Muro Ami

During much of the night we had been following a radar blip southward through a maze of reefs and shoals. But it wasn't until the golden light of dawn spilled over the Island of Palawan to warm the South China Sea that our suspicions were confirmed. We had found a Muro Ami boat.

The rising sun revealed an ancient, rust-stained, 170-foot fishing boat with an unhealthy list to port. Covering the deck and clinging to every possible perch along the superstructure were people - more than 500 men and boys, most between seven and fifteen years of age. As we watched, the boat began to make a wide turn at full speed and the boys began jumping off into the open sea by the hundreds. We had found them just in time. They were beginning a Muro Ami drive.

At one end of a reef, which measured about one-half mile in diameter and was over eighty feet deep, a large bag net had been set (the Japanese term Muro Ami refers to the kind of net used). The net was shaped like an ice cream cone and lay on the bottom with its open end facing into the mild current. Tied to either side of the cone were large panels, each about fifty yards long, extending out to guide fish into the mouth of the net. One-half mile away, at the other end of the reef, the Muro Ami boat deposited the swimmers. Their diving equipment was minimal. Each boy wore only the cloths that he lived in twenty-four hours a day, and a pair of goggles made by hand from hard wood, plate glass, and a rubber band.

The fishing equipment carried by each boy was called a "scare line". This is a 150-foot long rope with a rock tied to one end, a buoy at the other, and white nylon flags tied along its length every two feet. After organizing themselves into a huge semi-circle around the perimeter of the reef, the boys dropped the weighted end of their scare lines to the bottom. Then, shoulder-to-shoulder in a wave of hundreds of swimmers, they swam toward the open end of the net bouncing the rocks across the coral and driving before them all the fish living on the reef.

Underwater the wall of advancing scare lines proved amazingly effective. It looked like an artificial, white kelp forest marching across the bottom. On one side of the wall, the reef fish swarmed; rushing in all directions in total panic. Behind the advancing wall the reef was almost entirely empty. There was a beautiful sound in the wake of the receding scare lines that seemed to lament the impending death of thousands of coral reef inhabitants. I was mesmerized by the sound. As the hundreds of rocks struck the delicate coral it produced a muted song not unlike distant wind chimes.

Eighty feet above, I could see hundreds of pairs of legs struggling against the water to lift and advance the rocks at the ends of the scare lines. It was a remarkable experience. But it would be the performance of the divers at the climax of the drive that would astonish and, at the same time, chill me to the bone.

Film producer, Lenora Carey, had asked me to come to the Philippines to photograph a film she would make about local fishing technologies, resources, and coral reef destruction. We first became interested in the Muro Ami fishery when we were told by Philippine fisheries biologists that the technique devastated the reefs where it is employed. The biologists explained that the heavy rocks at the ends of the scare lines pulverized the coral and left nothing but rubble in its wake. We expected to witness this ourselves and capture the process on film. What we discovered was far more than another case of overexploitation of fishery resources.

I joined the film crew in Cebu City. But before traveling north from Cebu Island to the Muro Ami fishing grounds in the South China Sea, our boat first stopped at the village of Oslob on east coast of Cebu. Oslob is a Muro Ami village. Its economy and inhabitants are totally dependent upon the Muro Ami fishery. Each year, at the beginning of the fishing season, nearly all of the healthy male inhabitants board a Muro Ami boat and leave home. They will be gone for ten months. Some members of a fisherman's immediate family (wives and young children) may accompany the fisherman and set up camp at an island called Talampolon where the Muro Ami boat will dock every few months to reprovision. But most families elect to remain in Oslob to await the return of husbands and sons at the end of the ten-month season.

Our arrival at Oslob was timely. The beach was alive with activity. Several brightly colored fishing skiffs were waiting in the shallows as men and boys carried their belongings through the shallow water to load them. The skiffs then transported load after load of fishermen out to the Muro Ami boat, Don Antonio, anchored 1/2 mile offshore.

