The eight-inch fish was all the Pasilan family could catch that day. A pinfish launches out of the water, propelled by its recoil, and comes to a shaky stop hovering above the pale-cement pier. As the tip of his fishing pole takes a sharp nod to the sea, he yanks at the reel, winding his arm clockwise, one spool after the other. Standing about 10 feet away, her husband, Joebert, holds a steady grip. Whether it was the pelican or a larger fish that snagged her bait, Marlie doesn’t know. Marlie pulls her line in once more: nothing. Within seconds, it dunks its beak, then body, into the bay with a single splash in pursuit of the limited prey. Coasting nearby, a pelican flutters its webbed feet and lurks around her line for lunch. She doesn’t fish freshwater the catch is bland there, she says. She casts one line after the other, reeling them in minutes later to see the squid bait still pierced to the hook. For the Pasilans, as for other anglers who fish Florida’s waters, it is a nutritional, social and cultural tradition from home - in their case, the fish-filled islands of the Philippines. But the message does not always get through to subsistence fishers and their families. Across the state, the Florida Department of Health puts out advisories for how much fish is safe to eat the agency advises that most fish should be eaten no more than twice a week. But the saltwater sustenance also presents an unseen risk.īoca Ciega is among 17 spots in the Tampa Bay watershed considered “impaired” for fish consumption, according to the U.S. Subsistence fishing doesn’t just feed the body, it feeds the soul. “As long as there is meat, we will eat it,” Marlie says. The Pasilan family are subsistence anglers, who typically fish from Boca Ciega Bay and keep whatever they catch. Dozens of visitors in fedoras and flip flops stroll in and out of the outstretched walkway, easy targets for the stream of bird waste above.Īlong the ledge of the pier, anglers lean up against the railing with stiff 8-foot poles, too taut to budge in the brisk wind. Fleeting seagulls steady themselves along the pier’s canopies and atop light poles. A hearty wind hits their faces, as ruffled palm leaves clap behind them. Marlie Pasilan and her husband settle on the Fort De Soto Gulf Pier as early as 9 a.m.
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