Bitter Bounty

At Roro Port, Cordova, every catch is weighed twice — once by the sea, and once by the rising cost of getting there and the effort it takes for it to reach a family’s dining table.

For the small-scale fishermen in Roro Port, Cordova, the sea has become more expensive to reach. With fuel as their newest problem, Clifford, a small-scale fisherman, stops at a gasoline station before another day at sea, carrying the quiet weight of earning a living.

A light breeze moves across the calm sea as the soft hum of pumpboats signals the start of another day in Roro Port, Cordova. The shore gradually fills with people as residents arrive carrying small tables and chairs, buying seafood or preparing simple meals on the spot. Families talk as they eat, children move between the stalls, and some walk or jog along the road. Along the seawall, fisherfolk and vendors line up, laying out fresh seafood and breakfast staples as the morning begins to break.

With each passing weekend morning, a family of providers earns not just another meal, but the reward of their hard work — nourishing both themselves and the very people who make their livelihood possible.

In a community where daily survival depends on the sea, fishermen head out into the deep sea as their families wait for their safe and bountiful return. This is the day-to-day life of 23-year-old Clifford Obrador, known on social media as “Batang Mangingisda.” Like many others, fishing remains one of the most accessible sources of livelihood, passed down from one generation to another. The process is simple: bring in their catch, lay it out, and sell what they can.

“Sa amoang inadlaw, depende, kung nihit ang isda, motubo gamay, mo 250 ang kilo. 40 ang patong,” said Obrador.

(In our everyday life, it depends, if the fish are scarce, the price increases a bit, up to 250 pesos per kilo. The markup price is 40.)

As the first light reaches the water, fishermen work along the shoreline, hauling nets and sorting the morning’s catch, as the city sleeps.

Since childhood, he has accompanied his father on fishing trips, where he learned patience, hard work, and determination. He owes much of his strength and success to the help and support of his family, his greatest inspiration, who motivates him in everything he does.

For the fishing community of Roro Port, a bustling week of trade keeps the community afloat, both in livelihood and on their tables.

Clifford prepares his fishing line while facing the exhausting reality of fishing, hours under the sun, a dangerous dive into deep waters, and no certainty of enough catch to bring home.

Back on the mainland, Clifford carries his fishing essentials: an ice bucket for his catch, a gallon of gasoline, and the willpower to provide for his family with quiet determination to keep their table full.

Over time, his family has learned to endure these conditions, finding contentment in daily routines and in the sea’s uncertain yet sustaining presence. With this kind of life, one question persists. If this is the life they have always known, how do they continue when the same work grows harder each day?

With the global oil supply disrupted by geopolitical tensions among first-world countries and the Strait of Hormuz closure, the Philippines, as a net importer of petroleum, had no buffer against the energy crisis.

The Philippines recently declared a national energy emergency last March 2026–the first country in the world to do so–and by then, gasoline prices had already been rising for months, climbing from ₱59 a liter in January to nearly ₱110 at their peak in April.

With inflation directly affecting basic commodities, Isagani Obrador, a father of five, must stretch his income further to meet his family’s needs.

“Igo igo ra gyud. Budgetan lang. Bugas duha ka kilo nya gasolina. Maglabing gasolina. Gasolina ang dakong konsumo, labi nag mobalik kas hapon. Dako pang konsumo sa among pamilya. Moingon kag budget kag 500 kasagaran kay 100 lagi gamay ra kays tanan gallon,” he shared.

(It’s really just enough. We just budget it carefully. Two kilos of rice, then gasoline. Most of it goes to gasoline. Gasoline is the biggest expense, especially when you have to return in the afternoon. Our family also has a lot of expenses. You might say you have a ₱500 budget, but ₱ 100 is already small because everything is paid per gallon.)

Everyone felt it differently, as this is not their only problem. Rough waves and unpredictable weather could turn a day’s income into zero, while the maintenance of a motorized fishing boat remains expensive. A fisherman’s life has never been easy, but now, it is tightening.

A single motorized boat can cost up to ₱20,000 to replace and nearly ₱40,000 with a marine engine, making such maintenance a luxury most fishermen cannot afford.

Joel Pacaldo has spent most of his life at Roro Port, fishing the deep sea day after day, now facing a reality where even the cost of going out to work weighs heavily on survival.

