Coastal livelihoods and maritime knowledge in Yucatán

Summary

In Yucatán, I believe we are witnessing a profound transformation of the historical relationship between coastal societies, the ocean and shoreline ecosystems.

What are currently the most significant changes in the relationships between the ocean, natural environments and societies in the territory you study? Which seem most consequential in the medium and long term?

In Yucatán, I believe we are witnessing a profound transformation of the historical relationship between coastal societies, the ocean and shoreline ecosystems. For centuries, including in pre-Hispanic times, the sea, beach, dunes, wetlands and marshes were understood and used as parts of an integrated territory. Fishing, gathering resources, producing salt, navigating, trading, moving between land and sea, and making seasonal use of different environments formed part of the same adaptive logic. Elements of this understanding survive in contemporary communities, particularly among small-scale coastal fishers, whose working rhythms remain shaped by winds, tides, seasons, species availability and weather events.

Today, several simultaneous processes are changing that relationship. First, I would highlight climate change and its cumulative effects: increasingly irregular weather, ocean warming, coastal erosion, habitat transformation and changes in species distribution and abundance. Second, pressure on fishery resources is growing because of increased fishing effort, illegal fishing, technological change and strong demand for particular products. Third, urbanisation and property development are rapidly transforming dunes, mangroves, wetlands, beaches and traditional access to the sea. Dunes, for example, are not empty spaces available for construction: they are natural storm defences, sand reserves, biodiversity habitats and essential components of coastal functioning.

I would add tourism, expanding port infrastructure, market transformation and the incorporation of new technologies into fishing. All these processes generate opportunities, but also growing competition for territory.

In the medium and long term, I consider three transformations especially consequential. The first is the progressive loss of ecosystems that provide protection and environmental services. The second is the transformation of community access to and control over the coast. The third is the potential breakdown of mechanisms through which maritime knowledge is transmitted between generations.

The problem therefore cannot be reduced to determining how much fish there will be in twenty or thirty years. The fundamental question is what kind of coast we want to preserve, what kind of economy we want to develop and which societies will be able to continue inhabiting the shore. If ecosystems disappear, together with fishers, their knowledge, access to the sea and forms of organisation, both natural and cultural heritage will have been lost. Nor should we forget women's role in post-harvest activities and the way their economic contributions are fundamental to household management and care.

How do these changes redistribute vulnerabilities, resources and land uses? Which groups, activities or ecosystems benefit, which become more exposed, and what difficult decisions or conflicts result?

Contemporary changes along the Yucatán coast do not distribute benefits and costs evenly. This is precisely one of the fundamental contributions I see in political ecology: showing that environmental problems are also problems of power, access, appropriation and inequality. When a beach changes use, a dune is removed, access is effectively privatised, a fishery declines or property values rise, different actors do not experience the consequences in the same way.

Sectors linked to property development, certain tourism activities, major investment and some parts of the marketing chain can benefit substantially from the coast's rising economic value. Communities can also benefit to some degree through employment, infrastructure, trade and productive diversification. The problem arises when those benefits are short-lived or unequally distributed, while ecological and social costs remain in the territory for decades.

Small-scale coastal fishers are among the particularly vulnerable groups. Their economy depends directly on marine resource availability and environmental conditions they cannot control. A poor season, a hurricane or the decline of a species immediately affects household income. This is compounded by insecure employment, limited social protection and difficulty accessing credit. The impact is not only that they cannot fish: beyond harvesting itself, fish processing provides employment for many women.

Dunes, mangroves, wetlands, and species' breeding and refuge areas are also exposed. When these places are transformed, vulnerability is ultimately transferred to human populations themselves. Removing a dune to increase the area available for economic use can mean less protection against a future hurricane. An apparent private gain can subsequently become a collective cost.

There are also tensions, and sometimes conflicts, between territorial uses: fishing and tourism, conservation and resource use, public access and private appropriation, inshore fishing and larger-scale activities, environmental protection and immediate employment expectations. I do not find it useful to reduce these conflicts to a divide between those who want "development" and those who want "conservation". The central question is what kind of development, for whom, for how long and at what cost.