Their possessions generally consisted of a few articles of clothing, a large jug of coconut wine called tuba, and their bed. The bed was either a cot made of fishing net or, more often, a simple shelf made of bamboo that would be tied to the overhead below decks and lowered when it was time to sleep. Many boys carried out fighting cocks to the boat that would be used in cockfights that provide evening entertainment. Most of these birds were fledglings and would mature during the long months at sea. Other fishermen carried goats or pigs to be loaded aboard the boat. These animals would be allowed to roam free aboard the Don Antonio and would feed on fish scraps and the corn grits which, along with fresh fish, made up the fisherman's staple diet.

The fishermen left Oslob in the early evening. There were a few tearful moments as mothers and wives, sisters and girl friends waved farewell to the Don Antonio as it moved out toward the horizon bathed in the soft light of the setting sun. But these moments were fleeting since this was a society that accepted the extended absence of loved ones as a way of life.

The Don Antonio's course would take it south around the southern tips of Cebu and Negros island then north across the Sulu Sea. And finally, after a stop at Talampolon to leave behind those members of fishermen's families that chose to go, the Don Antonio would move west past the northern end of Palawan and out into the South China Sea.

We pulled our anchor and set sail to follow, but for all her age and an alarming list, the Don Antonio proved faster than our sailing vessel. Three days later we arrived in the South China Sea and began searching among the myriad treacherous reefs along the 300-mile western coast of Palawan Island. Finding the Don Antonio, or any one of the other fifteen Muro Ami boats then fishing the western Philippines, would be like finding a needle in a haystack.

Of course we might have asked the Captain of the Don Antonio where he was going to be fishing. But the crews of the Don Antonio and the other vessels in the Muro Ami fleet could afford us no cooperation. Orders had been issued by the Mayor of Santander, Cebu, to prevent our diving during the fishing drives and to refuse us permission to board.

The Muro Ami fishery was operated by two corporations, the Abinas Corporation and the Frebal Corporation. The Frebal Corporation provided and maintained the ancient Japanese long line boats that make up the fleet. Frebal also provided the Captains and crews that actually run the boats. This amounts to about forty men per vessel. The Abinas Corporation is owned by three brothers and led by Sol Abinas, who is also mayor of the village of Santander. The Abinas corporation trains and hires the more than 10,000 Muro Ami fishermen and provides the nets and scare lines they use. Of all the people we met within the Frebal Corporation and within the Abinas Corporation, only Sol Abinas proved hostile. Sol Abinas wouldn't talk to us. But it was not concern over our documenting reef destruction that caused his hostility. Apparently, it was exposure of child labor law violations that concerned Abinas.

The majority of the more than 400 swimmers used on each boat are young boys. Most are between ten and fifteen years of age and many are as young as seven. If a Philippine family is experiencing hard times financially they can elect to send a son to sea for a ten month voyage. The Abinas Corporation pays the family a portion of the child's expected earnings up front. The balance of the child's earnings are then paid to the child or family at the end of the voyage. In a country where deteriorating economic conditions have caused years of decline in the standard of living, sending a young son to sea for a year eventually becomes a necessary option.

Philippine law prohibits any employment of children under the age of fifteen that separates them from family and school. This is what worried Sol Abinas and precipitated the order of no cooperation. But fortunately for us, the Muro Ami fishermen and crews of the Muro Ami fleets were generally friendly by nature and found it difficult to deny us permission to board.

The Frebal Corporation seemed unaware of any child labor law violations. They explained that children under fifteen are seldom employed as Muro Ami swimmers and on those occasions when they are, the boys are accompanied by a father or guardian. But aboard the Muro Ami boats, we talked with many boys who were much younger than fifteen and were completely on their own. One boy named Marcos had been away from home for eight months. No father or brother had been with him when he joined the Muro Ami fleet in Santander. He had left home for nearly one year of sea duty eight months earlier and was entirely alone. Marcos was only seven.

When our film crew first witnessed the intense congestion, poor sanitation, Spartan living conditions, and astonishing work hazards of the Muro Ami fishermen we were both amazed and somewhat horrified. Our first impression was that this was an industry that employed slave labor, exploited and casually endangered young children, and annihilated coral reefs. But after following the Muro Ami boats for several days, we began to realize how simplistic our first impressions were and how greatly these impressions were influenced by our Western values.

