Destinos compartilhados Vaquitas Totoabas e pescando o mar de Cortez

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Destinos compartilhados: Vaquitas, Totoabas e pescando o mar de
Cortez
J (J)Avier Valverde (desa)Cresceu ao lado do mar, hipnotizado pelas espertras escolas de totoaba que nadavam
perto da costa. Estes peixes de prata podem crescer a mais de seis pés e pesar mais de 200 libras. Alguns dias, o
jovem Valverde os avistava pulando alto da água. “Eles não eram tímidos”, lembrou.
Décadas atrás, pescadores no norte do Golfo da Califórnia encontraram uma rica recompensa
de totoaba, tubarões e tartarugas marinhas que transformariam a região em uma meca da
pesca. Hoje, o declínio das espécies e as batalhas políticas prevalecem.
Na década de 1930, o pai de Valverde estava entre os primeiros moradores de San Felipe, uma cidade no estado
mexicano da Baixa Califórnia, e situado à beira do deserto cravejado de cactos e oceano cintilante - o Golfo da
Califórnia, também conhecido como o Mar de Cortez. A caça ao grande tamborinho atraiu pescadores resistentes
para atravessar o Golfo para seus alcances do norte, onde encontraram uma rica recompensa de totoaba, tubarões
e tartarugas marinhas que transformariam a região em uma meca da pesca. Quando ele era adolescente na década
de 1960, Valverde estava guiando os turistas atraídos para sua aldeia por uma nova indústria de pesca esportiva de
totoaba de gancho e linha. Alguns peixes eram tão grandes que, quando se sustentavam, eles teriam se elevado
sobre o quadro fino do menino.
Mas até então, grandes redes de malhas haviam proliferado em todo o Golfo. Navios comerciais, incluindo arrastões
de camarão cujas redes raspavam indiscriminadamente espécies do fundo do mar, capitalizaram a bonança do mar
em grande parte não regulamentada. “Não éramos mais os únicos que pescavam”, disse Valverde. “As pessoas
vinham de todos os outros para pescar com redes maiores, barcos maiores, e a frota se tornou muito grande,
imensamente grande. E nem todos respeitavam o mar”.
Hoje, o Golfo da Califórnia continua sendo uma pescaria produtiva se diminuída, contribuindo com 54% das 2,2
milhões de toneladas comerciais de frutos do mar do México em 2017, segundo a Secretaria de Agricultura e
Desenvolvimento Rural do México. Mas esses números desmentem uma luta amarga agora em andamento aqui –
uma que tem caçadores sem lei, pescadores economicamente amarrados, grupos internacionais de conservação e
reguladores irrespáveis se encalhou sobre o valor e o propósito dessa extensão azul. A batalha é mais vividamente
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manifesta no destino da marina vaquita, uma espécie cativante, mas raramente manchada de botos, endêmica ao
norte do Golfo. Em março, os cientistas declararam que apenas cerca de 20 vaquitas permanecem, e a crise ganhou
ampla cobertura da mídia.
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Mas, à medida que a campanha internacional para salvar a vaquita tornou-se cada vez mais campainha, também a
situação das comunidades pesqueiras tradicionais, como a San Felipe, que está situada nas proximidades do único
habitat da vaquita. Os moradores locais dizem que as proibições de pesca destinadas a proteger a vaquita fizeram
pouco para conter as tensões. Os caçadores de caçadores ainda operam com abandono, dizem eles – muitos deles
em busca da diminuição de totoaba e sua cobiçada bexiga natatória, que é vendida na China por seus supostos
poderes medicinais. Enquanto isso, o sistema de compensação criado para apoiar pescadores ociosos na região
tornou-se escasso e, sob a liderança do presidente do México, Andrés Manuel López Obrador, muitos pescadores
dizem que não receberam nenhum pagamento desde meados de janeiro, levando a protestos.
