Chasing Octopus With the Artisanal Fishermen of the Yucatán
A short boat ride from the sleepy town of Rio Lagartos, the turquoise water is warm and sudsy, and the little skiff known as an alijo bobs like a toy. Captain Limberth Orlando Alcocer Diaz, 55, has fished these waters since he was eight, as did his parents before him. He tugs at lines dangling into the sea and repeats one word: "Paciencia."
Aboard the Yahilin with him are chef Cesar A. Landeo of the Maroma, a Belmond Hotel, and hospitality consultant Karla Encisco. All three share an interest in tracing the seafood served at the hotel back to its source - and in weighing the divisive choice to eat octopus at all.
This stretch of Mexico has earned a reputation for sustainable octopus fishing. Alcocer Diaz is one of several hundred fishermen using an artisanal method built on two long pieces of bamboo called jimbas, a few cords, and live crab or lobster as bait. Records suggest the style has existed among the Maya for hundreds of years, though it has been used commercially for five or six decades.
The petite octopus maya, known as the four-eyed octopus for the false eyes below its real ones, lives roughly a year. Females guard their eggs without eating until they hatch, then die; males expire after a summer of mating. Fishing is allowed only from August 1 to December 15. Because only males take the dangling bait, females on egg-watch are left alone.
Alcocer Diaz dispatches his catch with a spike between the eyes for a sudden brain death, a method popularized under the Japanese process of ikejime. He describes the animals as highly intelligent - so much so that they will walk off his boat and back into the water if he doesn't act quickly.
The octopus's intellect is why some diners refuse to eat it. Encisco still can't watch the documentary My Octopus Friend, and Landeo's wife asked him before the trip, "But aren't they so smart?" Alcocer Diaz sees it as part of the cycle of life: "I just want to feed my family," he says.
He speaks of sustainability as essential to his livelihood. Over octopus ceviche at a portside restaurant, fellow fisherman Wabi Martin Tabasco Marfil puts it plainly: "If we fish everything today, what will be left tomorrow?"
Pesca Con Futuro, founded eight years ago by biologist Citlali Gomez Lepe, connects chefs with sustainable fishing collectives across Mexico, with over 60 fisheries involved. "Consumption shapes how food is produced," she says. Both Encisco and Landeo source seafood through the group. "Chefs have a huge voice in what lands on the table," Encisco says.
The day's fishing proves slow. After two hours of lurching on the waves, the lines come up empty; an approaching storm has muddied the water. On a good day, Alcocer Diaz says, he can land 50 kilos - about 25 octopuses - and last season some days brought 70 to 80 kilos.
Back on land at El Perico Marinero, lunch is the local pulpo rojo: octopus sliced, battered and fried crisp, then tossed with lime juice, onion and jalapeño. More plates follow - sautéed in garlic and butter, or cooked in a tomato-rich sofrito "a la Mexicana."
The fishermen air growing worries: heavy demand for sea cucumbers exported to China, divers from a neighboring state fishing at night during the seasonal bans, and bleached rock caves Limberth attributes to freedivers using chemicals to flush octopuses from hiding. Climate change looms too. "When the water is warm enough to dive without a wetsuit, I know I won't see octopuses the rest of the season," he says. Studies show the octopus maya dies once water hits 80 degrees.
Days later at Maroma, Landeo points to a blue icon beside dishes made with ingredients sourced through Pesca Con Futuro. He hopes all his seafood soon will be. "I also want my son to find a world better than the one I got," he says. "And it's why I want to work responsibly."