Just before sunrise, the captains are drawn to their boats. Men crowd the coffee stands on the dark streets of Loreto, Mexico, on the Sea of Cortez — 20 pesos a cup, scoops of sugar and creamer that doesn’t require refrigeration. They mill about their pangas scrubbing guano off seat cushions, wiping bait wells and respooling reels wrecked by yesterday’s clients. Sea odors, the smell of wet rope and the scent of bougainvillea mingle over the riprap. A watchman uses an ancient key to open the iron gate that leads to the seawall. Shore fishermen with their lunch pails, handlines and rags say buenos dias and walk through. They take their positions on the jetty.

Clients, mostly Americans, step out of taxis. They drag heavy coolers, rods and reels. They check their cellphones. Men with cast nets and buckets drift in from the unlit city streets. They smoke in the first light that paints the water surface a pale, airy blue. Bait-makers, sardineros, are in no hurry, and they do not advertise. Barefooted, they stroll to the boat slips and wait.

The bait catchers of Mexico, called sardineros, are invited one by one aboard sportfishing pangas to fill the bait wells. 

Brown pelicans and yellow-footed gulls cut the air above the marina lights. They stall, fold their wings and slice into the water with tremendous force. The bell at San Javier tolls. It’s 6 a.m. The sardineros work alone. They are unaffiliated. They are waiting for the same thing. A captain calls to one of them, and he quickly boards the panga.

They exit the marina and tuck in against the seawall. The captain is already wearing dark sunglasses, reading the water. The sardinero crouches in the bow, the net draped over his shoulder and the main line tied to his wrist. Birds tumble from the sky and strike the water.

The captain points to something, and the man in the bow rises out of his crouch and hurls the net. Sunlight catches the webbing as it opens like a flower and hangs over the water. In unison, the lead weights strike the surface. There is laughter as the captain and the net man haul aboard a heavy yield of wriggling sardines and transport them to the live wells. With this one throw, more than 300 baits land in the well — enough to fish all day. When they return to the marina, the gringos with enormous bellies are waiting. They hand the sardinero 30 U.S. dollars. He folds the money, then steadies the gunwale as they board. He falls back into the recesses of the marina and waits to be called again.

A single toss of the cast net can yield enough sardines for an entire day of fishing. 

One sardinero is very old. He has a kind face and a gray, shovel-shaped beard. Most days, no one calls on him. Still, he stops at the coffee stand and laughs with the others. He walks toward the sound of tolling bells, past the balloon sellers and food carts, and is gone.

I’ve been rising early to walk to the marina and watch the charter boats fan out in all directions. I don’t blend in or make acquaintances. I buy coffee in the scrum of fishermen. I ask about the fishing, which they say has been fantastic lately out by Isla Carmen and the San Bruno Banks. Any day now, the dorado will show up.

One morning, the whole bay flashes with juvenile roosterfish. They blitz millions of sardines that had suddenly moved in to replace the mackerel. Walking the Malecón with my black Lab, we watch diving birds and acres of nervous water. I hurry back to my rental and grab my surf rod. Casting a metal spoon into the tumult, I catch five roosterfish and one jack in 10 casts. But these are no bigger than the palm of my hand. They bleed absurdly when I try to release them. The little boys who occupy the marina at all hours catch fish at an alarming rate, tossing them into a 5-gallon bucket. I ask what they will do with them. They shrug.

The old sardinero is often overlooked as the other men are chosen, but he can still throw the cast net. 

The oldest sardinero isn’t hired for four days running. Others are chosen to make bait for three or four charters. The old man is hardly noticeable from where he leans on a piling. I harbor this naïve idea that he is the best among them, an undiscovered talent. Finally, a captain named Cuervo, who specializes in fly-fishing, hires the old man.

In Mexico, guides toss sardines into the water to excite the roosterfish and dorado. Cuervo helps the sardinero into the panga. They cruise out into the bay. Against the seawall, the older man struggles to see the baitfish. Cuervo points and talks softly. In three casts, they manage only a handful of sardines. The net’s webbing is fouled with bits of seaweed. The younger bait-makers come and go, quickly catching a few hundred sardines. In Cuervo’s panga, things look grim. The net is too heavy for the old man. I worry the weight of it may pull him overboard. He can’t spring out of his position. He can’t get the net to expand like a bridal gown over the water.

They circle back to where the yellow-footed gulls rest on the water. The old man throws the net, scattering the birds. He grunts to secure the main line. It’s a sloppy throw, but it seems to have promise. The old man stomps his feet on the deck of the panga, trying to confuse the sardines. Silver flashes reveal life. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of baitfish in his net. Some fish slip out in the process of moving them to the live well. Many are accidently stepped on. The live well turns blue-black with hordes of sardines. Back at the dock, the Americans hand the old sardinero some cash.

For the bait-makers, the day is over. The old man spreads his net, inspects it and removes the seaweed. He carefully coils it back into his white bucket. He is unhappy with his first effort, so he pulls it out and starts over. Then he walks soggily back toward the coffee stand.