As linhas de batalha cruzadas agora têm pescadores como Valverde lutando para sobreviver em uma região que
deve sua própria existência a um mar generoso – seus destinos agora entrelaçados com os da vaquita, a totoaba e
um amplo elenco de partes interessadas nacionais e internacionais. Do jeito que está, o acesso restrito ao habitat da
vaquita mantém pangas locais – pequenos barcos de pesca – sentados imóveis nos pátios dos moradores, em vez
de doca e no calçadão, onde eles há muito tempo pontilhavam a areia.
“O governo fechou o mar até nós”, disse Valverde, um homem bigodudo e esbelto aos 70 anos. “A pesca é o nosso
meio de vida; o que eles esperam que façamos?”
Em meio a proibições de pesca, Javier Valverde, um pescador vitalício em San Felipe, passa o tempo em casa. “O
governo fechou o mar até nós”, disse. Visual: Lourdes Medrano para Undark
MExico primeiroComeçou a tomar medidas para proteger a vaquitaHá décadas atrás(Io , , . es. Em 1996, o
governoestabelecidoo Comitê Internacional para a Recuperação da Vaquita (CIRVA) para desenvolver um plano de
ação que levaria em consideração tanto as evidências científicas quanto os impactos econômicos da conservação.
Em 2005, estabeleceu um refúgio vaquita onde todo o uso de redes de emalhar -redes penduradas verticalmente
projetadas para prender peixes pelas brâniasas— foi proibido. Isto foi seguido pela implantação de um programa
voluntário para ajudar os pescadores a mudar para o uso de equipamentos mais seguros, ou compensá-los por não
pescar no refúgio - ou mesmo deixar a indústria em conjunto.
Esses esforços tiveram pouco efeito – em parte devido à aplicação frouxa e à falta de oportunidades econômicas –
então, em 2015, o México proibiu a pesca de redes de emalhar de guelras dentro da faixa de animais por dois anos
e entrou em um acordo com os moradores locais. Pescadores de San Felipe e uma cidade vizinha concordaram em
remover cerca de 800 pangas da água. Isso permitiria que o governo federal limpasse o mar de redes e
desenvolvesse artes de pesca alternativas. Em troca, o governo deveria pagar cerca de US $ 53 milhões a cerca de
2.500 pessoas empregadas no setor de pesca.
https://www.latimes.com/world/la-fg-mexico-vaquita-porpoises-20190306-story.html
https://psmag.com/magazine/watching-the-vaquita-vanish
https://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/27/science/vaquitas-dolphins-mexico-extinction.html
https://seashepherd.org/campaigns/milagro/
https://www.newscientist.com/article/2196694-worlds-most-endangered-marine-mammal-is-now-down-to-10-animals/
https://fronterasdesk.org/content/840611/fishermen-return-sea-cortez-banned-vaquita-area-demand-government-attention
https://porpoise.org/about-porpoises/vaquita/
https://porpoise.org/about-porpoises/vaquita/
https://www.fisheries.noaa.gov/national/bycatch/fishing-gear-gillnets
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Em 2017, o México havia tornado a proibição de redes de emalhar permanente, com exceção daquelas usadas para
capturar corvina, um peixe branco semelhante ao robalo. Hoje, a pressão dos conservacionistas persiste. “Nos
últimos 20 anos, vimos o México continuar a propor novos programas para salvar a vaquita, e repetidas vezes vimos
exatamente a mesma coisa: que eles falharam devido à falta de fiscalização”, disse Sarah Uhlemann, diretora do
programa internacional do Centro de Diversidade Biológica. Seu grupo de conservação estima que, em 2017, mais
de 1.400 toneladas de peixes e camarões capturados com as redes de emalhar proibidas, e no valor de cerca de US
$ 16 milhões, foram exportadas para os Estados Unidos.
