Fish
When you least expect it, you get a profound lesson from the philosophy of work of another culture.
It was a beautiful summer evening, and my husband and I decided to visit a favourite haunt. Now we have to be honest, Parakai wharf is not exactly the most scenic of locations. There is just the curve of a very muddy river, a long low island opposite, and a distant view of the highway. But it is normally very quiet and peaceful at the wharf, with nobody but us and the ducks, a few red-legged gulls, swallows, sparrows, and if we are lucky, a dominican gull, a white-faced heron, or even a royal spoonbill swishing his strange bill through the water for food, or my favourite, a pied stilt stalking along on its incredibly long red legs. Sometimes, when the tide is high, a fishing boat might come up the river and dock and the small floating wharf to discharge one or two fishermen passengers who had been trying their luck on the Kaipara Harbour.
As we drove up, however, we were dismayed to discover that the tiny parking lot was full of vehicles, and the tide was low. But just as we were about to turn and think of Plan B, we noticed that there was one car park left, and even more surprisingly, a boat was rounding the bend in the river. We decided to park, and watch.
The water was so low we had to crane our necks to watch the boat tie up at the tiny floating dock, now well below the level of the car park. Soon a dozen men were crowding the rail of the ship, ready to get off.
The first man off carried an armful of fishing rods, followed by another with as many. Then pairs of men hauling a miscellany of eskies, chilly bins, and plastic lunch boxes began clambering up the jetty ramp to the car park. The way they lurched up the ramp, made it obvious that they were carrying heavy loads.
“Had a good day fishing?” we smilingly asked them, and they nodded cheerfully, althoughone added cheekily, “Oh, it’s mainly ice!”
When the last man except the captain was off the boat, its motors revved and with a roar it headed up the river to home. The water was so low I thought it might get grounded in the mud, but no, its wake rocked the ducks along the shore, and sent a cormorant flapping on its way.
Thinking all the action had ended, my husband reversed the car, and we began to drive off. Suddenly we noticed, to our surprise, that spread out on the road in front of us, was a huge sheet laden with at least thirty or forty very large fish, and surrounded by a ring of admiring men from the Pacific Islands. It was impossible to drive off without a comment.
“That’s impressive!” I exclaimed, with a broad grin.
Fishermen always appreciate having their catch admired. All the men grinned broadly.
“Yeah, we just have to divide it up between us, and then we’ll head home to Auckland,” one informed us.
Divide it up between us? But didn’t they know whose fish was whose?
Then suddenly it hit me. To my Western/European mind, wisdom would have had every man taking home whatever he had caught. But these men were wiser. They shared their catch equally amongst them, and the joy.
What would happen if we all simply shared the blessings from our work?
