A Fisherman

In a quiet marina, under the forgiving light of the late afternoon, a fisherman tends to his nets. There are no waves crashing, no shouting, no sails unfurling—just the steady, patient work of untangling, mending, preparing.

This is not a romanticised image of the sea. There is no dramatic storm, no heroic pose. Just hands worn by salt, wind, and time, labouring over nylon threads that, like veins, carry sustenance from ocean to table. These nets are not merely tools—they are lifelines, a continuation of tradition, a quiet resistance to obsolescence.

The photograph captures a kind of devotion: to craft, to survival, to family. Each knot tells of a past voyage; each fold holds a future hope. Behind the stooped figure is not only a dock, but a history of mornings begun before the sun, and days ending with aching limbs and a full or empty hold.

In the age of automation, this man still works by hand. And in doing so, he reminds us that some nets do more than catch fish—they bind generations together in the rhythms of the sea.