This is precisely where difficult decisions arise. Setting construction limits, respecting closed seasons, reducing fishing effort, restoring ecosystems, controlling illegal activities or restricting projects in environmentally fragile areas may carry immediate economic costs. But failing to make these decisions may produce far greater social and environmental costs in the future.

Environmental justice on the coast therefore requires joint analysis of who receives the benefits, who absorbs the risks and who genuinely participates in decisions. Sustainability is not solely about conserving species: it also means ensuring that coastal communities can continue to live with dignity from an ecologically functional territory.

In response to these changes, which measures seem most relevant in your territory today, and what determines their success or explains their limits?

I believe the most relevant responses for Yucatán must begin with a fundamental premise: fisheries, beaches, dunes, mangroves, wetlands, tourism and urban growth cannot be managed separately. They all belong to the same coastal system. A policy that conserves a species while allowing its habitat to be destroyed is incoherent. Likewise, an environmental policy that protects ecosystems while excluding those who have historically lived from them can produce conservation without social justice.

A first response would be to advance towards genuinely integrated coastal management. This involves planning uses spatially, identifying areas that should not be urbanised, guaranteeing public access to the sea and restoring strategic ecosystems. Mangroves, dunes and wetlands should be understood as natural infrastructure whose conservation can be more effective and less costly than later trying to replace their functions with artificial works.

Second, strengthening participatory fisheries governance is essential. Fishers should not appear only as the recipients of regulations drafted in administrative offices, but should participate in assessment, monitoring, management, evaluation and conservation. Our work shows that integrating scientific knowledge and traditional ecological knowledge can improve the legitimacy and effectiveness of management policies. The management capacity of coastal and marine protected areas must be strengthened, as must coastal communities' participation in their advisory councils.

Third, specific social policies are needed for small-scale coastal fisheries: social protection, support during closed seasons, dignified retirement arrangements, recognition of women's role in post-harvest activities, appropriate credit, stronger cooperatives, infrastructure that adds value locally to catches, and complementary economic alternatives. Environmental sustainability is unlikely to succeed if fishers must choose between respecting a conservation measure and securing their family's immediate income.

A fourth area is recovering and transmitting maritime heritage. Oral archives, community museums, memory laboratories, school programmes, audiovisual documentation and intergenerational projects can help prevent the disappearance of knowledge about navigation, fishing, food and local meteorology. Primary and secondary education must incorporate the maritime character of the Yucatán peninsula, understood as its communities' historical, cultural, economic and environmental relationship with the sea.

None of these proposals, however, works automatically. Success depends on effective enforcement, institutional continuity, funding, reliable scientific information, community participation and political will. Many policies fail because regulations and implementation do not go hand in hand, institutions act in a fragmented way, or social participation is limited to consultation after decisions have already been made.

We must also recognise the limits of local knowledge. Traditional knowledge is extraordinarily valuable, but it developed under particular ecological conditions. Climate change and today's pace of transformation can generate phenomena without precedent in community memory. Likewise, misuse or overuse of technological advances can threaten the viability of fisheries.

I therefore propose governance based on dialogue between forms of knowledge: science, fishing experience, history, geography, anthropology and public administration. The coast of the future cannot be managed solely through the market, nor through conservation disconnected from people. Its survival will depend on our capacity to build collective, long-term decisions.

Drawing on your work on land-sea relationships in Maya society, how does our understanding of Yucatán's history change when marine and coastal resources are placed at the centre of analysis alongside agricultural resources?

Placing marine and coastal resources at the centre of analysis considerably changes our interpretation of Yucatán's history. For a long time, Maya societies were explained mainly through their relationship with the land, particularly agriculture, the milpa, maize and the organisation of inland settlements. All of this is fundamental, but incomplete if we forget that the Yucatán peninsula is surrounded by an extensive coastline and that many communities established enduring relationships with the sea in pre-Hispanic times.