Pacaldo, another fisherman and a member of Obrador’s family, shared how difficult it is for them to buy gasoline. To save money, they walk farther distances instead of spending ₱40 on fare, cutting costs whenever they can just to afford fuel.

“Lisod-lisoron gyud ka maam, kailangan kadto ang sulod di mo klaro. Mao to mga blue, pula, lain og color ba. Atbang Gaisano di mo hatag og di gallon ang dad-on. Tagaan ka dira maam magdala kag papel gikan sa barangay, moadto pakas barangay kay unsa kunoy purpose sa gasolina na imo gipalit. Ngita nalang mi lain gasolinahan.”

(They make things very difficult for you, ma’am. The gasoline we get isn’t even clear; it comes in different colors, like blue or red. At the station across Gaisano, they won’t sell to you unless you bring a gallon container. They’ll also ask you to bring a document from the barangay–you still have to go there and explain what the gasoline is for. So we just look for another gas station instead.)

A hike to the gasoline station could drain your energy, so Obrador relies on his bike to go from one place to another, saying a 20-peso motorkad fare is already a huge loss for the family.

Even then, ₱300 worth of gasoline is only enough for the morning trip, with no guarantee of a catch. The return may be as little as three (3) kilos of fish, as much as fourteen (14) kilos on a blessed day that can sell for over three thousand pesos, or nothing at all.

“Lahi napud ang hapon, duol ra biyahe pero way pawng-pawng makina ba. Wala pa nay siguro ma’am, mamasin lang gyud,” said Pacaldo.

(The afternoon is different; it’s a shorter trip, but the engine doesn’t get a break. There’s still no guarantee, ma’am. We’re really just relying on luck.)

Clifford looks cheerful and energetic, but behind it is the quiet exhaustion of long days spent at sea, working hard just to make a living.

Clifford’s everyday life continues beyond work, rooted in the place and community he calls home.

In the fickle gamble of luck, the boats still leave and return only when the day has already passed. The fuel gets bought, and the nets get cast amidst the sun’s heat or the night’s cold breeze.

“Alas kwatro depende sa pagpanagat og nay panghapon pud mo gikan alas kwatro alas tres. Depende ra kung manguhag gabii. Naay magdugay nagani uban kanang mogikan og kadlawn mouli og kadlawn na alas dose,” Pacaldo added.

(Around four in the morning, depending on how the fishing goes. Sometimes we also go out in the afternoon, from around three to four. It really depends if we fish at night. Some even stay out longer, leaving before dawn and only coming back late at night, around midnight.)

(From left to right) Isagani Obrador, Rey Obrador, Edward Pinlaso, and Joel Pacaldo pose for a photo in the port. Bounded by brotherhood where blood and sweat are shared.

For these fishermen in Roro Port, this is not simply a job that can be easily replaced. Not out of optimism, but out of necessity. It is the only life they have known–the work they return to, regardless of outcome.

“Mao rajud ni ma’am, dagat rajud ma’am, walay lain, pareha namig nawng sa dagat ma’am,” Pacaldo expressed.

(This is all there is, ma’am; the sea, that’s all. There’s nothing else. We’ve become like the sea itself.)

And yet, from their labor emerges something that extends far beyond their own survival. Each day’s catch becomes a lifeline for another family, passing through hands that wait along the roadside just across where their pumpboats dock. There, the fish are no longer just “catch” but transitioned, handled, sorted, and arranged by vendors who depend just as deeply on what arrives from the sea.

In this exchange, the fishermen’s work enters a larger chain, one shaped by endurance, dependence, and the fragile balance between demand and survival.

Beyond the shoreline, another layer of labor unfolds as Lola Generosa, Juarlin, and Lenette wait along the roadside to clean, sort, and sell what arrives, relying on every sale to support their households.

In Roro Port, the fish rarely stay in one place for long. For many of the women vendors, often wives or daughters of fishermen, it becomes both product and responsibility the moment it is handed over. Some operate on a percentage basis from their husbands’ or sons’ catch, while others rely on whatever portion is entrusted to them to sell for the day. A few bring their goods to the public market, but most remain along the roadside, where selling is immediate, exposed, and dependent on passing feet and timing rather than fixed stalls and guarantees.

For each sale, the earnings are not entirely theirs to keep. A portion is set aside to pay the konsehal or boat owners, since not all fishermen in Roro own their bangka; many are merely renters of the very vessel that allows them to work.

