Farmers and Fishers: When Livelihood Becomes Identity

More than a job — it’s who they are. A tribute to the quiet strength of those who work the land and the sea.

They don’t clock in, and they don’t clock off.

Farmers and fishers live lives that don’t fit neatly into hours or rosters. Their work is dictated by tide and season, moon and weather. They rise before dawn, often work through darkness, and still, somehow, it doesn’t end when the day does. Even at rest, their minds are never far from the paddock or the sea. They carry their work like a second heartbeat, always present, always pulsing.

What binds them isn’t just the labour — it’s the identity.

It’s more than a job, it’s a relationship. With the land, with the water. With the rhythms of nature that can be generous one moment and unforgiving the next. It’s waking up in the middle of the night to check a storm front, or standing in the rain hoping this year’s crop or catch will hold. It’s watching the skies, reading the waves, and trusting your instincts in a world that doesn’t offer guarantees.

Both farmers and fishers know the delicate balance of hope and heartbreak. They pray for rain, but not too much. They welcome wind, but not when it blows too hard. Too dry, and nothing grows. Too wet, and everything is washed away. One storm, one flood, one red tide or heatwave can undo months of effort. And it often does. Yet there is no option to give up, only to begin again.

And still… they return.

They mend nets. They sharpen blades. They tend fences and check forecasts. They fix what’s broken and adapt to what can’t be fixed. They teach their children not just how to work, but how to care. Because this life, this way of being, demands care. It demands humility. It demands faith in something bigger than yourself.

“The dirt gets under your nails, but it also gets into your soul”. A fisher might say the same about salt. These are not just places they work, they are places they love. Places that define them.

They know what it means to be tired in your bones. They know what it means to be proud of calloused hands. They know what it means to cry over things others don’t understand, a calf lost in the night, an engine blown, a season stolen by weather. They speak a language of resilience that only others like them truly understand.

What they ask of the world is not luxury or sympathy, just respect.

For the effort and the risks.

For the heritage passed down, and the stewardship carried forward.

For the food on the table that didn’t come easy.

For the quiet sacrifices made, year after year.

Because when your livelihood is your identity, you don’t just work the land or the sea. You belong to it, and in turn, it shapes who you are, steady, enduring, and deeply connected to the place you call home.

This is for the farmers with dirt on their boots, and the fishers with salt in their veins.

May we never take them for granted.