The fishery operates on a profit sharing basis. The Frebal Corporation keeps seventy percent of the proceeds, the Abinas Corporation receives ten percent, and the ten thousand fishermen of the fleet split the remaining twenty percent. The average Muro Ami swimmer made about $350 dollars for his year of service. Though this is a pathetic sum by western standards, it represented an average wage in the Philippines. And life at sea affords little opportunity to spend this money. So the fishermen complete their year with a relatively handsome sum of cash. Financially, these fishermen are much better off than tens of thousands of Manila's urban poor.

We were also pleasantly disappointed in the reef destruction caused by the Muro Ami fisherman. Ironically, after witnessing the drives underwater, we found little evidence of severe reef damage. In fact, the swimmers are careful not to strike the coral more than necessary because once a rock becomes lodged in the reef, they must dive to the bottom to retrieve it. If the scare line is lost, they must pay for the materials to make a replacement. Certainly there was some damage done to the more delicate hard corals. But this damage was not much greater than that caused by the dive fins from a boat-load of sport divers.

As for the slave labor and the exploitation of children, I can only say that I never saw an unhappy or unhealthy face aboard any of the boats we boarded. And though we were told of disease and vitamin deficiency among the children, even the youngest boys seemed healthy, happy and proud of their work. Their bodies were strong and they were quick with laughter or a smile. Certainly, theirs is a hard life by any standards, and not all return from their year of service (though we could find no statistics to document their mortality). But perhaps this lifestyle is no meaner than many others in that part of the world. And it seems to be a lifestyle of their own choosing.

At a depth of eighty feet, I positioned myself at the corner of the net where it was tied to the side panel. It was here that the most amazing part of the Muro Ami drive would occur. Once the fish have been driven deep into the net, it must be pulled up very quickly before they turn and rush out through the scare lines. But before the net can be pulled, the side panels must be untied and the net must be unentangled from the coral on the reef. This is accomplished by boys swimming down more than eighty feet while holding their breath and wearing no dive gear other than wooden googles.

The sound of wind chimes grew progressively louder as the scare lines converged upon the bag net. Soon I could see the entire circle of scare lines and the silhouettes of the hundreds of swimmers above.

Suddenly schools of hysterical fish were racing past the mouth of the cone and deep into the net. Eighty feet above, hundreds of pairs of legs kicked against the water as the fishermen raised and lowered the heavy rocks at the end of their lines. Then two tiny figures began to fall toward the bottom. These were the Muro Ami divers; certainly some of the most amazing athletes I have ever seen.

Slowly they swam down producing maximum glide with each stroke of their arms. Their legs trailed behind and were seldom used since, without the aide of diving fins, kicking proved inefficient and too expensive in the use of energy. It took forty seconds for one of the divers to reach the bottom in front of me. Using his hands, he pulled himself across the coral to where the side panel was tied to the bag net with two heavy ropes. All around his body the heavy rocks of the scare lines moved up and down. I could see that his goggles were partially filled with water. He was entirely unaware and unconcerned with the heavy rocks that passed so close to his head. At this depth he could not afford the time or the energy to look.

The diver grabbed one of the ropes that held the panel to the bag net and pulled, but it was too tightly tied and it failed to come free. So he pulled himself up to place his feet on the rope and pulled again with great effort. This time the rope came free. The diver then pulled himself along the bottom to the second rope and repeated the process, all this time the rocks seemed to just miss his head. I found myself biting through the rubber mouthpiece of my SCUBA regulator. I couldn't believe how long he was down and how much effort he expended and I expected that, at any moment, he would be struck unconscious by the falling rocks. I checked my depth gauge again to be sure it was really happening. It read eighty-three feet.

I found myself holding my own breath in empathy for this young man. It is one thing to dive to eighty feet using efficient diving fins or by pulling oneself down a rope. Still there are only a few divers I have known who could do it. But to dive free without the use of fins and then work so hard at a depth of eighty feet was an absolutely astonishing feat. After freeing the second rope, the diver started up using slow and energy efficient arm strokes all the way to the surface. I was so amazed that I forgot to look at my watch to see how long he had been down.

