The deserted early morning beachfront scene in this fisherman’s village at the southern tip of Brazil’s Santa Catarina Island is deceivingly calm.  Everyone is waiting for the tainha to arrive.  ‘We need wind and colder temperature,’ someone comments the day before.  ‘The big boats are stealing them,’ says another. ‘They are coming,’ murmurs and old man, immobile, eyes fixed on the shoreline.  

     A foreigner like myself doesn’t notice the signs of anticipation, can’t see that a particular kind of boat and net are ready, that vigils posted on the top of dunes are watching the steely, blue-grey ocean surface.  Later, I learn that indigenous tribes fished tainha (mullet) along this part of the South American coast as far south as Argentina far before Europeans arrived here in the 15^th century, that the salt and freshwater species migrate north, approaching the shorelines as they search for warmer waters do spawn.  For several weeks starting in mid-May, tainha fishing is still a revered and communal tradition for this portion of the South Atlantic littoral that boasts a significant influence from Azorean immigrants.   

     The wind changes that night then temperatures drop and rise again.  Rain blows in from the ocean, taps the red tile roofs, and washes the dense hillside vegetation surrounding Pântano. The morning sky dawns a uniform pale grey with fragments of darker clouds drifting north.  The air smells thick and humid while the villagers are still asleep or waiting patiently. 

     Then two adolescent boys suddenly appear sprinting from one end of the beach.  They emit a series of high, short cries as they run. Like bits of fire spreading in a dry field, the sound catches immediately in the village, multiplying in a varying chorus.  Immediately more people appear, hustling down to the shorefront, a few arrive on bicycles.  The elegant, curved prow of the Osmarina, a 20-foot vessel used only for tainha, emerges from a shelter, muscled to the shoreline by a gang of young men that seem to have been waiting only for the alert. Within moments, the boat is in the water, manned by 8 oarsmen pulling it away from the shore.  Just as quickly, the empty beach fills with the village population, responding with the tainha call. The net is dropped as the boat traces a broad half-circle only a few hundred feet from shore.  Two men enter the water and guide the trailing net lines back to where a group has formed and set hands to the lines.  Everyone calls directions, gesturing excitedly about which way to pull when the time is right. 

     

     The Osmarina sets the net in a half-circle then beaches again several hundred feet distant from where it had launched.  A second group forms behind the boat-end of the net lines, waiting for the signal to pull.  Small white buoys float the net top, describing a broad half-circle on the surface of the water.  Weights on the net bottom secured by a blue line have sunk, hopefully capturing the fish within the barrier.  Signals are exchanged, followed by more cries, instructions, and waving of hands. It appears everyone is the captain and expert.  Then the groups at the two extremities begin hauling in the net. Perhaps ten minutes have transpired since the Osmarina touched water, but it seems like an instant.   

     Local writer and folk culture chronicler Fernando Alexander has created a tainha blog and information resource where he comments on various local subjects. (tainhanarede.blogspot.com) He is a treasure of details and anecdotes and has also published a book on local expressions and vocabulary called Dicionário Da Ilha, Falar & Falares da Ilha de Santa Catarina. Tainha boats like the Osmarina, he tells me, are called canoa bordada because of their high sides and constructed from a single tree-trunk. Fifty people are assigned to each boat to help with gathering the nets in exchange for a portion of the catch.  Fernando says part of the problem of diminishing tainha stocks is due to commercial boats overfishing in deeper waters.  Tainha eggs are a luxury product in international caviar markets. 

     Legends, songs, and rituals have evolved over the years connected to tainha fishing and each community has its own collection. Santa Catarina’s coastal villages compete for tainha prizes each season. Photos on the wall inside Arante, the legendary local restaurant, show biblical scenes of tainha literally covering the shoreline.  Alexander points out the importance of the artisanal aspect of the fishing and how the communal effort and celebration connects this population. The fish is delicious, he says, cooked on an open fire, fried, or added to the traditional dark bean feijão.            

      As the two groups approach each other in the final pull to beach the catch, fish spring from the water, trying to escape over the net. Men lunge, trying to catch an airborne tainha.  Gesturing and instruction-giving is unrelenting, finally climaxing as everyone peers into the knee-deep water to see how many fish are in the net.  The two groups of net-pullers nearly meet as they finally drag the fish up onto the sandy beach. 

    

     This is the first catch of the season in Pântano.  When the net is opened and fish are tossed into a heap on the shore, the quantity is less biblical than the photos in the restaurant.  Still, it makes a considerable pile. Arantinho, the owner of the Osmarina, moves around counting the flopping tainha. ‘286,’ he murmurs, looking disappointed.  He points off in the horizon and adds, ‘most of them got away in that direction….’ 

     The nets are gathered, rinsed at the shoreline, and hoisted back into the boat.   A refrigerator truck rumbles down the beach in the direction of the crowd to load-in the catch. Shortly afterwards, the Osmarina is rowed back and beached in its resting place. The crowd disperses. It is still breakfast time, but the seasonal tainha run has begun.  Only two hours later the short high cries are heard again and the scene is replayed, half a kilometer farther down the shore.  This time, the catch is more plentiful and a more orderly work routine replaces the earlier frenzy. By mid-afternoon the Osmarina has entered the water three more times and a second boat, the Mariposa, is also casting its nets. 

     I switch from observer to net-assistant, taking my place in the group and hands set to pull with the group.  After the catch, a bottle of homemade cachaça, the local alcohol is passed to me. Only after a long drink do I notice the tiny snake floating in the alcohol and the label cobra-cachaça. Excitement is still in the air and festival looks on people’s faces from the arrival of awaited abundance and connection. Villagers trudge away with their portion of the catch.  For how many days will the ritual be repeated and how many tainha will be caught in the net when they venture close to the shore? 

     Pântano do Sul. Santa Catarina Island, Brazil. Such scenes occur all along this Southern Atlantic coast and in other versions where ever people look to the sea for food and wait patiently for the moment to catch it.    

Richard Simas, 

May 2014

richardsimas@netaxis.ca photos, taihnanarede.blogspot.com.br