Anyone pondering the menu choices in one of Anguilla’s many restaurants should look no further than the seafood offerings. Fresh on that island means just that. Some lucky diners actually watch as their meal is carried up the beach from the sea and laid on the barbeque to cook.

This 16-mile long, eel shaped island lies south of the Anguilla Bank, a large shallow area where the Atlantic Ocean converges with the Caribbean Sea. The Bank is like a garden that Anguillians have been tending and harvesting for centuries, passing on skills and knowledge, father to son. Small fishing boats rest around the island, near Island Harbour, Blowing Point and Road Bay. Most are built on Anguilla by talented designers and shipwrights; their skills, too, passed from father to son.

Mornings in Road Bay, our anchorage, begin long before the sun illuminates the sky, when roosters blast their first call and lights appear on shore inside homes of the fisherman. Their voices echo over the water as they congregate on the beach, discussing weather and what have you, loading gear and crew. At 5:30 sharp, we hear the whine of their engines and feel the slapping wake as they race past us to the Bank for a sunrise-start to their work day.


Bruce was invited to join Devon (Beggar) Daniels and his brother, Ben for a trap-hauling excursion. Beggar, one of the island’s best boat builders, and Ben, who works construction, fish for sport on the weekends because it’s in their blood; the skill was passed to them, father to son. Their strip-planked wooden boat, 20 feet in length, designed and built by Beggar, is powered by twin 60-horse engines and sports an electric self-tailing winch for hauling the heavy traps. On a Saturday morning they came alongside our boat to collect Bruce. “Mornin’, mornin,” they greeted. Bruce stepped aboard their boat, Kirtisha, painted the blue and orange of a vibrant sunrise. “We be bak in a few hours,” they said as they sped off to the Bank.

After sailing through fish-trap laden water for years, I’ve always wondered how fishermen know which ones are theirs and where they are. A small float is quickly swallowed by a big sea. Beggar and Ben have a GPS, but didn’t carry it with them that day. Instead, Ben sat on a wooden box in the middle of the boat, his back to Beggar, who stood behind him at the wheel. Few words were exchanged. Ben would occasionally hold out an arm. Beggar would point the boat in that direction and soon the first of their buoys appeared.

Ben used a boat hook to grab the float, pulling it into the boat and wrapping the line around the winch. Beggar ran the gear that hauled the heavy, steel-framed trap up to the boat, where it was hoisted on board. Ben emptied the contents and cleaned the attached zinc that prevents the trap from turning to a pile of rust. They removed not only the “keepers,” the fish they were after, but also every tiny crab or animal in the trap until it was perfectly clean. The narrow opening was inspected to make sure it hadn’t been bent, allowing fish to escape. If the trap bait, goat hide, was missing, they replaced it. The order of events was then reversed and they sped off to find and retrieve the next one and the next, until 24 traps had been hauled.


True to their word, a few hours later they returned and came alongside Woodwind. They tied the boat up and came aboard, giving me a chance to visit and look at the catch. A big bucket sat in Kirtisha, full of an odd assortment of fish and one lobster. Piled on top of each other were grunts, squirrel fish, rock fish. On top sat three box fish known in Anguilla as shell fish. It didn’t seem like much, considering the time and cost for fuel, but, as they explained, fishing is like that. “Some days good, mon,” said Beggar. “Some days not. Depens on de weddar and de moon. Sometimes we get lots of lobstas, sometimes plenty fish. Depens. Today good enough. We got plenty to eat.” We all shook hands and they left with their fresh fish, taking it home where it would be prepared for a meal that would gather their entire family together.

Jan