My proposal has been precisely to think of Maya society as being "between land and sea". Farmers and fishers should not necessarily be regarded as separate figures. In particular places and historical periods, complementary productive strategies may have existed: agriculture, fishing, hunting, gathering, salt production, construction, navigation and exchange. From this perspective, the coast ceases to be the periphery of an agricultural world and becomes a central space of economic, cultural and political connection. Traditionally, for example, boatbuilding required particular woods from inland Yucatán, bringing the two spaces together. Today, that relationship is maintained only through the use of the jimba, a type of bamboo grown inland and used to catch octopus.

Coastal Maya communities developed technologies adapted to these environments: canoes, nets, hooks, fishing spears and other tools, alongside knowledge of currents, winds, tides and species. Nor were the resources obtained intended solely for household consumption. Fish, shellfish, salt and other marine goods circulated through exchange networks connecting coastal and inland communities.

This perspective also changes our idea of territory. For Yucatán's ancient inhabitants, usable territory did not end at the beach. The sea was a space that could be travelled, used and known, and that held cultural meaning. Maritime routes enabled people and goods to move, while estuaries, lagoons and wetlands served as transition zones between terrestrial and aquatic environments.

Considering marine resources also helps us better understand Maya societies' resilience. A diversified economy could respond more flexibly to climatic or productive fluctuations. Complementarity between agricultural and marine resources reduced, at least potentially, dependence on a single food source. Incorporating the sea also changes our cultural understanding. The ocean was not merely a storehouse of resources: it formed part of cosmologies, rituals, knowledge and representations of space. Navigation and fishing require learning to interpret natural forces whose behaviour cannot be completely controlled. That relationship produces particular forms of knowledge and perception.

Bringing land and sea into a single analytical framework therefore gives us a history of Yucatán that is less terrestrial, less centred on the interior and much more interconnected. It allows us to recognise that, since ancient times, the peninsula has been an amphibious territory: a society built simultaneously through the milpa, paths, marshes, beaches and sea routes.

What continuities and ruptures do you identify in fishing techniques, knowledge and forms of organisation between the historical periods you have studied and present-day coastal communities?

Looking at Yucatán's fishing through a historical lens, we find both deep continuities and important transformations. We should not assume that contemporary fishing reproduces pre-Hispanic practices unchanged, but neither that modernisation has completely eliminated knowledge developed over generations. What is interesting is how certain forms of knowledge persist while technologies, markets and social organisations change.

Among the continuities is the importance of environmental observation. Fishers still need to interpret wind, waves, tides, currents, clouds, bird behaviour and the seasonal presence of particular species. They may now have GPS, echo sounders, mobile phones and more powerful engines, but these technologies do not eliminate empirical knowledge of the environment. Learning still occurs largely through experience, accompanying relatives and experienced fishers.

Certain forms of cooperation also persist. A small boat requires coordination, trust and a division of tasks. Family and community networks remain fundamental to finding crew, sharing information, selling catches and dealing with emergencies. Likewise, women have historically participated in complementary activities involving processing, marketing, household management and sustaining the social networks associated with fishing.

The ruptures, however, are equally important. Outboard engines considerably expanded the fishing area. Navigation systems allow fishers to reach locations previously identified through coastal landmarks, memory and experience. Communications have changed the relationship with risk and the circulation of information.

Another fundamental rupture is the intensification of market connections. Marine products were exchanged in ancient societies, but certain fisheries today are directly connected to national and international supply chains. This changes the purpose of harvesting, fishing effort and relationships between fishers, intermediaries and buyers.

Forms of organisation have also changed. Cooperatives, permits, federal regulations, concession systems and business structures were added to family and community units. Particularly during the twentieth century, government policies promoted cooperative organisation and the expansion of fishing communities.

I therefore prefer to speak of historical adaptation rather than simple continuity or disappearance. Contemporary fishing culture results from multiple historical layers. It preserves earlier knowledge, incorporates innovations and responds to new markets and regulations. The real risk is not that every old technique disappears, but that communities lose the capacity to select, transform and transmit their knowledge in response to new environmental conditions.