O grupo de Uhlemann, juntamente com o Conselho de Defesa dos Recursos Naturais e o Instituto de Bem-Estar
Animal, processou o governo Trump em março passado por não conformidade com as “disposições de atchtch de
tripulanos” da Lei de Proteção aos Mamíferos da Marinha para proteger as vaquitas restantes. Isso culminou em
uma proibição de importação dos EUA de camarão e outros frutos do mar capturados com redes de emalhar na
região. Alguns pescadores agora temem que essa proibição possa ser expandida em todo o país.
Todas estas medidas preengarram o sector das pescas. A falta de equipamentos de pesca alternativos viáveis e
uma explosão no tráfico de bexigas de natação de totoaba drenaram a força vital da comunidade. O embargo, que
se aplica a todos os produtos capturados com redes de emalhar de vaquita,é mais um obstáculo, disse Ramón
Franco Díaz, que lidera uma federação de cooperativas de pesca em San Felipe. “Estes são dias sombrios para
aqueles de nós que pescam legalmente”, disse ele. “Pela lei não podemos trabalhar, mas aqueles que pescam
ilegalmente continuam a fazê-lo, embargo ou não.”
De fato, apesar das patrulhas militares e sem fins lucrativos que incluem drones e lanchas, a caça furtiva está
crescendo. Elementos criminosos usam as redes de emalhar ilegais para capturar totoaba para sua bexiga natatória
lucrativa. Os caçadores furtivos secam furtivamente o órgão cheio de gás que ajuda os peixes a se manter à tona na
água e depois enviá-lo para a China, onde as pessoas pagam até dezenas de milhares de dólares por suas
supostas propriedades afrodisíacas e curativas.
Os manifestantes realizaram um comício para salvar a vaquita, a menor e mais ameaçada de boto do mundo, do
lado de fora da embaixada mexicana em Washington, DC, no verão passado. Visual: Saul Loeb/AFP via Getty
Pode haver apenas 20 vaquitas no Golfo da Califórnia, onde eles são propensos a se tornarem acessórias nas redes
de caçadores que procuram outro jogo. Visual: NOAA
Mesmo quando o pai de Valverde primeiro plied as águas do golfo pendurado para totoaba, a bexiga de peixe tinha
sido colhida para exportação, bem como para satisfazer a população chinesa considerável da região, que tinha
imigrado para trabalhar nos campos agrícolas. Quando jovem, Valverde às vezes via bexigas de natação colocadas
na praia, secando ao sol. Um punhado de moradores conhecidos costumavam vender o órgão, disse ele, mas
ninguém ficou rico com o comércio.
Ele também nunca testemunhou a carnificina de totoaba que agora permeia o Alto Golfo. As carcaças de peixe
apodrecem em terra e flutuam apáticos no mar, suas entranhas violentamente rasgadas. “Pobres coisas”, disse
http://www.iucn-csg.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/CIRVA-9-Final-Report-May-11-2017.pdf
https://www.federalregister.gov/documents/2018/08/28/2018-18628/implementation-of-import-restrictions-certification-of-admissibility-for-certain-fish-products-from
https://redactor.mx/alertan-riesgo-de-embargo-a-mexico-por-pesca-de-totoaba/
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Valverde, sentado em sua varanda da frente com uma expressão sombria. “O que eles estão fazendo com a totoaba
agora é um crime ecológico.”
Franco Díaz calcula que hoje em dia, caçadores de totoaba aniquilando a espécie usam mais de 500 pangas ilegais
no habitat da vaquita. Ele disse que é cerca de quatro vezes mais do que quando os pescadores ainda estavam
trabalhando. Além disso, um relatório do Centro de Estudos Avançados de Defesa documentou uma ligação entre o
comércio ilegal de totoaba e os traficantes de drogas. A organização sem fins lucrativos com sede em Washington,
D.C., concluiu que o comércio ilegal se tornou tão desenfreado que o México só poderá controlá-lo com a ajuda de
outros países.
Nada disso é novidade para os moradores de San Felipe, que dizem que sinais de narcotraficantes começaram a
surgir em 2012. Embora as restrições de pesca continuassem apertando por causa da vaquita, os moradores locais
não puderam deixar de notar os forasteiros que entraram na cidade com novos barcos de pesca e novos caminhões.
