Silence of the Catch

The days after the storm were eerily calm. The sea stretched out like a sheet of glass, its surface unbroken by waves or wind. Kai sat on the edge of the Kaze Maru, her legs swinging idly as she stared into the water. Her father stood at the helm, his eyes scanning the horizon with a quiet intensity. 

Fishing had been poor lately. Each time they pulled up their nets, they were greeted with emptiness – just a few stray fish or shrimp, not nearly enough to sell at the market or feed their family for long. Even Kai, young as she was, could feel the weight of it.

“Why aren’t there more fish, Dad?” she asked one afternoon as they hauled in yet another meager catch.

Her father sighed and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Sometimes the sea gives, and sometimes it doesn’t,” he said simply. “It’s part of its nature.”

“But what if it doesn’t give for a long time?” Kai pressed, her voice tinged with worry.

Her father didn’t answer right away. He coiled the empty net carefully, his movements slow and deliberate. Finally, he said, “Then we adapt. We find another way.”

Kai didn’t fully understand what he meant, but she could see the tension in his shoulders and hear it in his voice. It wasn’t like her dad to be so quiet. Usually, he filled their trips with stories about his childhood or lessons about the sea. But lately, he had grown more reserved, his words fewer and his smiles harder to come by.

At home, the silence followed them like a shadow. Kai’s mother tried to keep things cheerful, humming softly as she prepared their meals or asking Kai about her day—but even she seemed weighed down by something unspoken.

One evening, as they sat around the table eating a simple meal of rice and pickled vegetables, Kai finally worked up the courage to ask what had been on her mind.

“Dad,” she said hesitantly, “are you worried?”

Her father looked up from his bowl, startled by her question. For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he set down his chopsticks and leaned back in his chair.

“I am,” he admitted after a long pause. “The sea has been quiet lately—too quiet. And when the sea is quiet…” He trailed off, glancing at her mother before continuing. “It makes things harder for us.”

Kai frowned. “Is it because of something we did? Did we take too much?”

Her father shook his head gently. “No, Kai. The sea has its own rhythms—its own balance. Sometimes it gives us plenty; other times it holds back. It’s not something we can control.”

“But you always say we have to respect it,” she said earnestly. “What if other people aren’t respecting it? What if that’s why there aren’t enough fish?”

Her father exchanged a glance with her mother before answering carefully. “That’s possible,” he said slowly. “But it’s not just about us or other fishermen. The ocean is connected to everything—the weather, the seasons, even how warm or cold it gets.”

Kai nodded thoughtfully but stayed quiet after that. She didn’t want to make things harder for her dad by asking too many questions.

Later that night, as Kai lay awake in her bed listening to the wind outside, she thought about her father’s words—the way he had spoken so softly yet so seriously about their situation.

She realized something then: her dad carried more than just nets filled with fish when they came back from the sea. He carried responsibility—for their family’s livelihood, for respecting nature’s balance, and for teaching her how to do the same.

The next morning, when they set out again on the boat, Kai noticed how tired her father looked as he steered them toward their fishing grounds. She wanted to say something—to tell him that she understood now why he had been so quiet lately—but she didn’t know how.

Instead, she reached out and took hold of one of the nets without waiting for him to ask for help.

Her father glanced at her in surprise but didn’t say anything right away. Then he smiled—a small but genuine smile that made her heart feel lighter.

“Thank you, Kai,” he said quietly.

She nodded and focused on her task, determined to do her part even if their nets came up empty again.

That evening, as they sat by the fire warming their hands after another long day at sea, Kai finally found her voice.

“Dad,” she said softly, “I think I understand now.”

He looked at her curiously. “Understand what?”

“Why you’ve been so quiet lately,” she explained. “It’s because you’re worried about us—and about the sea.”

Her father nodded slowly but didn’t interrupt.

“I just wanted you to know,” she continued hesitantly, “that I’ll help however I can—even if it’s just pulling in empty nets.”

Her father reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Kai,” he said warmly. “But remember this: silence isn’t always bad. Sometimes it gives us space to think—to listen—to figure out what needs to be done next.”

Kai thought about this as she stared into the flames dancing in front of them. She realized that even though silence could feel heavy at times—like when their nets were empty—it could also hold something valuable: understanding.