After all the fish was sold, I found myself talking with some of the fishermen. They were curious to know what a guy like me – a gringo, as they initially called me – was doing there. I approached them in Portuguese and I apologized for not speaking like them. My Portuguese sounded to them like a weird version of their Brazilian Portuguese but – as I explained to them – I came from Europe, I was there for stand up paddling and I learned my Portuguese in Lisbon, where I live at the moment. Anyhow they were happy to be able to communicate, as was I. Responding to my innumerable questions they explained how their fishing rituals were structured. Then I asked “how long do you stay out at sea when you fish?” and the answer that came was really unexpected. They told me that they were spending at least two days at sea. One full day spent sailing out towards the horizon, then a few hours of fishing, and then another day sailing to come back to the shore.
Without any lights, any navigational devices, any place to hide from the sun or from the rain, they were just fiercely braving the elements of the Atlantic without any modern-day comfort. That was the reason why I was there: more than the nice beaches, the surf, the tropical charm, I was there for the culture. I was there to move up and down (mostly down, in my intentions) along that social scale that Claude Lévi-Strauss talked about. I was there to experience the life, the habits, the values and the struggle of those individuals. I wanted to get in touch with them and know more about them. I knew this would teach me something about my life and about my culture too. So in the moment that I finally met them, that I was finally connected with them, my mind rested as I was at last feeling at home among those brave fishermen of Ceará.