Dois anos depois, um membro do cartel de Sinaloa foi assassinado ao norte de San Felipe, confirmando os laços do
cartel com o mercado negro de totoaba. Estamos em pior situação do que quando paramos de pescar”, disse Franco
Díaz. “Organizações criminosas tomaram o Mar de Cortez.”
Apesar de toda a atenção concedida à vaquita nos últimos anos, continua a ser um animal misterioso e evasivo. A
ciência moderna reconheceu pela primeira vez o cetáceo no final da década de 1950 através de crânios
recuperados. Uma vaquita viva não foi documentada até os anos 80. A maioria do que os cientistas sabiam, em
seguida, veio de espécimes mortos que apareceram na costa ou pereceram em redes de emalhar. Os cientistas
dizem que a vaquita de nariz sem corte, ou “vaca pequena” em espanhol, pode ser o próximo mamífero marinho a
ser extinto. Com manchas escuras ao redor dos olhos e contornos escuros ao redor da boca que imitam um sorriso
sempre presente, a vaquita tornou-se um símbolo cativante para a situação desencadeada pelo homem de espécies
em extinção em todo o mundo.
In 1997, a vessel with a team of Mexican and American scientists conducted the first comprehensive survey of the
vaquita’s abundance and range. Jay Barlow, a senior scientist at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric
Administration, who was aboard the vessel, said the mammal was found only in the northern Gulf. “We estimated that
there were 500 to 600 animals left at that time,” he said.
By 2015, that number was down to about 60. Now, scientists say there are only about 20 — possibly even less. “I’ve
heard people say that we should just let the vaquita die with dignity,” said Barlow. “Well, I don’t believe that there’s
any dignity in extinction. It’s a loss for everyone on this planet when we lose another species.”
In late 2017, an international team of scientists entered into uncharted territory: an attempt to capture for breeding the
world’s most endangered marine mammal. As part of a $5 million mobilization, they built a care center and sea pens
to shelter vaquita. But the team decided to suspend the operation after capturing two vaquita, a juvenile that was
released after showing signs of stress and an adult that declined after being placed in a floating pen and ultimately
died upon release. “When you dedicate yourself to conservation, when you dedicate yourself to marine animal care,
you know that there is a great risk,” said Mexican mammal expert Ricardo Rebolledo. Though some had feared that
vaquita might perish if plucked from the wild, he believed it was a chance worth taking.
▲ These five dead totoaba were trapped in a net that that conservation activists pulled from the water. Poachers
prize the fish for their swim bladders, which are used in Chinese medicine. Visual: Lourdes Medrano for Undark
https://static1.squarespace.com/static/566ef8b4d8af107232d5358a/t/59c011106f4ca3a44430588c/1505759529205/Hooked.pdf
https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/epdf/10.1111/j.1748-7692.1999.tb00872.x
http://time.com/5552189/sea-shepherd-vaquita-porpoise-endangered-mexico/
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Members of the Mexican military look on as members of the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society grapple with the
dead fish. Visual: Lourdes Medrano for Undark
The sea is still littered with gillnets, which trap all manner of sea life — though poachers are mostly on the hunt for
totoaba. Here, one of the fish is seen floating lifeless in the grip of a gillnet. Visual: Lourdes Medrano for Undark
Morning had just broken in San Felipe, and 11 pangas were leaving the dock carrying about 20 fishermen. They were
on an eight-hour mission to mark the location of abandoned fishing nets for eventual destruction. Abandoned or lost
nets, some large enough to trap whales, hang underwater like porous panels that snare vaquita, totoaba, turtles, sea
lions and a host of other marine species. On this nascent fall day, the task of these men was to mark the nets’
location with buoys.
