Where Fishermen and Cormorants Still Work as One

Along a quiet stretch of the Li River in southern China, there is still a place where fishing begins not with engines or nets, but with the subtle understanding between a man and a bird. At first light, fishermen here push their narrow rafts into the water, accompanied by cormorants they have trained and worked with for years. What follows is a practice that looks simple from a distance, but is in fact a form of cooperation that has shaped generations.

The method is straightforward: the birds dive, catch fish, and return to the fisherman, who retrieves the catch and rewards them. It is not a trick or a performance, but a working relationship built slowly—through repetition, patience, and mutual trust. The fisherman knows the temperament of each bird; the birds recognize his voice, his gestures, and the rhythm of the river. Viewed up close, the scene feels less like a technique and more like a conversation.A fisherman lifts his arm, and a cormorant responds.He checks the feathers, adjusts a small ring meant to guide the fishing, and lets the bird go again.There is calmness in their movements, a sense that both know exactly what their role is.

For the families who still practice it, cormorant fishing is not nostalgia—it is part of their identity. It represents skill, patience, and a way of reading water that existed long before modern fishing fleets. In a world where food often arrives packaged and anonymous, here it is still the result of a shared effort between human and animal. Feeding a household is not just about catching fish; it is about demonstrating knowledge, respect, and continuity.

Of course, this tradition now survives at the edges of a much larger reality.The global food system runs on scale, efficiency, logistics, and standardization. Billions depend on it. There are challenges that cannot be solved by small-scale, traditional methods alone: sustainability, access, affordability, and the sheer volume required to feed growing populations. It would be dishonest to pretend otherwise.

But watching the fishermen and their cormorants work together is a reminder of something that modern systems often lack: a visible relationship between people, animals, and the environment that sustains them. Traditions like this do not compete with the global food chain—they illuminate what has been lost along the way. They show that food was once tied to observation, restraint, and the ability to collaborate with nature rather than override it. They show that dignity in labor is not only found in productivity, but in understanding the world well enough to work with it.

Cormorant fishing may continue to fade, practiced by fewer families each year, shaped by the pressures of tourism and changing economies. But its endurance, however modest, carries meaning. It reminds us that not all forms of beauty are meant to be efficient, and not all traditions are meant to scale. Some exist simply because they express a way of being that deserves to remain visible. In this village, the fishermen still step onto their rafts at dawn.The birds still dive. And in that quiet exchange—between man, animal, and water—there is a kind of clarity:that even as the world changes, some relationships continue to matter, and some traditions continue to deserve their place.