The Net that was cut

There was once a coastal town where the sea fed the people.

Every morning, before the sun could stretch its arms across the water, the fishers were already out — not with greed, but with rhythm. They knew the seasons, the tides, the places to leave alone, and the times to take just enough. The town ate well. Children grew strong. Elders told stories of full baskets and humble pride.

Then one day, people from the inland arrived. They wore lanyards and carried graphs, and they said the sea was in danger.

Not here, the fishers said. We know this sea like kin.

Still, the visitors shook their heads. They said trust the models, not the men. So they marked out zones on maps. They drafted rules from buildings far from shore. And they said: to save the sea, we must cut the net.

The town was confused. The net fed them. The net was them.

But they obeyed, thinking it temporary. They turned to the shops instead.

The shops filled with fish — but not from their sea. Boxes arrived from far away: some grey, some tasteless, some with no story at all. The labels were long. The prices climbed. The elders stopped telling tales. The children ate less.

Still, the visitors smiled and said: the sea is safe now.

But the town knew something was missing.

Not the fish — they still swam beneath the quiet waves.

What was missing was the link between sea and stomach. Between care and catch. Between people and place.

One day, a storm came. Roads washed out. Ships were delayed. The shelves in the shops were empty. And the town remembered the taste of their own waters — but it was too late. The boats were gone. The hands that once cast the nets had grown stiff with time, or moved inland to chase other work.

They had saved the sea —but lost the part that fed them.

Don’t wait until the last storm to remember the value of what’s already yours.

Food security begins at home — and at sea.