Living off the sea: they’ve found a different business model
Foodthink Notes
By establishing these community protected areas, Thai fishers have gained a voice, enabling them to decide how to use the sea and mangroves, and even embedding co-management rules within the higher-level legal framework of national parks. But what comes next? This article introduces the various sustainable fishing strategies devised by the local fishers.
I. The Larder on the Doorstep
Those of us who have lived our whole lives on land initially found it hard to believe that fishers collect shellfish simply by walking straight into the mangroves. Even while boating on the sea and gazing at the mangroves from afar, those arching roots plunging into the water made the forests seem impassable. We asked again and again: do they really *walk* into the mangroves to collect crabs and shellfish?
Bending down to look closely at the muddy path, I saw many small holes—crab burrows. Leaning in even closer, until my face was almost touching the ground, I could see neat piles of tiny pellets—the remains spat out by crabs after feeding… A fisher would casually point to a tree and explain its various uses, while I was still struggling to navigate the undulating roots to avoid tripping.
Perhaps this is the most fundamental reason why local communities must be “developed” by local people—to them, the mangroves are orderly, an inexhaustible natural larder, whereas to me, they were a tangle of complexity, chaos, and mud. This “ATM”, as they call it, is incredibly bountiful, but I don’t have the PIN. It would take a long time of conscious training before my eyes could adapt to all this.
Beside the community centre stood a brand-new blue sign. This was the community covenant. It clearly outlined what community members could and could not do within the area, such as the strict prohibition of logging, blocking waterways, or using destructive fishing gear like trawls, push nets, folding traps, or motorised equipment. Local residents may capture fish and correctly sized shellfish within the zone using legal, non-mechanical traditional tools, provided they have permission from the Community Protected Area Committee. Additionally, income is generated through the cultivation of Nypa palms and demonstration farming, providing learning and research opportunities for students and interested parties.
Sitting on a bamboo raft allows for a close-up view of the intricate details of the mangroves. In the Suso community of Trang Province, the mangroves here were felled by companies for over twenty years under the guise of concessions. Villagers say that since the concessions ended and the community began conservation efforts, the mangroves have slowly recovered. They have their own visible indicators of success—for instance, the return of the monkeys. From the raft, we also saw an otter darting from the water onto the shore, like a sleek, glistening bolt of lightning.
Villagers secured funding from the governing body, the Department of Marine and Coastal Resources (DMCR), to carry out species monitoring in the mangroves twice a month. They place nets at the outlets where the waterways meet the sea, allowing them to capture debris coming in and out with the rising and falling tides… The most routine task is planting mangroves. Villagers are permitted to fell mangroves for building houses and similar needs, but anyone who cuts down one tree must plant ten saplings as compensation.
Much like government-led nature reserves, the villagers implement zoning management for their community conservation area. Zone 3, shown in the image, is a strictly protected area where development is prohibited; they describe its purpose in the local tongue as an area reserved for animals—or, in religious terms, to “leave the life alone”. Zone 4 is an ecological restoration area.
Activities such as the bamboo raft tours that brought us here are part of a profit-making ecotourism venture managed by a dedicated village group. This both educates visitors on their conservation story and provides a source of income.
They also believe that fishery resources have become more abundant. Where they once struggled to catch fish, they can now simply walk into the mangroves or onto the beaches to gather shellfish; some even keep chickens in cages within the mangroves to supplement their household income.
The primary catches here include barramundi, Pacific white shrimp, black tiger prawns, and mud crabs. They only sell what they cannot consume themselves; there is no need to go to the market, as traders come directly to the pier to collect the goods. An old fisherman mentioned that there is a slender species of fish in these waters that fetches a high price and is mostly exported to China.
At low tide after sunset, in water only calf-deep, finger-sized white shrimp can be caught. Occasionally, one can see the impressive sight of over a hundred people bent over on the beach, gathering shrimp. Outsiders also come for beachcombing; the local fishermen admit they cannot really stop them, adding, “as long as they don’t use destructive fishing gear, it’s fine.”
The villagers’ main income comes from gathering and fishing. Through gathering, they can earn 500 Thai baht (approximately 100 yuan) in half a day. As for fishing, a small boat operated by one person on a day trip can bring in a catch valued at 2,000 to 5,000 baht (400 to 1,000 yuan) a day. Larger boats operated by two or three people, which often spend a night at sea, can typically catch 5,000 to 10,000 baht worth of fish (1,000 to 2,000 yuan), although these also operate in coastal waters.
“Which is more profitable: sailing far out to sea to fish, or the way you earn a living now?” When we asked this, looks of bewilderment crossed their faces. They weren’t sure about the yields from deep-sea fishing, but they were certain that the costs for diesel, labour, and machinery would be significantly higher. They felt that these mangroves provided plenty for them to eat and drink; they were content, and saw no reason to seek far afield when their needs were met nearby.