How is knowledge of winds, tides, lunar cycles and species integrated into learning to fish? What currently helps or hinders its transmission between generations?

Learning to fish means much more than learning to operate a boat or fishing gear: it means learning to read the sea. This is one of the aspects I consider fundamental from the perspective of maritime anthropology, the discipline on which I base my analysis. Fishers' knowledge develops through a combination of bodily experience, environmental observation, memory, oral transmission and practice accumulated over years.

Winds are among the first codes people learn to interpret. Their direction and strength help anticipate navigation conditions, select fishing grounds and calculate risks. The same applies to tides and currents, which determine species movements, access to particular areas and the behaviour of fishing gear. Lunar cycles also form part of accumulated experience concerning changes in tides, night-time light and the behaviour of certain organisms. This knowledge does not operate as an abstract system: it is constantly connected with species, seasons, depth, temperature, seabed type and the particular characteristics of each place.

Traditional learning has therefore been overwhelmingly practical. Many fishers began as young people accompanying fathers, grandfathers, brothers or other relatives. These trips did not necessarily involve a "lesson". They observed, asked questions, made mistakes and gradually learnt to connect environmental signals with concrete decisions. This is how a real maritime education is built.

Memory is fundamental. Experienced fishers possess a mental map composed of places, seasons, accidents, storms and earlier catches. Knowing the sea also means remembering events. Conversations on docks, aboard boats and in repair spaces are therefore important mechanisms of cultural transmission.

Today, some factors strengthen this learning. New technologies make it possible to consult weather forecasts, locate boats, store coordinates and communicate during emergencies. Scientific knowledge about closed seasons, reproduction and conservation can also complement local experience. But there are difficulties too. Youth migration, the search for less risky jobs, declining profitability in certain fisheries and economic uncertainty reduce the number of young people interested in learning the trade. Furthermore, when a technological device completely replaces a form of knowledge, some capacity for direct observation may be lost.

There is another problem: the environment itself is changing. Fishers can transmit what they learnt under particular conditions, but seasons, species abundance and behaviour may change. Intergenerational transmission should therefore not be conceived as preserving the past unchanged. We need spaces where older fishers, young people, scientists and communities document, compare and update knowledge. Preserving maritime knowledge means keeping alive the collective capacity to learn from the ocean.

How has the integration of fishing and other coastal resources into markets changed subsistence, social relationships and communities' capacity to make decisions about their environment?

The integration of coastal resources into markets is one of the most important historical processes for understanding the transformation of fishing communities. It is not, however, exclusively contemporary. Since pre-Hispanic times, networks carried salt, fish, shellfish and other products between the coast and inland regions. During the colonial period, these connections continued under new political and taxation structures. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, they intensified with the growth of ports, communications, refrigeration and national and international markets.

The fundamental difference lies in scale and degree of dependence. In an economy oriented primarily towards subsistence and nearby markets, many decisions can respond to family and community needs. When a species acquires high commercial value, the logic changes. Harvesting no longer depends solely on how much the community needs to consume, but begins to respond to prices, intermediaries, exports, commercial seasons and external demand.

This can bring considerable benefits. Fishing generates employment not only aboard boats but in processing, transport, product transformation, marketing and services. Octopus, grouper, spiny lobster and other species have provided substantial income for many families and businesses in the sector. Market integration has also encouraged technological modernisation and infrastructure expansion.

But it creates dependencies. Fishers may control their harvesting technique without controlling fuel prices, the price paid for their product or market conditions. They may bear much of the environmental and physical risk while other parts of the chain control marketing and profits. Economic integration can therefore increase income and vulnerability simultaneously, while also changing social relationships. Competition for valuable resources can generate tensions between communities, independent fishers, cooperatives, permit holders and intermediaries. Where community mechanisms once predominated, monetary relationships, indebtedness and commercial dependence can become stronger.

Something similar happens to coastal territory. When beaches and dunes acquire high property or tourism value, their meaning changes: a space used for generations to reach the sea can start to be valued mainly for its price as property. This reduces communities' capacity to decide over territories they have historically used.

