It was early in the evening when I arrived at the beach, at that point in the day when the sun-blanched desert sky turned from white to pink to a deep, inky blue. As I was heading down to the water, I found a group of fishermen who were pulling in their nets for the evening.
At least ten stood at each side of the net, a mixture of men and boys, and a few others were assigned to each truck. There were more than thirty, in total, and as they bustled about up and down the lines and from one side to the other, it was easy to observe that each one knew his role in the operation. In the midst of this group were a couple of ancient men who had been fishermen so long that they were more leather and salt water than flesh and blood. I decided to call them Peter and John, and I'm sure that if I spoke better Arabic, they could have given me an eyewitness account of when the Portuguese landed in Oman.
These two energetically trudged from place to place, pulling in the line, admonishing young boys, or looking into the sea to watch the end of the nets. After watching for a few moments, I took out my camera, chose my lens, and approached with a slight feeling of timidity, as I planned to photograph them until they asked for money or told me to stop. I wasn't certain if they were completely accustomed to tourists or engrossed in their work, but for whatever the reason, I went by unnoticed.
Standing to the side, I watched as two old pick-up trucks carved ruts into the beach, mimicking the waves as they moved up and down the sand. Each time they backed into the sea, I wondered if they had made their last run, but then they would power their way out, dragging more of the net in with them. At the apex of each pull, a young man standing in the truck bed deftly stacked the new lengths and gave the order to reverse.
On more than one occasion, the nets caught on the bumper or the exhaust pipe and threatened to tear. These were the best moments for some opportunistic boys to remove some of the smaller fish from the sides of the net and place them in plastic grocery bags with their other gleanings.
At some point during this process, a young man toward the end of the nets captured a sizeabale fish. He held it aloft for approval, and then passed it to the shore. Once examined, it was placed in a pile with a few other large fish that were being closely guarded.
After several zig-zags across the beach, the trucks were quite near each other, and the nets were almost fully retrieved. The trucks made one last pull, side-by-side like a pair of mechanical draught horses, and the nets were in.
A whooshing sound came from the fish as they floundered and flapped their tails in the old green nets, the last bit of the sea escaping them and spraying into the face of a boy positioned to keep them from fleeing.
Of course, all of this activity drew in a number of onlookers, and before I knew it, there was quite a crowd gathered about the fishermen. Peter and John, the two ancient fishermen, continued to bustle about, opening or tying the nets, examining fish, and giving directions.
With the nets collected, the men were free to evaluate their catch and talk with prospective customers, and I decided to leave in search of my own dinner.
It was early in the evening when I arrived at the beach, at that point in the day when the sun-blanched desert sky turned from white to pink to a deep, inky blue. As I was heading down to the water, I found a group of fishermen who were pulling in their nets for the evening.
At least ten stood at each side of the net, a mixture of men and boys, and a few others were assigned to each truck. There were more than thirty, in total, and as they bustled about up and down the lines and from one side to the other, it was easy to observe that each one knew his role in the operation. In the midst of this group were a couple of ancient men who had been fishermen so long that they were more leather and salt water than flesh and blood. I decided to call them Peter and John, and I'm sure that if I spoke better Arabic, they could have given me an eyewitness account of when the Portuguese landed in Oman. 
These two energetically trudged from place to place, pulling in the line, admonishing young boys, or looking into the sea to watch the end of the nets. After watching for a few moments, I took out my camera, chose my lens, and approached with a slight feeling of timidity, as I planned to photograph them until they asked for money or told me to stop. I wasn't certain if they were completely accustomed to tourists or engrossed in their work, but for whatever the reason, I went by unnoticed.
Standing to the side, I watched as two old pick-up trucks carved ruts into the beach, mimicking the waves as they moved up and down the sand. Each time they backed into the sea, I wondered if they had made their last run, but then they would power their way out, dragging more of the net in with them. At the apex of each pull, a young man standing in the truck bed deftly stacked the new lengths and gave the order to reverse. 
On more than one occasion, the nets caught on the bumper or the exhaust pipe and threatened to tear. These were the best moments for some opportunistic boys to remove some of the smaller fish from the sides of the net and place them in plastic grocery bags with their other gleanings. 
At some point during this process, a young man toward the end of the nets captured a sizeabale fish. He held it aloft for approval, and then passed it to the shore. Once examined, it was placed in a pile with a few other large fish that were being closely guarded.
After several zig-zags across the beach, the trucks were quite near each other, and the nets were almost fully retrieved. The trucks made one last pull, side-by-side like a pair of mechanical draught horses, and the nets were in. 
A whooshing sound came from the fish as they floundered and flapped their tails in the old green nets, the last bit of the sea escaping them and spraying into the face of a boy positioned to keep them from fleeing. 
Of course, all of this activity drew in a number of onlookers, and before I knew it, there was quite a crowd gathered about the fishermen. Peter and John, the two ancient fishermen, continued to bustle about, opening or tying the nets, examining fish, and giving directions. 
With the nets collected, the men were free to evaluate their catch and talk with prospective customers, and I decided to leave in search of my own dinner.
