“And the sardines, Grandfather?”
He shook his head and smiled sadly. “No, querida, the sardines did not come this week. Perhaps it is too early in the season for them.”
He coughed then, a long dry rasp like burning eucalyptus. To Josefa that was more horrible than any scream. She gave no sign of this, but waited until it was finished and Grandfather had resumed the walk.
No, it was too early in the season for the sardine.
95
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . ..
It had been too early in the season since before the second great war of the nations. Then San Quintin and the other villages along the coast had supported many fishing boats. The men had gone out every morning in season and returned with fine, smelly catches, for the beautiful and delicious California sardine had spawned from Mexico to Alaska.
But there had been too much fishing, especially by the Norteamericanos of Monterey and San Francisco. Were not the schools of sardine never ending, like the buffalo and passenger pigeon? Then suddenly there were no sardines. The long purse seines brought up only free swimmers and last survivors. And not all the demands of the markets or the rise in prices could entice the sardine back. For many, many years after that there were none at all.
Now there were more sardines than ever before. But hot for Grandfather’s net. The great fishing fleets of Alta and Baja, California, trapped them all past the Bahia de Todos Santos, far to the north.
Josefa had never seen the great fleets. But the young men of the village, sons of fishermen’s sons, went every year to work on them. Grandfather’s little Hermosa would be only a lifeboat for such ships, and not a very big one at that.