Armando Castro called out orders into a two-way radio, leading the way in the salty breeze toward the Narval, a 135-
foot vessel in the distance. A short time later, Castro transferred his passengers: me, my photographer, and a federal
environmental inspector. After we boarded the Narval, Castro dispersed with his fleet of pangas deep into vaquita
territory in search of redes fantasmas — ghost nets — left behind, mostly by poachers, in the still of darkness.
It’s an unusual, somewhat discomforting job for men who have spent their lives tossing nets into the sea, hoping for a
good catch. They worked in tandem with the Narval and a second vessel operated by the Sea Shepherd
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Conservation Society. When the fishermen marked a location, they radioed the nearest of the two large boats to
retrieve the nets. As of last year, more than 1,200 nets hadbeen pulled from the water.
As he navigates the deep blue waters of the Upper Gulf, Narval captain Francisco Javier Melchor says the
prevalence of nets left behind astounds him. “The amount of ghost nets in the water is incredible. It’s rare to not find
any when we go out,” he said from behind the steering wheel on the bridge of the ship. The large windows before him
framed ocean and sky in a wealth of blue hues as he searched for pangas through his binoculars.
Around 10:30 am, the first radio call came in to the Narval, prompting a flurry of activity. Men donned yellow
fisherman overalls. In a tug-of-war with the sea, they used a grappling hook to retrieve a water-heavy, worn-out
gillnet. This time at least, there were no live or dead animals for the federal inspector to document.
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Claudia Cecilia G. Olimón, executive director of Pesca ABC, a San Felipe-based civil organization that develops and
promotes the use of sustainable fishing gear, coordinates their retrieval. “What dismays and surprises us,” she said,
“is how, despite the fact that the eyes of the world are now on the Upper Gulf of California — and there are so many
authorities deploying their personnel — illegal nets keep turning up. How do they get there?”
Locals say that when poachers are in the water, authorities often look the other way in exchange for cash. The
practice is illegal, but the so-called mordida remains ingrained in the culture, despite attempts to eradicate it. Even
when poachers are detained, locals say, they quickly gain their freedom and return to the sea.
Regrettably, Valverde said, bribes are a way of life both inside and outside of government. “It pains me to see what’s
happening to my town.”
“I’ve been fishing my whole life,” said José Luis Romero, who was born in San Felipe nearly 60 years ago. “My father
was a fisherman and captain of a ship. When I was a kid, I used to go to the ship after school.”
Standing inside a whitewashed government building one day last summer, Romero had just learned that he wouldn’t
receive his compensation — it had been three months since he last did. Irregularities have plagued the government’s
distribution system from the start, and today, fishermen say the payments have stopped altogether.
Romero wore a baseball cap. He had a long, untamed gray beard and furrowed eyebrows. He took a deep breath,
rubbed his eyes in frustration and lit a cigarette. He hasn’t fished in several years and his inability to put food on the
family table gnaws at him. He would gladly give up the government money for a chance to cast a net again in
favorable tides, he said, like he did before the ban.
Although many locals are skeptical that the elusive vaquita even exists, Romero said he’s caught fleeting glimpses of
the animal as it surfaced to breathe. He was among a group of conservation-minded, or resigned, fishermen who
volunteered to try alternative fishing nets during the government’s early attempts to test and approve for use more
sustainable fishing methods that can allow vaquita to reach their full size of approximately five feet, 120 pounds. “We
wanted to do something,” Romero said. “I would like my grandchildren to see the small animal someday, but given
the current situation, I don’t know if that’s possible.”
http://pescaabc.org/en/lo-nuevo/
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Though a lifelong fisherman, José Luis Romero hasn’t fished in years and his inability to put food on the family table
gnaws at him. He says he would gladly give up government compensation for a chance to cast a net again. Visual:
Lourdes Medrano for Undark
With the payment he got for giving up his gillnet, he bought a new panga and a small trawling net to catch shrimp, a
lucrative export for Mexico. Like the other fishermen who agreed to the conversion, he didn’t care for the new fishing
gear. “It’s very destructive; it drags wildlife and everything else from the bottom of the ocean, but supposedly not the
vaquita. It didn’t catch much shrimp, all we did was waste gas testing it.”
