A Fisherman's Daily Bread

A man from the Jal-o came up one day to the Rural Health Center to seek the assistance of the midwives. His wife, he reported, was showing signs of giving birth.

He identified himself as a resident of a village downstream and had come by motorboat, then the best means of getting in and out of the place. There was an access road, a dirt road, but it would take hours of hiking, for public transport was rare and the terrain too dangerous to navigate. Besides, he owned the boat. It was his means of living.

He was a fisherman. He maintained a couple of tangab, or fish pens, and made his living from the river. Lately, however, he had failed to make his routine harvest because he had been attending to his expectant wife.

The Rural Health Physician, noting the typically unhurried day at the RHU, permitted the nurses on rural service to accompany the sole midwife in attending to the fisherman’s wife. Soon, the group boarded the motorboat, and off the fisherman went, navigating the quiet river.

The young nurses were loquacious and excited by the experience. They sat on makeshift boards placed at the center of the boat, delighted by their first journey down the river. It was their first call since arriving in town to fulfill the year of rural service required of young health practitioners before they could take their board examinations.

The midwife sat at the rear, where the fisherman had positioned himself to steer the boat. From time to time, she asked him about his wife’s condition since he had left home to fetch them. He readily supplied the answers, though anxiety filled his voice.

The fisherman was indeed frantic. He knew from experience how difficult his wife had labored in the past. They already had seven children, and the youngest had only recently learned to walk. Their eldest was thirteen, and he hoped and prayed that she would manage the household chores while her mother endured the spasms of labor.

Yet even in his anxiety, another concern occupied his mind.

He was calculating the prospect of playing gracious host to these health practitioners aboard his motorboat. He could manage, he assured himself, to trap a couple of hens. He would ask his son to grate some coconut meat so they could have chicken adobo sa payok, cooked in coconut milk. He was already wondering where to get some lemongrass and pepper when he heard a loud thud from underneath the keel.

Something big had struck the boat.

He gaped as a silvery object landed inside the hull, twisting violently before the shocked young nurses.

“Wow! A baeanak!”

A giant broad-mouthed mullet.

The smile on the fisherman’s lips was unmistakable. One of his prayers had been answered. His two hens were saved.

He thanked God silently.

“Padre was right,” he thought. “God really provides when you need it most.”

He returned his attention to the river, faintly hearing the excitement of the nurses over the big fish still twisting inside the boat, now trapped and very much alive.

Soon enough, he reached his destination.

He positioned the boat quite differently from his usual habit. He was particular this time. He wanted to please his passengers, whom he regarded with esteem, and would not want them to get wet while alighting.

When they arrived home, he felt relieved to see his wife waiting for them at the balconaje. She welcomed him and the health personnel with a smile.

He showed her the catch, and she grinned like a Cheshire cat.

But she smiled even more when she saw the kindly midwife accompanied by the vibrant and jolly young nurses. She ushered them inside and reserved the best chair for the midwife.

“Pungko anay, Nay Nela. Mayad man ro inyong pagpanakayon?”

Take a seat, Ma’am Nela. Did you have a comfortable journey?