Part of Chapter 1

The net came up light again.

Tomas hauled hand over hand, wet mesh dragging more water than fish. Three small galunggong flashed in the last of the light. One threadfin bream. A strip of weed. A torn plastic sachet twisted in the knots. That was all.

He braced a foot against the slat bench as the banca rolled under him. The stern dipped when the chop hit crosswise. He hated that loose tilt, the brief moment when wood and water stopped agreeing. He checked the cork line, checked the drift, hauled the last of the mesh over his thigh, and worked the fish free before scales and blood spoiled what little he had.

The outrigger bamboo creaked each time the swell lifted the hull. He glanced at the fuel bottle by the engine well. Not much left. Enough to get home. Not enough to waste on another long drift that would probably end the same way.

The water had looked wrong even before dark.

A thin film kept catching the light where the surface should have been plain. When the banca turned, the sheen broke into brief color, then dulled again. Not a full slick. Not thick enough to cling to the hull. Just enough to say something had leaked or been dumped farther up the lane and spread thin over the chop. He had seen worse after bigger vessels passed through. Diesel. Bilge wash. Old oil. Galley waste. Whatever men threw over once shore was far enough behind them.

Farther out, two other bancas were already turning home. He could tell by the engine notes. Nobody stayed late now unless he had to. Men still fished because men still had to eat, but the water had changed the way people used it. Boats kept farther apart. Radios stayed low. When a larger engine sounded too far offshore to see clearly, men looked first and worked second.

He checked the net for another tear and found one near the lower edge where the repair thread changed color. Daniel had mended that section last month with a blue line from an old roll because they had run out of green. Tomas knew the stitch pattern the way he knew their doorway in the dark. Tight knots. Slightly crooked near one corner because Daniel had been talking while he worked and looking toward the road instead of the mesh.

Tomas eased the fish into the plastic tub and reset for one more short drift. He knew it was a bad choice even while he made it. The fuel was low. The catch was poor. The light was going. But going home with almost nothing would not make anything easier.

The net sank and pulled out. He waited.