Two: How fishers are rebuilding their own food systems
In October 2013, in response to the Landbridge project in southern Thailand, grassroots leader Tab, as head of the Thai Sea Watch Association (hereafter referred to as “Sea Watch”), led protesters on a week-long march covering 200 kilometres. Sea Watch also played a pivotal role in helping several fishing communities establish community-managed protected areas within national parks (For more on Tab, please see the first article).
The project aims to create a logistics corridor connecting the Andaman Sea and the Gulf of Thailand. This would allow cargo to traverse the southern Thai peninsula by land, bypassing the congested and lengthy route through the Strait of Malacca and reducing transit times. The accompanying east and west ports are located in Songkhla and Satun, respectively.
This has sparked intense social conflict within Thailand, meeting fierce resistance from local communities, fishing organisations, and environmental groups. Opponents argue that the project would cause immense and irreversible damage to the marine ecosystems of both the Andaman Sea and the Gulf of Thailand, thereby threatening the livelihoods of small-scale coastal fishers.
Satun is Tab’s home province; he moved back over a decade ago specifically to protest the project. He says the project will affect more than 200 villages, forcing many people to relocate.
Nine of the protesters were arrested. For a variety of reasons, the government eventually suspended this mega-project.
There were divisions within the fishing community regarding these large-scale projects. The perspective of one NGO leader echoed the sentiments of many fishermen: “We have a great climate, the ocean, and beautiful beaches. We possess these resources and can manage them ourselves; we don’t need any further development plans.”
However, after the project was shelved, some fishermen posed a question to the Tab team: “Now that the large-scale project has stalled, what other development plans do we have?”
It was at this moment that Tab realised just how vital the sea they had been striving to protect truly was: how exactly could they utilise this ocean to ensure the fishermen could lead better lives?
As an NGO, Ocean Watch believes that small-scale fishers have the strongest incentive to protect marine resources, as they rely most heavily on a healthy ocean to ensure sustainable catches. In contrast, industrial fishing entails a destructive, indiscriminate sweep.
Consequently, Ocean Watch hopes to support conservation by fostering consumer markets that ensure a decent livelihood for small-scale fishers. As I listened to him speak, it occurred to me that this is fundamentally aligned with the ecological agriculture value chain advocated by Foodthink. The two are mirror images of agriculture and fisheries: when we choose to support a specific path of conservation, we are also supporting the food producers who follow that path.
Small-scale ecological farmers likewise require healthy soil and agricultural biodiversity to maintain a virtuous cycle on their farms; meanwhile, decades of industrial farming have proven to be a short-sighted practice of depleting the soil—taking much more than is given back. This closely resembles the conflict between small-scale fishers and industrial fishing.
While the artisanal methods of small-scale fishers cannot compete with large vessels in terms of volume or efficiency, they possess their own advantages: the fish are mature and fresh, and when supplied over short distances, no chemical preservatives are needed. Connoisseurs are willing to pay a fair price for such premium seafood, but the question remains: how do we ensure the fishers actually earn this money?
The key, therefore, lies in creating new retail markets and giving fishers a voice within the supply chain.
III. Healthier Oceans, Healthier Seafood
“Sustainable fishing using traditional gear, with traceable origins. Consumers know which bay their food comes from, and fishermen take pride in their trade,” read the citation given to Tab by an Ashoka Fellow. He also collaborated with organic certification experts to design a quality certification system for sustainably caught seafood. The certification committee comprises small-scale fishermen, consumer representatives, academics, and non-governmental organisations working within coastal communities.
As mentioned at the beginning of the first journal entry, during our visit in late January 2026, we experienced a restaurant run by the fishermen themselves. When it came to the prospect of fishermen becoming entrepreneurs, Tab seemed to have many hard-won insights, speaking at length about the myriad challenges they had faced—
Fishermen inhabit a dual role as both “food producers and businesspeople”. While this was a path they hoped to explore, the true difficulty only became apparent in practice. After several years of trial and error, they discovered that fishermen are not naturally adept at sales; with profit margins remaining razor-thin, members of the cooperative eventually drifted away.
Tab therefore emphasised: this is not volunteer work; revenue is essential to sustain the business. The fishermen’s restaurant we visited was started with a small grant of just 3,000 Thai Baht (approximately 650 RMB) from the local fishermen’s association. They issued 1,800 shares, sold at 100 Baht each; membership required the purchase of shares, capped at 100 per person. There are currently 98 members (shareholders).
Having only opened last year, the restaurant already has 500,000 Thai Baht in its accounts, comprising both profits and capital from 98 shareholders. They have decided to reinvest 50% of the profits back into the restaurant’s operations, allocate 30% to dividends for shareholders, and dedicate the remaining 20% to community marine conservation and donations to the temple.
