A happy sight awaited us as we returned from our morning walk. To the sound of the ocean and their own light-hearted banter, five fishermen dripping salt water from their sea-wet clothes were working their net on the beach. Two were on the sand each holding a side of the net, and three were inside the boat feeding out the net. The owner of the boat waved out a cheery greeting to us. The cause of their lifted spirits was in plain sight – spread out on the beach sand and flying in the air like tiny slivers of silver as the men shook the net to untangle the anchovy (maappu nethili).
Only one lucky boat from Urur Kuppam had ventured out today. It is Ayudha Puja, a religious holiday, when sales are dull as most Tamil hindus avoid meat and fish. In neighbouring Odai Kuppam, many more boats had set out with nethili valai – specialised anchovy nets. Each boat returned laden with delicate fish the size of a little finger. There’s more fish than there are buyers. So prices will be depressed. What can’t be sold will be sun-dried to be sold in packets of 10 to 15 dried fish.
Anchovies move in shoals. Till yesterday, the thendi (south-north) current was only bringing a nuisance. Avalai, a formless, translucent variety of giant jelly fish, was getting caught in the delicate nets. With each individual weighing upwards of 8 kg, snagging 20 or 30 avalai can destroy the net. Rather than risk that loss, most fishers that set out yesterday did not dare to drop their nets.
Since last evening, conditions have improve: “avalai apdiye thendi vellathula vadakathu pakkam kasimedu side poyirukkum. Ippo avangalukku thollai paavam. “The jelly fish have probably drifted north towards Kasimedu with the thendi current. The poor folks there would have to deal with this nuisance,” Palayam explained.
The sole boat that had returned with about Rs. 12,000 worth of nethili fish set out at around 1 a.m. in the dark of the just-born day, Palayam offered. “Aren’t you curious how they went out at night, knew where to cast the net and bring back the fish?” he asked.
“Moonlight?” I returned, hesitantly.
Palayam laughed out loud. “It’s eight days since amavasai (new moon). Calculate and tell me if the moon would have been up when they went out.” I had no idea what the new moon had to do with moonlight eight nights later. I felt no shame in telling him that.
“Amavasaikku nila 6 manikku paduthiruchu. Ovvoru piraiyum 45 nimisham thalli padukkum. Appo ettan valar piraikku kanakku podunga. Nalliravulaiye nila marainjidum. Avanga valai kattum-bothu iruttaa thaan irundhirukkum. (On New Moon’s day, the moonset was at 6 p.m. Then it is delayed by 45 minutes every day. So calculate the moonset for the 8th phase of a waxing moon. The moon would have disappeared around midnight. It would have been pitch dark when they were setting their net,” he explained.
The man is a walking almanac. And I’m an engineering graduate that knows how to use Google. I checked for moonrise/moonset data for Chennai. Palayam’s instantaneous response was right on. See for yourself.
Palayam repeated his question: “How do you think they spotted these tiny fish in the dark?” My knowledge of anchovy is restricted to eating and making nethili varuval (anchovy fry) and anchovy parmesan pasta. He wasn’t waiting for an answer. He had enough sense to know that I was clueless.
He proceeded to explain. “These anchovy shoals are late in coming. Usually, come Purattasi (mid- September to mid-October), the waters turn crystal clear – a deep blue – right up to near the shoreline. This is aided by a phenomenon called the Olni – when the clear waters of the deep surge relentlessly landwards pushing the line separating the blue waters from the turbid, muddy brown or grey waters closer to shore. The reverse phenomenon, when the sea sucks in and draws itself towards the deep is called a Memeri. When the nearshore or longshore current is thendi (south-north), it is usually the olni that rules. I had written about this in an earlier post.
When the water is crystal clear like it is in the Tamil month of Purattasi, the fish don’t venture out in the day to avoid predators. Fishers avoid day-time fishing because the fish are few and their nets are visible. After nightfall, they move about with less fear. That’s why fishing during Purattasi is mostly after dusk and before dawn. When the fishermen set out at night, they have to make it beyond the vandal thanni (turbid waters) near the coast. The anchovy don’t like the vandal. They prefer the thelivu (clear waters). In the dark of the night, the fishers tell turbid waters from the blue waters by looking out for kamaru (bioluminescence). Kamaru is found in nutrient-rich turbid waters. Once they get past the kamaru, they know they are in clear water. Here, they will cast and haul out an experimental net in different spots as they go deeper into the expanse of clear water. Wherever the experimental net comes out with plenty of fish in it would be the spot for casting the actual fishing net.”
The experimental nets are shorter versions of the actual net. Where the actual fishing would be done by two separate nets each stretched between 25 floats/buoys, the experimental net would be a short section with just 5 or 6 buoys. The smaller nets allow for quicker deployment and re-haul so that the waters can be sampled for fish without spending more than 15 minutes in each location.
In August 2019, Chennai’s beaches were bathed in fairy blue lights of bioluminescence. At that time, I had asked Palayam for his explanation of the phenomenon. He told me that kamaru – the fisher word for bioluminescence – was a common sight in the night sea, and that fishers used the light for fishing. Now I know what he meant.