Along the wind-sculpted shores of Puntland—our semi-autonomous northeast—I still watch hand-painted dhows glide out at dawn. The deckhands laugh that our loose-weave “maraq” nets have two jobs: catching dinner and letting the smallest fish wriggle free so tomorrow’s stew will be fatter. (In Somali, maraq means “soup”—perfect irony, right?) Because the nets float just above the coral heads, they spare juvenile fish and the living reef below. Every visiting consultant expects coastal Somalia to behave like a war-torn wasteland; instead they find centuries-old gear that modern trawlers could learn from.

Elders as Eco-Referees

We don’t have one grand “reef council” crowned in paperwork. What we have are the wise oday-ga kalluunka—fish elders—who meet whenever the moon rolls into spawning phase. Under a palm lean-to they share tea, trade Maay-dialect verses about octopus courtship (honestly more romantic than Tinder), then announce a no-take period. Break that taboo and you’ll fetch water from the far well—or eat alone at weddings. I tag along with my clipboard, but social pressure keeps order far better than any fine.

Scientists who’ve swum our octopus beds say densities here rival managed Pacific fisheries. Hearing that, one elder grinned: Warabeeygu wuxuu leeyahay badda waa nolosheena—our heritage says the sea is our life. Simple math, really.