“Bahinon sa walo ka tao, depende panglitan 9,000 ang kuan, 900 sa tag-iya…dira rapud ang konsehal, dili mani amoa, percento rami, usahay kung 6,000 makakuha siya mga 500,” said Lenette.

(It is split between eight people. For example, if it’s ₱9,000, then ₱900 goes to the owner… the councilor gets a share. It’s not really ours; we only get a percentage. Sometimes, if it’s ₱6,000, they get ₱500.)

Beside the roads of Roro Port, vendors gather around the day’s catch, showing how a livelihood at sea continues on land, sustained by patience and hard work as they wait for the next buyer to stop.

In this arrangement, the fish carries more value; it carries obligations layered through relationships of labor, debt, and shared survival. It reveals that even within the same port, fishermen live under different conditions — some with ownership, many without — bound together by the same sea but separated by the means to access it.

The flow of fish extends further during their “tabo” event, particularly from February to April, when suki buyers arrive from nearby cities like Talisay and Mandaue. These long-standing relationships between vendor and buyer turn the port into a temporary hub of exchange, where familiarity dictates trade as much as price. But even this connection is fragile; when the tabo was eventually stopped by local authorities due to waste and basura concerns, an entire cycle of livelihood was disrupted, leaving vendors to adapt once again within tighter, more uncertain margins.

Lenette Mapilit, 41 years old, knows this life from every angle. As a fisherman’s wife and the one who collects earnings for their boss among the women vendors, she earns up to ₱300 on a bountiful day, sometimes less when the catch is thin. She has held enough money that was never really hers to keep. When asked about her children, her answer carried something different from resignation. She wanted them to take a different path, study diligently, graduate from college, and earn a high salary. Not because the work is less, but because she has counted enough to know what it adds up to.

Lenette (in blue) with her son, who aspires to be a policeman one day. Despite hardships, she and her husband — a fisherman and MEPZA worker — are determined to see their children finish school, holding onto scholarships and every earned peso for a better future.

The sea gave her family survival, and survival isn’t enough. This only tells that they are not passive in the margin, but actually fight against it, in the way they know how, and by making sure the next generation doesn’t have to face the same difficulty as they did.

In this system, the fish is never just fish. It moves from fishermen to roadside vendors, to passing buyers, and sometimes back to the household when nothing is left to sell. When fish remain unsold, they are not discarded but carried from place to place, offered again and again in quiet persistence. Vendors go from one area to another, refusing stillness, because stillness means loss.

The goal is always the same: for the fish to be sold, for the day to be earned. And when all efforts fail, what remains returns home, not as profit but as sustenance, closing the loop where livelihood and survival ultimately converge.

In all this movement, how much of its value ever returns to those who labored to bring it ashore?

This is where the perspective shifts to the consumer. Every purchase at the market is part of this larger system. It is easy to decide based on price alone — what is affordable, what is available, what fits the day’s budget.

Faced with this reality, the consumer’s role becomes unavoidable. If every kilo in the market carries the weight of a fisherman’s time, cost, and uncertainty, then every purchase is no longer a neutral act. A simple choice, guided by price or convenience, rests on a system where others bear the greater risk. To recognize this is to confront a difficult truth: the ease of consumption is sustained by a cycle of uncertainty that does not end at the point of sale. And yet, for most, this truth remains invisible–reduced to numbers on a price tag, detached from the lives that make it possible.

The life of a fisherman is not one to look down on. They are not “less,” and in every sense, a bitter life to survive.

The hard work of fishermen extends beyond providing for their own families — it also reaches the wider community. Their daily labor at sea reflects sacrifice, patience, and endurance as they face uncertain weather and long hours just to bring home a catch. The kahago of fishermen is, then, not merely personal labor but a communal burden; they sustain life by supplying one of society’s most basic needs, food, through work that demands more than it gives back.

Yet even this labor does not guarantee relief. When the day’s catch fails to match what was spent, the loss does not end upon returning home. It follows them, persistent and inescapable, into the next day and the next, as they are compelled to return to sea, each time forced to try again. The cycle continues regardless of visibility or recognition, sustained by necessity rather than choice.

For those who only meet it at the market, where the fish is already priced and packaged, the question remains unavoidable: how long can this labor remain visible only in its product, and not in the lives that make it possible?