In Cedros, on Trinidad’s southern tip, fishermen launch into waters patrolled by U.S. warships, Venezuelan gunboats, and pirate skiffs. Their stories reveal a daily gamble where survival depends on nerve, luck, and a stubborn loyalty to the sea.
A Coastline on Edge
From Bonasse to Fullarton, fishing has long been both pantry and paycheck. Today, it feels more like running a gauntlet. U.S. naval vessels now prowl Caribbean lanes on counternarcotics missions while Venezuela’s National Guard asserts control closer to maritime borders. Pirates lurk in between.
“Every time we go out, we don’t know if we’ll return,” said Raeish Ramdass, recalling how masked men sped toward his boat less than a kilometer from Bonasse port. Only when Trinidad and Tobago’s Coast Guard appeared did the attackers retreat. His crew finished their day rattled, not reassured, he told EFE.
On paper, Cedros still anchors a fleet: more than 150 fishers from Bonasse, 200 from Fullarton. In reality, many now shorten their range, leave later, or tie up their boats altogether, taking odd jobs on land. The Gulf of Paria, the Columbus Channel, and the open Caribbean haven’t moved, but the boundaries of safety feel like they shift with every tide.
Intercepted in Home Waters
Ramdass’s story is common currency on the docks. One Cedros crew said masked men forced them to cut free their nets this month while still in Trinidad’s territorial waters. The financial blow was immediate; the psychological one cut deeper.
“We are fishermen, not criminals,” whispered one skipper, declining to give his name for fear of reprisals from both pirates and authorities. His boat now sails with two radios, a satellite tracker, and an edge that nobody mistakes for confidence.
Even rescue feels complicated. A Coast Guard cutter can mean salvation—or suspicion. A Venezuelan patrol might deter traffickers—or detain fishers—depending on how GPS coordinates are read in choppy waters. For men in small wooden pirogues, politics is another swell to ride. “You’re working one minute, and then you’re explaining yourself to a man with a rifle the next,” one deckhand told EFE, shaking his head.
Politics in the Wheelhouse
The fishers’ anxiety is shaped by currents far beyond Cedros. Washington accuses Caracas of sheltering drug networks, a charge that justifies the U.S. Navy’s stepped-up patrols. Caracas responds with tighter vigilance.
At home, Trinidad’s prime minister, Kamla Persad-Bissessar, has openly sided with Washington. She announced she would not commit Coast Guard resources to search for bodies of presumed traffickers killed in a U.S. strike, pledging instead to deport 200 Venezuelan prisoners. “We will not waste our resources looking for those bodies. Our Coast Guard resources will be used to protect our borders,” she said, calling for the “violent” elimination of traffickers, according to remarks reported by EFE.
Venezuelan Interior Minister Diosdado Cabello fired back, accusing Persad-Bissessar of “condemning to death any fisherman from Trinidad, from Tobago, from Venezuela,” remarks that felt less like rhetoric than a threat to villages where livelihoods depend on risky crossings.
For crews in Cedros, the geopolitics are not abstractions. “It’s Trump’s fault. The United States is the biggest dictator. He wants Venezuela’s oil, and who suffers? The fishermen of Cedros,” said Shazime Mohammed, voicing a raw anger that EFE recorded again and again along the jetty.
Chasing Fish into Danger
Why risk it? Because the fish are there. The shallows near Trinidad have been depleted. Richer grounds lie closer to Venezuela, in waters fed by the Orinoco River’s plume, where nutrient-laden currents attract snapper, shrimp, and kingfish.
“We have to fish near the border,” said skipper Marlon Sookoo, lifting his hand to show the scar left by a pirate’s bullet in 2015. “Whatever happens, this is how we survive. This is how we take care of our families.”
He and others told EFE they plan each trip like a chess match: pushing toward Orinoco waters when forecasts and fuel prices line up, hugging Trinidad’s coast when pirate sightings surge or gunboats are rumored nearby. Either way, they accept risks that, in calmer times, would feel unimaginable.
The arithmetic is brutal. A day lost to fear is a day without income. A net cut under threat wipes out a month’s profit. A seizure or fine from a patrol questioning a GPS coordinate can sink a season. Multiply those losses across 350 Cedros fishers and you glimpse an economy unraveling thread by thread.
There is nothing romantic in this grit. It is 3 A.M. alarms, mothers asking neighbors to watch children while fathers risk the sea, and teenagers learning to mend nets with fingers already calloused. A boat owner is debating whether to repair an engine or sell it. It is a community calculating how long they can absorb blows before they give way.
Also Read: Bogotá’s Metro Cars Roll Across Colombia, and a Nation Pulls Over to Watch
“Each time we shove off, we choose,” Sookoo said quietly. “Stay poor at home or take our chances.” On a calm morning, the horizon looks simple. When the wake of a fast hull slams against a pirogue, the choice feels like something else entirely.