At sunrise in Cartagena, the beach is already alive—nets, men, fish, and a wind of wings. I walk closer. Fishermen toss small fish into the air; birds snatch them mid-flight and peck at what falls to the sand. Overhead, the flock gathers like a dark storm cloud.
In awe, I approach one of the fishermen and ask about this—unusual to me, maybe not to them.
He smiles. “We work alongside the birds. Every day, when we go out to sea, they come with us—companions, friends, hunters. They call out when fish are near, help herd the schools, and we feed them in return. It’s coexistence. We learned that working with them brings in more catch. I’ve been fishing since I was twelve; it kept me off the streets, and there hasn’t been a day I haven’t fished since.”
By mid-morning they return, buckets full, beaches stippled with birds. Then they head out again—three times a day, every day. This rhythm—men and birds sharing the catch—has shaped Afro-descendant communities like La Boquilla. Fishing has long been more than work; it is memory, heritage, home. Now, it is also survival.
Fishermen speak of smaller fish, and fewer of them. Mangroves retreat, waters warm, and long-held coastal lands face legal and commercial pressure. Resource loss, disputed ancestral territories, and rising tourism have pushed people from their homes and deepened food insecurity.
These photographs are a glimpse of coexistence—the give-and-take between people, place, and the wild allies overhead. Look closely: every wingbeat is a signpost; every net, a ledger of what the sea can still spare and what it asks us to protect—both the environment and a cultural identity. These lands and people hold memories to preserve, stories to share, lives to live.
