shouted. It was silver and triangular. As I reeled it in, its large body and crescent-shaped tail thrashed violently from side to side in defense. Now, feeling more of the weight of the fish, James grabbed onto the pole to help me.

I reeled and pulled, with James by my side, as a giant fish with a 4-foot-long shimmering, silver-grey body and peacock green spinal scale emerged to face its cruel un-birth. Swinging it into the backside of the boat, it crashed to the floor, its body flapping and convulsing while oozing a trail of red blood that contrasted against the stark white boat floor. I then let out a deep breath.

“It’s a Wahoo!” someone shouted as if announcing the sex of a baby in a delivery room.

The boat exploded in congratulations at our collective victory at sea. A sense of pride filled the air, knowing we’d arrive back on the island, unembarrassed from our efforts. We continued to fish for a while after, but didn’t manage to catch anything more. And I, miraculously, didn’t manage to get sick in the process. We soon called it a morning and headed back to the island.
When we arrived, the staff approached our boat to see of the news of our journey, taking dibs on the head of the catch, the most coveted part of the fish for the Fijians who would soon turn it into a delicious soup. The fish was about 4 feet long and weighed in at 10 kg (22 lbs). It was the biggest fish I had ever caught.

While I felt valiant in my efforts to have un-birthed such a grand fish with the help of my seafaring doulas, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sad and guilty over its violent fate. But fishing was part of my Bengali ancestry. It was a way my forefathers had fed themselves for generations. It’s something my father taught me. Surely it’s better than a meat factory, I reasoned with myself. For some reason, there was a bigger psychological weight for me in taking such a big fish from the sea.

Guilt and glory aside, I also felt as if I had gained some weird new insight by reuniting with my childhood fishing spirit as an adult woman. On the one hand, it is a dopamine-induced, male-dominated, big-game sport. On the other hand, it reminded me of the female act of birthing, minus the baby and minus the pain.

As I reflect on my maritime midwife memories from 13 years ago, I’m present to the words of friend and ocean scientist, the late Dr. Wallace J. Nichols, known as J. to most.

J. always used to say in his talks that we are taking too much out of the ocean, and we are putting too much into the ocean. It reminds me of the parallel universe in fishing, one that exists in stark contrast to my privileged brown girl fish tale, no pun intended.
I’m referring here to the parallel world of industrial fishing. Unlike my pole and line catch, industrial fishing uses a process called trawling to catch fish at a large scale. Ever see one of those bottom trawlers? It’s basically a net dragged just above or on the seabed. (See graphic below.) It not only disrupts and destroys marine ecosystems by sucking life up from the sea, it also has big impacts on the economic prosperity of local fishermen in areas of the Global South where many of these boats fish.

Hannah Ritchie and Max Roser (2021) — “Fish and Overfishing”. Published online at OurWorldInData.org. Retrieved from: ‘https://ourworldindata.org/fish-and-overfishing [Online Resource]

Take China, for instance. Many of their fishing boats can be found in waters off the coast of Global South nations like Sierra Leone. (Guardian) Their under-the-table fishing has disastrous consequences for the livelihoods of indigenous coastal fishing communities and economies.

For example, between 2010 and 2015, illegal and underreported fishing in West African waters resulted in an estimated total loss of $24.6 billion for these African nations. (Frontiers) This is a double whammy of environmental injustice. While Global North countries illegally deplete fishing supplies which disrupt the ocean’s natural carbon sink processes, they also compromise local fisheries and the livelihoods of those that depend on them.

These illegal fishing boats are also present in the South Pacific off the coast of islands like Fiji. While I was catching my one Wahoo, industrial fishing boats were taking much more. In many instances, marine authorities found these ships to be inaccurately recording their catches, and found the operations were rife with human rights abuses, from undocumented overtime to physical violence towards workers. (Climate News)

As the ocean absorbs roughly 80% of CO2 from our atmosphere, this type of extraction from our oceans also expands into our climate. While microalgae and seaweed absorb CO2, so do fish, altogether sequestering hundreds of thousands of tons of CO2 per year. As we take too much from the sea, we reduce the ocean’s natural carbon sink capacity. On top of that, when we take too many fish from the ocean, we also increase carbon emissions as boats spend more fuel and time searching for less fish.

Today, climate science says we have to cut our emissions in half by 2030. From carbon-capturing technologies, to regenerative farming, to heeding direction from indigenous communities on how to have a more reciprocal relationship with nature, it feels like we’re sprinting to balance everything out.

Like illegal commercial fishing, we have taken too much, and now we’re being challenged to meet our extractive behaviors with reciprocal ones. Historic land backs, reparations, and acknowledgment of Indigenous erasure are just some examples of the fundamental rebalancing happening on our earth right now.

On a personal level, I believe there’s always a duality of forces at play, in ourselves, in nature and yes, even in big-game pole and line fishing with a bunch of dudes! I believe for any healthy ecosystem to thrive, these forces need to be balanced.

Perhaps we’re being called to embrace fundamental philosophies like Yin and Yang within our systems, policies, structures and ourselves as we move forward on earth. Perhaps in doing so, it’s also time we ask one fundamental question in all of our actions going forward to move us towards more balance. Namely, if we take from the earth, how will we give back to it?

Author’s Note: This story was inspired by my surf travels to Fiji in 2011 and shared to the best of my recollection. Names have been changed to respect privacy.

Farhana Huq is a Social Entrepreneur, Executive Coach, Global Explorer, Terra.do Fellow and Founder of brown girl surf