Every year, as Goa heads into a 2-month fishing ban, hundreds of mechanised trawlers and traditional boats are forced out of the sea. Many of these vessels are seen parked along the coastlines of popular beach belts, some draped in tarpaulins to shield them from the onslaught of rain. Others make the long journey inland, seeking refuge in rivers like the Zuari and anchoring near villages such as Ilha de Rachol. The sight does not bode well for a state seen as a world-class maritime destination and tourism paradise.
The seasonal displacement of Goa's fishing fleet exposes the state's inability to provide even the most basic berthing facilities for a community that has sustained its fishing identity for generations. There has been a recurring cycle of conflict and a growing sense of unease that Goa's fishermen have been steadily pushed down the list of economic priorities.
In Vasco, the Kharewaddo jetty is too small and dilapidated to safely accommodate nearly 300 trawlers during rough weather. Forced to seek shelter upriver at Ilha de Rachol, boat owners often find themselves at odds with local residents. Villagers complain about waste accumulation, navigational bottlenecks, and anchored vessels trapping floating debris, which clogs waterways and worsens flooding during high tides.
Down south, in Colva and Benaulim, traditional fishermen operating canoes face a different challenge. With no dedicated ramps, storage yards, or protective sheds, they have little choice but to leave their boats directly on the beach. But as coastal erosion intensifies and sea levels continue to rise, the available shoreline is affected. In several locations, the high-tide line has crept so far inland that fishermen are now compelled to store equipment on private property, creating social tensions. Also, nets, engines, and wooden hulls remain exposed to relentless rain and storms, leading to costly damage that small-scale fishing families can ill afford.
The question is: Why is this situation faced year after year? Part of the answer lies in bureaucratic inertia, and Kharewaddo is a textbook example. For more than two decades, the jetty has remained trapped in a jurisdictional tug-of-war between the Mormugao Port Authority and the State Fisheries Department. The result has been a series of temporary fixes rather than an upgrade. While substantial investments have flowed into major fisheries infrastructure projects at Malim, Cutbona, and Betul, Kharewaddo continues to wait.
The deeper issue, however, is a shift in development priorities. Over the years, Goa's economic focus has increasingly moved toward tourism and real estate, often at the expense of traditional livelihoods. Coastal land is now viewed primarily through the lens of commercial value. Fishing infrastructure does not offer the same financial returns. As a result, potentially useful public spaces, including sites such as the defunct Benaulim prawn hatchery, remain inaccessible to the very communities that could benefit from them.
Ironically, the berthing at Ilha de Rachol has created a discord between two communities over a failure which lies elsewhere. Rachol residents have every right to clean and unobstructed waterways. Also, the fishermen of Kharewaddo, Colva, and other coastal villages deserve secure places to protect their vessels. The solutions are not complicated. What has been missing is the political will to implement them.
The state must identify and allocate designated areas near the coast where traditional fishermen can safely park their boats and store equipment during the monsoon months. At the same time, it must break the deadlock at Kharewaddo and invest in a modern jetty to meet the needs of the fishing community. If the government can find the resources to build world-class highways, airports, and cruise terminals, it can certainly provide safe harbours to the very community that contributes immensely to the “fish-curry” vibe of the State.