Romero was always willing to test whatever potentially sustainable gear was brought forth, he said, but said the nets
don’t yield much. “They’re not profitable enough,” he said, “so you can’t make a living off them.” As long as
government officials continue to make decisions from behind their desks, without effectively tapping the expertise of
the fishing community, solutions will be hard to grasp, he said.
Without his compensation, Romero and his wife, Bertha Reyes, survive on what little she makes helping out at their
daughter’s thrift store. Sometimes he earns a bit of money placing acoustic devices in vaquita habitat to record their
sounds. By listening to the porpoise’s rapid series of clicks, scientists can pinpoint their location.
In addition to living with financial uncertainty, fishermen also feel unfairly targeted for criticism. “Many NGOs have
dedicated themselves to opposing the fishing sector without trying to understand the reality of what’s happening in
the community,” said Franco Díaz, the leader of the fishing cooperatives. This has stirred local resentment, especially
against Sea Shepherd, whose vessels have been a flashpoint since they first arrived in 2015.
Some locals view the organization as a foreign invader and protest its sometimes-confrontational tactics. For
example, the Sea Shepherd was blamed when a man who was illegally fishing one night was spooked by one of the
organization’s large vessels and went overboard. On another occasion, dozens of angry fishermen allied with an
aggressive faction of the fishing sector burned an empty fishing boat bearing the group’s name and demanded it
leave the Gulf of California. Suspected poachers have fired shots at its vessels and ambushed a ship crew despite
the presence of federal police officers and soldiers posted onboard. The animosity is perplexing to Patricia Gandolfo,
a former Sea Shepherd campaign leader. “We are here only to remove illegal nets and nothing more,” she said.
Still, the reality is that a complicated web of factors has coalesced to the detriment of both vaquita and fishermen. As
time wears on, some of the unemployed say they’re tempted to scurry off into forbidden waters late at night to catch a
totoaba. A kilogram of its bladder could fetch about $2,500 locally and help ease financial burdens.
Those financial burdens are not simply due to untimely payments, said Olimón. Even when there is government
compensation to go around and many fishermen do get fairly compensated, others have been “left with nothing.”
Most affected are the lowest-paid fishermen, entitled to just $420 a month. This situation stems from the fact that
some payments end up going to people not personally engaged in the fishing sector. The unbalanced payout has
marked deep divisions among local residents — divisions that are amplified as totoaba poaching surges in the
absence of economic alternatives.
The fishermen’s plight reverberates throughout the town.
On a balmy day last March, the sun bathed San Felipe in pleasant warmth that drew people to the strip of mom-and-
pop restaurants and tourist shops along the waterfront. A few people lounged at outdoor tables, their gazes fixed on
https://apnews.com/cbf2a3b13b104444844aa63ef2d69db6
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the lonely sea on the other side of the street. Not far away, a cluster of 10 businesses with boarded-up windows
hinted at a bleeding economy.
“There’s not much tourism these days,” said Martin Romo, a restaurant owner. Instead of buying the prime shrimp
that local fishermen used to catch in the waters just in front of his restaurant, he must now order it from the state of
Sinaloa and pass the extra cost to his customers. Perhaps more than the disappearing seafood, he said, the
combined presence of the military and criminal elements keeps tourists away.
“What’s happening here isn’t just bad for fishermen, it’s bad for all of us,” Romosaid. “It’s killing San Felipe.”
About 150 miles to the northwest, Conal David True strolled through his small hatchery at the Autonomous University
of Baja California in Ensenada, Mexico. An oceanographer and professor, True for two decades has spawned and
raised totoaba. On this day, he stood near a giant tank with a small glass window through which close to 20 large
totoaba could be seen swimming in circles.
Oceanographer and professor Conal David True has been spawning and raising totoaba for decades. “The idea here is to try to supplement t
and develop aquaculture in the Upper Gulf,” he said.
