Gone fishing

by Michel PETILLO (Belgium)

Making a local connection Norway

May 19th, the fishing season draws slowly to an end. The once bountiful North Atlantic no longer provides the tens of tons of daily catch. Røst the most south-westerly island cluster of the Lofoten is situated approximately 115 km north of the Arctic circle. Its hundreds of islands, islets and skerries are surrounded by some of the most hostile seas in the northern hemisphere. The fishing season starts around the end of August and peaks during February, March and April when fish supplied via the Gulf Stream from the Barents Sea reaches the local waters of this remote Norwegian community. Only a handful of local fishermen like Stig Are Jørgensen and his brother Tom Rune are getting up at the crack of dawn to go to sea and face the elements during a twelve-hour shift. This time of year, the waters are still quite rough. Experiencing all four seasons in one day and confronting violent stomach-turning waves is not for the weak-hearted. I was both amazed and inspired by those local fishermen in their forties who muster day after day the strength, energy and love for their trade. Their respect for the elements makes them expert judges on where and when to harvest, when it is time for maintenance and repairs, to rest, or socialise with friends and family at the local pub with a beer, or two, but frequently more. During the height of the fishing season, Stig and Tom are assisted by Torstein. Torstein lives in Bodø, a four-hour boat journey to mainland Norway. Well in his fifties, Torstein has been a loyal ship’s mate to the Jørgensens for over fifteen years. His story is no different from that of any other non-local fishermen who migrate for an eight-month period to Røst, leaving behind their families in order to make a living. For eight months, the rorbu – a fisherman’s cabin located at the docking jetty that also serves as storage for boat utilities and fishing equipment, becomes his home. Rudimentary in terms of comfort, the crimson wooden shelter emanates a sense of cosiness and belonging with its regularly held boiled coffee and smoking sessions when on terra firma. The fisherman longs for the sound of silence and therefore seems quite the loner. It is the quietness, the freedom from mental clutter that draws the brothers out to the vast sea in the early morning. The men exchange a few words, enjoy their “roll-ups” and seem to mentally withdraw at regular intervals. The linear experience of time shifts – under the spell of the midnight sun – and the idea of free weekends or for that matter, a normal circadian rhythm erodes all together. A heavy but relaxing silence fills the room. A last pull on the cigarette butt and it is back to work. The Fishermen are well respected. Their trade is the first step in a supply chain that powers the local economy. On the island there are a couple of traders who provide the Norwegian and international markets with fresh fish, salted and or dried cod, and stock fish. Until the beginning of June, galleries of the dried fish decorate the flat and wind-swept landscape before being shipped to the south of Europe and Africa. In the last ten years the average price of fish has dropped 50 %. No longer considering fishing a profitable business, local fishermen and young men of working age in search of higher wages have left the island to join the flourishing Norwegian oil industry. It has led to a general concern that this community of 600 souls might cease to exist in the near future as economic concerns start to overshadow the need for preserving this uniquely beautiful way of life. PS: I'm also a documentary photographer. The see the full story in pictures: https://michelpetillo.com/gone-fishing