Fishing has always been part of the Filipino way of life. In an archipelagic country like the Philippines, where communities have long lived with the rhythm of the sea, fishing is livelihood, food, memory, and tradition.

But in Barangay Pudoc, Tagudin, Ilocos Sur, I was reminded that fishing is also joy.

Near the shore, in a small and simple cottage facing the sea, stands the headquarters of the Pudoc West Antipolo Fishermen Association. It is a humble place, but it carries the life of a community. This is where the fishermen gather, rest, wait, sort their catch, and welcome visitors like us into their world.

It is also where I first learned more closely about the lambaklad, an environmentally friendly fishing net that originated from Japanese technology and was later adapted in the Philippines.

Unlike more aggressive fishing methods, the lambaklad is a stationary net system that allows fish to be guided into the gear. In Tagudin, it has become a source of pride for the fishermen, a way of earning from the sea while respecting it.

As we waited to go out into the water, the fisherfolk welcomed our team and asked us to take shelter in their modest cottage, away from the scorching sun. There was no formality in the gesture, only warmth. It felt natural to them to make space for others.

Leonardo Acosta, chairman of the association and himself a fisherman, asked if we would be joining them to observe how they fish using the lambaklad. He looked visibly delighted.

Soon, we boarded a boat marked with the words “In God We Trust” — a quiet prayer carried by the fishermen each time they went out to sea.

As we ventured farther into the waters of Pudoc, I realized that what I was about to witness was not merely the technical process of operating the lambaklad. What unfolded before me was a portrait of camaraderie.

The fishermen worked together with ease, pulling and gathering the net in rhythm. Their movements were coordinated and relaxed. Laughter rose above the sound of the waves. They counted “1, 2, 3, go!” in unison, teasing one another as they worked, their conversations floating comfortably in the salty air.

It was bayanihan at sea.

After about an hour in the sea, I began to feel seasick and decided to observe the rest of the activity from the shore. When we returned, Acosta noticed my discomfort and asked what had happened. When I told him I was feeling queasy, he laughed and said I could not marry a man of the sea.

Then, with the same easy kindness that seemed to define the community, he offered me water and gave me a fisherman’s advice for seasickness: drink a bit of seawater, splash your face with water, and look only at the horizon.

It stayed with me — not only because the advice was practical, but because of the way it was given. He treated me like I was one of them, someone who simply needed to learn how to steady herself at sea.

From that moment, I understood more clearly why the bond among the members of the association felt so strong.

Later, Acosta expressed his gratitude and said he wanted to show other barangays how the bond within their association cannot be broken.

That bond is visible not only in the way they fish, but also in the way they share the blessings of the sea.

According to Edgar Labiano, administrative officer of the Bureau of Fisheries and Aquatic Resources (BFAR), the association catches an average of 80 to 100 kilograms of fish daily. Around last month, he said, they were able to catch as much as 400 kilograms of fish in a single harvest.

For the fishermen, every catch is a source of pride. After the fish are brought in through the lambaklad, people from the community and other vendors gather around the small cottage by the sea, buying what the waters of Pudoc have given.

Labiano said the members of the association are happy people. Whether the catch is small or abundant, they continue to fish with their heart — in Filipino, “bukal sa puso.”

That phrase seemed to explain what I had been seeing all along.

The fishermen of Pudoc do not romanticize the hardship of their work. They know the sea can be generous, but also uncertain. Labiano, in his message to fishermen across the Philippines, urged them to remain diligent because not every day brings the opportunity to catch plenty of fish.

The Pudoc West Antipolo Fishermen Association lives by that reminder.

Even during difficult seasons, they push through. During the rainy season and the fishing ban implemented by BFAR to allow fish to reproduce, the community finds another source of livelihood in Tagudin’s calamansi farms — another blessing that helps sustain them when the sea must rest.

As I watched the fishermen under the heat of the sun, their faces lit with laughter and pride, I saw joy.

I came to Tagudin to observe a fishing method. I left with a heart warmed by a community that fishes with skill, faith, humor, and heart. Bukal sa puso.