At 3.04am, most of the residents of the northern Maldivian island village of Kanditheemu are fast asleep. Only the faint sound of waves lapping against anchored boats and the crunch of sand under weathered sandals breaks the silence. Carrying buckets and small bags, 14 fishers emerge and move quietly towards the harbour, crossing a narrow wooden plank to board a 24-metre-long dhoni boat named Mas Vaali.
For captain Ibrahim Hamid, 61, this routine has been the same for decades: rise before dawn, steer a dhoni across the Indian Ocean, and oversee a crew hauling in silvery skipjack tuna using single poles and lines – in a process that is often unchanged from how they fished as boys.
With tuna among the Maldives’ most vital exports, the country’s fisheries still rely on a method practised for nearly 1,000 years: catching skipjack tuna one fish at a time. More than tradition, this technique serves as a model for sustainable fishing – standing in stark contrast to destructive industrial practices such as bottom trawling and purse seining that devastate marine ecosystems.
Once caught and iced on dhonis such as the Mas Vaali, skipjack tuna are shipped from islands such as Kanditheemu to larger processing hubs. As one of the Maldives’ top seafood exports, the fish is mostly sold abroad as canned tuna, with more than 50,000 tonnes exported to Europe and North America annually. Cheaper and milder than the premium yellowfin, skipjack is also a local staple – often dried, smoked or used in dishes such as garudiya, a clear broth favoured by Hamid.
Hamid, who began fishing at 15, has spent 30 years in the skipjack trade. For him, pole and line fishing is more than a livelihood to support his seven children – it is a way to safeguard the future of Maldivian fisheries.
“The ocean is a really important aspect of who we are as people,” he says. “If everybody uses this method of fishing, the amount of fish we get – and the income we generate – over time is far greater.”
“Commercial fishing methods using large nets in waters around the world affect the tuna fisheries in the Maldives. Tuna roams around all the ocean, and so if the fishing is bad in one region, if it is done unsustainably, it affects the fishing in the Maldives as well.”
Certified sustainable by the Marine Stewardship Council, the Maldives’ pole and line technique is widely regarded as one of the world’s most responsible ways to catch tuna.
Martin Purves, managing director of the International Pole and Line Foundation, says: “Pole and line fishing for tuna is highly selective, with minimal bycatch.”
Maldivian tuna fisheries have a bycatch rate as low as 0.65%. Of that, 95% – mostly mahi mahi and rainbow runners – is sold to resorts, with the rest released alive. In contrast, longline tuna fishing averages 28% bycatch, often including endangered sharks and sea turtles.
“By promoting low-impact, one-by-one fisheries like pole and line and handline, the Maldives helps protect its marine ecosystems, bolster their resilience to climate change, and support the long-term livelihoods of coastal communities,” Purves says.
Hamid and his crew work six days a week, often spending up to 16 hours at sea. A successful week brings Hamid about 8,000 rufiyaa, or roughly £400. On average, Hamid earns 15,000 to 20,000 rufiyaa a month. For the Mas Vaali crew, their income is largely shaped by the rhythms of the ocean – now made increasingly unpredictable by climate breakdown and industrial overfishing.
After expenses such as fuel, the profits are split three ways: one share for the dhoni’s owners and two shares among the crew.
Reeling in the bait at sunrise
Maldivian pole-and-line dhonis are small vessels that typically return the same day – unlike industrial fishing boats that stay at sea for weeks. As a result, maintaining a steady supply of live bait is essential.
“Getting the bait is the most important part of the fishing itself,” Hamid says. “During the times when we have a scarcity of bait, we might even have to send snorkellers in. That process might take around up to 10 hours.”
Today they are lucky. At 4.11am someone shouts, “Ebaadhe!” – “They’re coming!”. For the next 90 minutes, 500 metres offshore, the men fish for sprats by coaxing them into view using large lamps until they have 200kg of live bait.
On deck, Ibrahim Sobree slumps into a plastic chair, beads of sweat on his balding head. A fisher for 15 years, he gestures towards the tank, saying: “It was not as much today because the currents were stronger.”
As dawn breaks, the crew quietly disperses across the dhoni, brushing their teeth and washing their faces before gathering in prayer. Afterwards, Hamid heads to the back and returns with coffee and roshi, slapping the Maldivian flatbread on to the deck. He sips his coffee, surveying the calm morning. Some older fishermen join him; others begin the day’s second task: re-icing yesterday’s catch. Because Kanditheemu is far from the Maldives’ main tuna distribution point, the fishermen fish for two to three days before bringing their total catch to the centre.
The crew then starts on the most important leg of their journey. With Hamid at the helm, the dhoni heads towards a site three to four hours away where schools of tuna still roam.
In recent years, climate breakdown – through coral bleaching, heating oceans and unpredictable monsoon patterns – has, along with global overfishing, sharply reduced baitfish and tuna in the Maldives’ traditional fishing grounds. As a result, fishers like Hamid have been forced to venture further out for skipjacks.
Ibrahim Hamid at the helm
Throwing handfuls of silver sprat in the water to attract the tuna, and sorting the day’s catch
Onboard, the men settle in for breakfast – a simple but rich curry made from a rainbow runner caught the day before.
Above deck, Hamid keeps his eyes on the horizon, scanning for the buoy marking the spot and potential rain. After breakfast, preparations for the day’s catch begin. One group sets up a wide net on deck to catch the incoming tuna flicked there by the fishermen’s rods. Others ready their poles – thin, composite fibre rods ranging from two to three metres in length, each fitted with a single, barbless hook.
“When the fish are in a frenzy, we use shorter poles so we can hook faster,” Hamid says. “If they’re tired, we switch to longer ones.”
Just past 9am, the dhoni, cruising at 15 miles an hour, slows as the crew reaches the skipjack site. Poles in hand, 10 fishers line the front of the boat. A sprinkler system kicks in, spraying the ocean’s surface to mimic the movement of baitfish. Towards the back of the boat, two men stand with a bucket of silver sprats.
With Hamid slowly circling the site and the baitmen scooping and tossing the sprats into the sea, the fishers cast their lines.
Just after 9.15am, the first skipjack breaks the surface on the end of a fisher’s line before he deftly flicks it back. The fish bounces off the shielding net before hitting the deck with a loud smack.
The crew prepare and ice the hold to store the day’s catch
More tuna rapidly follow. The men work in unison: cast, hook, pull, repeat. “Thankolheh ginain ukaalabala,” one yells to the baitmen – “Throw even more bait!” The deck quickly fills with a thunderous cacophony of skipjacks thudding and flopping.
By 11am, the pace slows until the men and the boat come to a halt. The crew, drenched in sweat and seawater, stand over a silver sheet of skipjack, with a few rainbow runners, mahi mahi and yellowfins scattered among them.
In just 75 minutes, they have landed roughly 2.5 tonnes of fish. After sorting and icing the morning’s catch, the men launch into a second round of fishing, totalling 4.5 tonnes of fish by 2.30pm.
With Hamid behind the wheel, the crew begin their four-hour journey back to Kanditheemu, changing out of their wet clothes which they hang on a makeshift clothesline fashioned out of nets and wooden poles.
As the setting sun sinks behind thick clouds, one of the older fishers stands on the deck with a cigarette balanced between his lips. His brown eyes crinkle as he offers his own reflections.
Back at the harbour at dusk, after being out at sea for 15 hours
“The catch was good today, but the skipjack were small. If they were bigger, that would have been better. But I guess it depends how you look at it,” he says with a slight smile.
Additional reporting by Ibrahim Bassam