I do not, however, propose returning to an idealised subsistence economy. Communities have always exchanged, innovated and sought to improve their material conditions. The challenge is to build markets that do not destroy the ecological and social foundations on which they depend. This requires stronger local organisations, fairer value chains, community access to territory, traceability, responsible trade and participation in decisions. The question is not whether to have markets, but who controls integration, who captures its benefits and who bears its costs.

What does dialogue between historical sources, archaeological evidence and ethnography contribute to understanding coastal change and guiding conservation without idealising the past or devaluing local knowledge?

Dialogue between history, archaeology, ethnography and also geography helps overcome one of the main limitations of coastal studies: analysing coasts solely through the present. The shoreline we observe today results from processes accumulated over centuries. Its landscapes, ecosystems, settlements, routes, productive practices and identities have different temporalities. Understanding them requires combining different kinds of evidence.

Historical sources allow us to reconstruct changes in settlements, trade, fishing, navigation, property, government policies and resource use. They also have silences. Official documents tend to record taxes, permits, conflicts and administrative decisions, but do not always describe how a fisher learnt to interpret the wind, how a family organised a day's fishing or what a particular coastal space meant.

Archaeology greatly expands this perspective by providing material evidence of practices that may not have been recorded in writing: remains of species consumed, tools, settlements, routes, production areas and exchange patterns. It allows us to demonstrate that coasts were used intensively long before colonial records and that marine resources formed part of complex economic systems.

Ethnography adds another dimension: the experience of those who live in the territory today. Interviews, life histories and observation help us understand knowledge about tides, winds, species, seasons, risks, cooperation and memory. Maritime anthropology reminds us that the sea is not solely a natural ecosystem or economic space; it is also a cultural space where knowledge and identities are constructed.

Finally, geography helps explain how these processes connect within the territory. It analyses the location of settlements and activities, connections between ports, fishing grounds and markets, and forms of access to, appropriation of and control over coastal and marine spaces. It relates environmental conditions to social relationships and explains how decisions at national or international scales transform local livelihoods.

The richness emerges when none of these sources is considered sufficient on its own. Orally transmitted knowledge can be compared with historical documentation and environmental evidence; an archaeological interpretation can be enriched through comparable ethnographic practices without automatically assuming that the present reproduces the past. Geographical analysis situates these insights in their territorial contexts and connects local changes with regional and global processes, attending to environmental conditions, exchange networks and forms of resource access. This approach also avoids idealisation. Ancient societies did not necessarily live in perfect balance with nature: there was exploitation, environmental transformation, conflict and inequality. Nor does every form of contemporary local knowledge guarantee sustainability on its own. Today's communities operate within markets, use new technologies and face pressures that can encourage overexploitation.

Avoiding idealisation does not mean devaluing local knowledge. On the contrary, it means recognising it as a set of historical, dynamic and verifiable knowledge systems. An experienced fisher may detect changes that a recent scientific time series cannot yet register.

For conservation, this convergence is fundamental. It allows us to understand not only which ecosystems we want to protect, but how they were used, what transformations they underwent and which communities depend on them. Conservation then ceases to mean returning to an imaginary past and becomes the informed construction of a future in which historical memory, scientific evidence, archaeological knowledge and community experience can enter into dialogue to decide what coast we want to pass on to future generations.

For conservation, this convergence is fundamental. It allows us to understand not only which ecosystems we want to protect, but how they were used, what transformations they underwent, which communities depend on them and how access, uses and territorial control are organised. Conservation thus becomes the informed construction of a future, rather than an aspiration to return to an imaginary past. In building that future, historical memory, scientific and archaeological knowledge, territorial analysis and community experience can enter into dialogue to decide what coast we want to pass on to future generations.

Bibliographic information

Type

Article

Date

14 October 2026

Author

Delfín Quezada Domínguez

Study Centre

ONS

Original language

English

Original document

PDF, 7 pages

Full text

Transcription of the original document

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