Cricket & Fishing

In the 'good old days' when you went to watch a county cricket match spectators were allowed onto the outfield during the luncheon or tea intervals. So it would be that young boys would scamper out onto the lush green surface with an oversize bat in one hand and a set of miniature stumps in the other and would play the game with their fathers, perhaps both dreaming that one day the boy would step out onto a pitch proudly displaying the emblem of county or country on his cap.

There was another ritual that would take place at this time. Groups of men, and it was always men, would stride out to the centre of the ground and congregate around the pitch itself. There they would stand, hands clasped behind their backs, and they would study the pitch: earnestly. Rarely would any comments be made or any other form of communication take place, except the odd finger that would point to a crack in the surface just in front of the crease to which the remainder of the group would either nod appreciatively or huff in disapproval.

I was reminded of this yesterday as I watched the early morning catch being hauled in by the local fshermen in Kovolam, a pleasant collection of small beaches and coves in South Western India. This is very much fishing in the traditional way, and the well honed routine was a joy to watch. Substantial rowing boats made of heavy lumber are pushed off the beach into the sea by a group of ten or twelve men. These open boats of thirty or so feet in length are then rowed out to sea by a crew of eight each using an oar that looks much like a piece of 4 x 2 with a dinner plate nailed to one end. It leaves behind on the beach one end of a rope and as the boat is rowed out into the bay this rope is played out until the nets that are attached to it are dropped into the sea as the boat scribes an arc in the water and returns to shore at the other end of the beach, the oarsmen rowing furiously in the final stages to get the boat up onto the sand.

The crew jump out of and make fast the boat and then they and the remaining men that were left behind on the beach split into two groups of around fifteen. Each group grasps one end of the rope and they start to pull the rope / net combination in towards the shore. This looks as though it should be hard work with maybe 800 metres of net to haul in, through water and surf, with hopefully a decent amount of fish contained within it. At the very end of the rope is someone we shall call the 'coilsman'. His job is to coil the rope as it gets pulled in by the rest of the group and to untie the knots where one rope is joined to another, so that the coils may be later carried back onto the boat for the next attempt. The remaining fourteen men haul in the rope by stepping backwards up the beach in unison, singing collectively as they do it, until the rearmost man reaches the coilsman and there he releases the rope and saunters to the front of the group and the process is repeated. It should be hard work but they make it seem almost effortless and there is no outward signs of exertion in the men. This is a well practiced routine and everyone in the group knows what his job is and the net gets pulled in relentlessly.  With maybe 200 metres of net remaining three or four men enter inside the cordon of the net and start splashing and thrashing around to force the fish into the end of the net. 

After perhaps 30 minutes of pulling the net is landed. Surprisingly, for the large numbers of men involved and the overall time taken of around an hour and a half to set the net and then to haul it in, the catch is maybe 30-40 kilos of mainly small fish. This gets sorted through on the beach and what is saleable is immediately sold. This leaves a small pile of very small minnows on the beach; something of the order of 3-4 kgs and for a strange reason, once the hullaballo is over men, and it is only men, stride over to the small pile of fish and with their hands clasped behind their backs study it: earnestly.