Visual: Lourdes Medrano for Undark
“The idea here is to try to supplement the wild population and try to promote and develop aquaculture in the Upper
Gulf,” said True. He lamented the dire state of the region’s fishing industry, but spoke enthusiastically about the
totoaba’s history and steps being taken to protect its stock. Doing so can relieve pressure for the wild population, he
said.
Initially, his program focused on totoaba aquaculture. In the 1990s, it went further, introducing an annual release of
juveniles into the species’ habitat. In recent years, his team has released as many as 128,000 at one time.
The state and federal governments are funding a major expansion of the breeding program. According to True, it will
include a new state-of-the-art structure at the cost of about $4.4 million that will allow the production of up to 1 million
hatchlings a year and boost restocking efforts. This will enable the campus hatchery to produce hatchlings for up to
five farms in the Upper Gulf region that can employ residents. Farm-raised totoaba is already sold in some of
Mexico’s restaurants. The meat may not be exported, and totoaba hatcheries are required to help repopulate the
species in the Upper Gulf.
Despite the damage that people have inflicted on totoaba habitat, each spring the fish continues to spawn in the
nutrient-loaded Colorado River delta before migrating back south along the Gulf, while juveniles stay behind with the
vaquita. In these murky, shallow waters, the fragile fate of the two species becomes one.
There is talk of bringing back a hook-and-line totoaba fishery to revive the local economy. Early last year, Mexico’s
government announced it was considering legalizing the totoaba trade, a prospect that has widespread support from
the fishing sector.
True cautioned, however, that this won’t be a quick fix. Regulators still need to determine whether the population is
healthy enough for this, and then regulations need to be implemented to allow a fishery. The process can be lengthy.
Further, said True, San Felipe needs a more integral solution that includes more sources of employment as well as
more tourism activities.
https://www.reuters.com/article/us-mexico-environment-vaquita/mexico-looks-to-legalize-rare-fish-trade-to-save-endangered-porpoise-idUSKCN1GL1TI
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Today, San Felipe’s pangas spend time on the water hunting for abandoned gillnets. But the future of this town in
Baja California remains uncertain. Visual: Lourdes Medrano for Undark
Out on the porch of his house, Javier Valverde says he likes the idea of legalized totoaba fishing. “It seems like it’s
the only option for not having to use a gillnet,” he said, his speech melding in the air with the crow of a rooster and the
barking of a dog. “Totoaba fishing seems like a good alternative to shrimp, which they don’t want us to catch because
we supposedly kill vaquita.”
He views a possible totoaba sportfishing industry — like the one he grew up with — as a viable solution that can ease
the region’s economic woes and ensure a healthy animal stock if the government sets individual quotas per season,
with checks and balances along the way. “Let’s say each fisherman is allowed to catch 10 totoabas per season,” he
said. “We’re obviously going to keep the best ones and we can liberate the rest. Then we can spend the rest of our
time taking care of our sea and reporting those who don’t comply.”
Many view totoaba aquaculture not only as vital to preservation of the species, but also as a potentially sustainable
resource for Upper Gulf communities. The notion gained favor at a spring workshop devoted to creating community-
development strategies. That forum united divergent voices, but good ideas take time and funding to implement.
Meanwhile, idle fishermen are getting restless.
Valverde thinks about totoaba: As the days of spring wane and the females lay their eggs, the fish will head to deeper
waters — assuming they evade the poachers’ nets. What will his town be like when they return in coming years? That
question fills him with uncertainty, but he holds out hope that the days of making an honest living fishing close to
home will return.
“God willing,” he said, “I will keep fishing until I can no longer physically go out to sea.”
This story was produced in part with support from the Fund for Environmental Journalism of the Society of
Environmental Journalists.
Lourdes Medrano is a freelance journalist based in Tucson, Arizona. Her work, centered on both sides of the U.S.-
Mexico border, has been featured in various print and online publications, including The Christian Science Monitor,
The Washington Post, Wired, The Atlantic, and more.