Then, before the diver had surfaced, a dozen more divers began their descent. When they reached the bottom, they formed a line in front of the net and began lifting it off the coral as the fishermen far above pulled. As the front of the net came up, the divers swam beneath it freeing the net where the mesh had snared the hard coral. Finally, after the last snare had been freed, most of the divers began swimming across the bottom to get clear of the net before beginning their ascent. But it was obvious to me that some of the divers were too far under the net to make it out from under and still have enough breath to survive the ascent. Their escape to the surface was entirely prevented by the huge expanse of net above them. Suddenly I was convinced that some of these boys were going to die.

One of the boys closest to the center of the net pushed himself off the bottom and into the folds of the net. The net wrapped around him like a spider's web. He began pulling at the nylon mesh in what looked like a desperate effort to tear a hole in the net with his bare hands. I began swimming toward him. Perhaps, I thought, I could put my SCUBA regulator in his mouth and force air into his lungs. But I knew that, at eighty feet, a free diver's lungs are entirely collapsed by the pressure. Inhaling from a regulator would be extremely difficult (like when the wind has been knocked out of you by a fall). I knew that he probably could not breath off the regulator even if he knew how.

Then as I drew closer, I could see that his efforts had purpose. He was actually untying a knot in the net. Suddenly, there was a hole exposed and the diver pulled himself up through it and swam toward the surface. I then realized that while I had been watching what I thought was a diver in the last throws of panic before drowning, four other divers had been patiently holding their breaths and waiting on the bottom for the hole in the net to be exposed. After the first diver pulled himself through the hole the remaining four each ascended though it in turn. The last diver turned, caught his foot in the mesh, and paused for a few long seconds to wave at me as if saying, "See, I can hold my breath nearly forever". Yes, I was impressed.

I felt something at my shoulder and turned with a start to see Lenora at my side. Excitedly, she was pointing at something behind me. I looked in the direction she pointed to see two very large sharks swimming very rapidly toward the bottom of the net and the ascending divers. The sharks made a few high speed passes near the net and then left for the deeper water beyond the reef. Certainly, the sound of struggling fish and the scent of blood in the water would inevitably lure sharks. I looked up at the silhouettes of the hundreds of swimmers and thought of a scene I had remembered from a film called "Jaws".

Soon all the divers were safely on the surface and the net containing nearly the entire fish population of the reef below was being loaded into the skiffs. I couldn't believe what I had seen. And I couldn't believe that these people reproduce this performance as much as ten times a day for months on end.

Later, aboard the Don Antonio, I watched as the fishermen loaded the contents of the net into metal tubs, each of which held about one hundred pounds of fish. This drive had been very successful. It resulted in forty full tubs, each containing an amazing variety of reef fish. Nothing was wasted. The Muro Ami fishermen kept everything from baby sharks to the smallest butterfly fish. The fish were later sorted and placed into tubs of specific species and sizes. The most valuable species would be iced down in the fish-holds. The rest would be dried in the sun. Occasionally, a young boy would grab a writhing fish from the living mass in the net and eat it alive - fresh seafood indeed.

I wandered up to the bridge to change film in my camera. I couldn't help wondering how many times these divers could repeat such difficult and dangerous dives before a knot failed to come untied, or a rock hits someone in the head, or one fails to free himself from the net before running out of breath, or one can't find his way out from under the net, or a shark mistakes a beating pair of legs for the source of sound and scent of a disabled fish, or any number of the hundreds of things that could go wrong.

After seeing the two big sharks beneath the net I was very curious about shark attacks and asked some the boys about it. But the fishermen were not inclined to talk about sharks at length. They only said that attacks happen but not very often. They said that needlefish are just as bad and that they sometimes are frightened into swimming so fast that they spear swimmers. When I asked if there was a doctor on board or if injured swimmers were taken to Manila for medical care, they looked at me like I had a screw loose. One boy shrugged and said, "No, we don't have a doctor and we don't go to Manila. They just die."

Once inside the wheelhouse, I placed my camera bag on the chart table and began searching for fresh film. Then I noticed a radio correspondence lying on top of the charts. Each day the fifteen Muro Ami boats working in the South China Sea call in to report their positions. At the bottom of the list for February 7, 1985 it read:

"LOLITA 1: Returning to station to drop off body for burial."

I asked the captain what had happened. He shrugged his shoulders, squinted into the afternoon sun and said simply, "A boy drowned."