The sea is full of wounds

Becoming a surfer, I saw oceans on other horizons.
The sea is as narrow as a bait plate

Whenever I open the social network, I often define the sea as a place where beauties are in bikini, families gather at tables full of seafood. Big crabs with round red eyes. The grilled cow skin fish with its whole skin still smiled. Aromatic ocean in a plate of snails sautéed with garlic or a blister of white squid grilled on red charcoal. The endless sea means wealth that people can roll their hands down and turn into valuable bills and houses a few floors after a few years you return. In South America, the central coast of Chile is chilly the morning the fish come. The boats stopped in the midst of a giant wave of waves, waiting for the crane to lift off the broken wavehead (sometimes the waves could flip the boat when suddenly turned violently). On the wharf, a shark corpse is about the size of an adult calf or the size of a crippled child. Body is cut in half. Half scattered. Gray and white flesh in cold weather. Swarms of seagulls and pelicans swooped down, waved the area a few waves of fish to dissolve into sponge. The people of Central Chile see little or no benefit from shark meat. They were caught in the net during the late night fishing trip. Move. Torn. Broken double. The fish net lurked out of the water when the electric pulley started running. Tons of fish were moved into containers, needles, cars, trucks … A few dozen shark corpses were gradually thrown into the water, wiped away. Senseless. No one cares. Mexico and the Gulf Coast are on one of the most beautiful coasts towards the Pacific Ocean – a winter refuge for North Americans. In the midst of the graveyard of meaningless wastefulness, the existence of a small ocean. It is no longer a few-storey houses, your trip is well-off in the monsoon season, no longer is a ton of sparkling white seafood swimming amidst the cold rock flowing into the trunk of the car to the restaurant in the city. The ocean is just a few broken heartbeats because the sharp fish nets cut innocent beings in half (and have no meaning after that slaughter). That day, as I swam on the board out of the wave’s nose, the small shimmering fish, half gray, half blue, circled around me like a breath of color. I felt my hands feel cold – stained with the bloody blood and deadly body of the shark. I caught a dumbfounded look. I gradually convinced myself that the ocean containing the other dimensions of space was obscured by the world. I’m frivolous and ignorant. But not so that the sea is reduced to a shark making porridge and wealth counted by digital photo paper. In West Java, summer waves are as beautiful as the muscular muscle of a fisherman who stays in the sun during his youth. I dived into a small rock that protruded off the island, letting my mind wander by a passing silver-bodied fish. He used his beak to rustle the green sea grass anchors that latched onto the rock. The cycle of proliferation went on in the instant I could see. When I used my best to catch a wave, stood up from the board, I was shocked to realize that the tiny fish swimming with the snapper earlier waved to cling to the wave, accompanying the board in the euphoria of the wave. wave. Indonesians have a sea on the porch. The night the fish came back, the whole village came to welcome. The boats revolve up to the sand. On the boat, the fish net was heavy. The same tons of fish are loaded with frozen trucks, the needles are full of licking their mouths and transported to the morning market. But right on the beach, the fish do not sell or eat, the fisherman drops it on the sand. The children picked up each fish and threw them to the sea. The tail waved the swimming area quickly following the approaching waves. There are still unhappy zombies stuck on the beach. Follow the waves gradually lost. Just a few hours later, the beach was quiet as if there had never been a dissection to multiply the wealth for the islanders of thousands of generations. The Indo-people are the world’s leading fish dependent population. Most of the food, nutrition, and life they get comes from marine fish. This giant island country of more than 17,000 islands is also home to the richest and most diverse marine ecosystem in the world. Each fish that the children release to the edge of the water will become a large flock of fish for the night market. On the big islands, when a huge bunch of plastic rubbish washed up the coast, the Indonesians I met often said: they fear fish will be stuck, will die, will suffocate the wrong piece of plastic. Fear of fish is gone. Fear of hungry meals like water. The position of the people in the sea is tied to the current that gives birth to them. The sea antagonizes like a monster that sleeps in the wavy Punta de Lobos bay. Quiet like the edge of the blue Panama City inside the brackish muddy beach exposed between the two sides of the sea. Sky-blue and generous as the Indonesian ocean. But then, on long trips, I met a Mexican sea. From California (USA), going straight south to the headland of Baja California (Mexico), giant blocks of land block in front of the sea like a strong array of colors of a bold and generous creator. Sea in departure From Punta de Mita, in the afternoons on the waves, I met a green turtle with yellowish brown cavities. He walked slowly through each layer of water, nibbling on sea grass, moss, and up and down slowly catching the sun’s breath through the water. A few days later, beside him was another friend, a dark brown-shell turtle friend as thick as a submarine patrol the bay. One day when he fell from the wave, he swam right next to him, almost able to touch. Then when the water changed, the large fish bravely approached the shore. The villagers in the village spread fish nets all over the surface of the water. One time I dropped my diving board deep, the fish net was stuck like a maze, sharp and threatening, and wrapped tangerines into layers as far as people could not swim to. “Does the turtle know how to slip through the net?” Fishing in Indonesia. The answer came in that anxious afternoon. I was swimming near the reef and the end of the fish net. Suddenly, at that moment a local boy jumped off the board, dived in the net many times, as if struggling with something full of resistance below. He got up and took a gulp of water, then went down, then up, a few times like that. When we thought he was drowning in need of help, many people swam over. At that moment, he grabbed a piece of net and popped it up. “Turtle”, “Turtle”, he stroked his face full of water. Turns out, the turtle stuck one leg in the net, thrashed. Having to remove the net but cannot tear (the net is the property of the villager), he dives down, looks at the mesh wrapped around the turtle’s leg, then swims a few rounds, struggles with the panicked turtle, finds all the way. gradually loosen the nets that cling to the legs, until the turtle can escape swimming. The accident was over, I saw the shadow of the turtle sweeping the bottom of the water, then dissolving into the color of the light. Disappear. Then the sea also turned, the fish was no longer close to shore. The nets were removed, giving freedom to the sea. Occasionally summer noon floating in the water, I try to remember two shells like a drifting boat sweeping through every stone, corner of the moss. The turtle did not return to the beach. The sea of ​​Punta de Mita is as magical as in a magical story that makes people walk in the street and remember the beautiful day that you have not seen until it turns into a smiling skull at the festival of people. joyful death. I swim through the sparkling seasons, happily playing next to a thousand waves, but can’t shake off my deep nostalgia for the strange creature that used to hang around with me for months and days, now disappearing after one encounter. Fish nets, with extreme panic in exile across the high seas. One time, in my dream, I saw the sea leaving people – not the infinite body of water – but the inhabitants who form the spirit of the sea, refusing to live by the side to face an unforgiving scheme. of the human race. The hunger was real – a crab with its eyes open in a passionate steamer, a tortoise’s meat on the banquet table, a Japanese television proverb praising the whale-killing profession. Prosperity filled the citadel with the smell of the sea in the smell of necrosis. Suddenly I saw the sea devour me – in the loneliness of the plague-like spread. Posts and photos: Khai Don