I hope that the next time I visit Satun, I can return for a meal at this restaurant, which truly belongs to the local fishermen.
To further diversify their income, the women fishers of Rawinan village in Satun have established a processing group. By producing items such as chilli sauce and crab crackers, they aim to increase the added value of their catch and resolve the challenge of seafood preservation. Registered as a social enterprise, they received 5,000 Thai Baht in funding from Ocean Observation (approximately 1,000 RMB), as well as solar panels donated by the government’s energy department to power their food-drying equipment—this constitutes their only external support. The group currently has 32 members, but as it is still in its early stages, it has yet to achieve stable profitability.
IV. From Volunteer Conservation to Sustainable Livelihoods
Much like Tab had already realised, community activists of Duck’s generation feel that conservation efforts are unsustainable if they do not improve the livelihoods of the fishermen. This differs from volunteer work that focuses solely on protection without considering financial interests. Over the past decade, Duck and those around him have begun exploring ways to monetise these efforts.
You may recall the Sisyphus-like efforts of fishermen planting crab larvae and restoring seagrass beds to protect dugongs, which we mentioned in our second entry. But there is another side to the story: “living off the sea” by generating income through tourism. In Satun’s renowned Mu Ko Phetra National Park, lush seagrass beds surround the islands. A boardwalk leads from the pier into the park, where visitors can admire geological wonders such as fossils and peculiar rock formations. The fishermen highlight the presence of clownfish, or “Nemo” — all key elements for attracting tourists.
Here, fishermen from the ecotourism group can act as guides without having to pay additional fees to the national park, effectively allowing them to utilise the park’s tourism resources for free. The national park has also authorised ten fishermen to run ferry services and has allowed them to maintain their own pier.
Under Duck’s guidance, we spent half a day experiencing the national park’s ecotourism.
Without him there to narrate, we would have had no idea of the stories unfolding beneath the surface. Take, for instance, the plastic buckets floating on the water, each with a multicoloured flag. Duck explained that beneath every bucket is a net used to catch shrimp and crabs; these are operated by individual fishermen, with the flag colours indicating ownership. The reason fishermen can fish so “openly” within the national park is that they successfully established a community-managed conservation area (see our second entry for more details).
Further along, we saw another cluster of floating blue plastic buckets, their tops stained white by seagull droppings. These are man-made fish habitats, which the fishermen call “Fish Homes”. As the boat’s engine cut out, the world suddenly fell silent. Duck began his practiced explanation: they have been creating Fish Homes for ten years. The idea originated with the fishermen themselves, who noticed that underwater traps naturally attracted fish; they wondered why they couldn’t replicate this to create protected sanctuaries. However, it took a long time for government departments and outsiders to accept the idea.
These so-called ‘Fish Homes’ are created by securing numerous coconut leaves to the seabed with bamboo poles. Acting as artificial reefs, they provide a sanctuary for fish. “They feel safe within them,” says Duck. Because coconut leaves decay after six or seven months in the seawater, they must be replenished regularly.
Initially, some fishermen were sceptical, focused solely on how to increase their catch. However, after five years, through the coordination of Marine Observation, the fishermen began monitoring the area and found that fish stocks were indeed recovering. The data did more than just clarify the progress and purpose of their work; it also helped the fishermen communicate with the outside world. “While the fishermen can feel that Fish Homes are helping to restore fishery resources, their testimonies alone are not enough to convince outsiders; scientific research is required to prove it,” says Tab. They have only recently begun collecting data, with fishermen diving to record species in an effort to create a fish catalogue. However, the frequency of this monitoring remains constrained by the budget.
He hopes to engage scientists for guidance to establish baseline data, but this would necessitate further funding.
On the way from the islet back to the mainland, another ‘fish home’ appeared, marked by a small cluster of bamboo poles poking above the surface. Had Duck not pointed it out, we likely would have missed it amidst the vast, glittering expanse of the waves.
As we approached the pier, an elderly man appeared on the water in a small skiff, fishing with a gillnet. The fishermen suddenly broke into laughter and steered their boat over to greet him. It turned out the old man was Duck’s father; he had been in the prime of his life when he dedicated himself to the marine conservation movement thirty years ago. Over the course of his life, he had witnessed the rise of industrial fishing, the plummeting of fish stocks, the eviction of fishermen by the national park, and the subsequent fightback against commercial trawlers to secure community-managed protected areas within the park’s boundaries… Now, in the twilight of his years, seeing the fruits of his early struggles—and even a group of Chinese visitors who have travelled halfway across the world to visit—one wonders what must be going through his mind?
Unless otherwise noted, all images are by the author
Editor: Pei Dan