On the same day that a patera with over 200 migrants reached the shores of Los Cristianos, a local newspaper arrived at the port to meet with the fishermen of the Brotherhood of Our Lady of Las Mercedes. They gathered around a large white table within the brotherhood’s headquarters, where Ruyman Marcelino School and Lucio Domínguez Fumero were seated together.
Lucio, who has spent his life in Los Cristianos, met with his group. He has become an integral part of the beach scenery. “How we have transformed,” he remarks, placing a photograph from his mobile phone on the table. The image showcases the old Los Cristianos beach with a ship in the background. “Previously, we would catch fish right on this beach. It wasn’t a beach in the traditional sense,” he reminisces wistfully.
Decades ago, this port was known by another name: Puerto de Vilaflor de Chasna. The residents of Chasna would travel down to the coastal community to fish, salt their catch, and return to the highlands, where it helped them survive during difficult times and poor harvests. Indeed, so much has changed.
Lucio presented another, even older photograph. In it, there is a house made of straw and mud. “In 1901, those who worked the coast resided here. It was either this or a cave,” he says.
The Brotherhood of Our Lady of Las Mercedes stands as one of the last bastions where the past remains vibrant. While it may not be the only one, crossing its threshold feels like stepping back in time. Founded in 1979 as a cooperative, it later evolved into an official brotherhood, adapting to regulatory changes that have complicated the lives of fishermen rather than easing them.
“Our elders struggle with new technologies. The younger ones face an incredible amount of paperwork to meet current regulations,” Ruyman explains. In the past, going out to sea was based on willingness and effort; today, navigating through a maze of permits and insurance is essential.
The brotherhood comprises 50 members, who manage all aspects of the operation, from storing catches to labelling fish. “Now, every fish we sell must be identifiable with its DNA and traceability. You cannot sell any fish without a label, so the consumer knows if it is sustainably fished and where it has come from,” Ruyman elucidates.
However, the challenges extend beyond bureaucracy. Eight years ago, a debt of €100,000 due to poor management nearly forced them to shut down. “Never before in the Canary Islands have members of a brotherhood had to join forces to pay off a debt. We raised fees, we contributed… and we persevered,” he says with pride.
Ruyman, a third-generation fisherman, doesn’t need to gaze at the ocean to recall the significance of his trade. “If you don’t enjoy fishing, don’t pursue it,” he states resolutely. “It’s a sacrifice; year after year, more barriers arise. Now, for my daughter to take it up, she needs civil liability insurance, permits, and a myriad of procedures. It’s nearly impossible to foster generational change.”
Within the brotherhood, there are concerns that if the current situation persists, the fishing tradition of Los Cristianos will fade away. “Not enough is being done to sustain this profession,” many attendees consent.
To combat this, they have initiated school visits in collaboration with the coastal action group (GAC). “We want children to understand that fish do not originate in the supermarket,” states Ruyman.
Tourism: an unattainable balance
During certain seasons, the Los Cristianos dock becomes a stage for a perplexing paradox. While fishermen offload freshly caught tunas and beautiful fish, just metres away, restaurants across the port are selling fish imported from Asia or Africa. Daily, 15,000 tons of foreign fish arrive in the Canary Islands, while local produce struggles for viability.
“Our red tuna is sold at €5 per kilo, yet in any restaurant, they charge €20 for 200 grams. What sense does this make?” Ruyman expresses his frustration.
The infrastructure is also lacking. Currently, much of the fish captured in the islands, they note, is sent to the mainland due to insufficient processing facilities here. “If we had proper facilities, we could store fish and sell it during times of scarcity. But support hasn’t materialised,” laments Ruyman.
Export compensations, which are vital for sustaining their activities, have encountered delays of over four years. “We have only recently received payments for the year 2021. This is a compensatory measure paid at a rate of €0.07 per kilo of fish. They cite a shortage of officials as the reason for the delay. Today, we have colleagues who have resorted to borrowing to keep their operations afloat,” Lucio explains.
The current fish marketing process is stringent. “Every fish is weighed, frozen, and samples are sent to a laboratory in Las Palmas. We cannot sell until we receive the ‘OK’,” Ruyman clarifies.
Los Cristianos is one of the busiest fishing ports in the Canary Islands. Each year, up to 30,000 kilos of fish are unloaded at its docks, destined for markets and restaurants both within and outside the archipelago.
Ruyman pauses, searching for words to express the essence of his profession. A smile breaks across his face: “Tuna fishing is the most magnificent. It’s an obsession,” he admits.
“The sea is our foundation”
“You are never at peace. When you leave the dock, you leave your life behind on land. You distance yourself from your family, with all the uncertainty that entails,” Ruyman reflects. Yet, onboard, amidst nets and companions, a different reality unfolds.
“The sea represents our memories, our sustenance, and forms part of our identity,” several present express, as a plea for preserving their fishing heritage. As long as there are fishermen who continue to cherish and respect this vocation, there will be hope for a future that does not fade into obscurity.
