Inhabiting the maritorio from and beyond the shore: Socioecologies of care among Williche women in southern Chiloé

The Ocean's Living Room: A Story of Care, Tides, and Williche Women

Imagine the ocean not as a vast, empty blue highway for ships, but as a giant, living living room where the floor is sand, the walls are made of kelp forests, and the furniture is made of fish and seaweed. For a long time, scientists and governments have treated the sea like a factory floor: a place to extract resources, measure profits, and draw strict lines between "land" and "water." But there is a different way to see it, a concept called the maritorio. Think of the maritorio as a single, continuous neighborhood where the land and the sea are so mixed up that you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. It's a place where life happens together, involving humans, animals, plants, and even the tides themselves.

In this neighborhood, there is a special group of caretakers: Williche women in southern Chile. While old stories often paint the sea as a "man's world" full of tough fishermen, these women have been the quiet architects of life there for generations. They don't just "work" in the water; they live in it, navigate it, and care for it like a garden. This paper asks a simple but powerful question: How do these women navigate the maritorio, and how do their daily acts of care keep the whole neighborhood alive? It turns out, their secret isn't just about catching fish; it's about a deep, sensory understanding of the ocean's rhythms and a refusal to let the sea become just a product to be sold.

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The Story of the Sea-Walkers

In the southern islands of Chile, known as Chiloé, there is a unique way of living that blurs the line between the beach and the open ocean. Researchers traveled to two small coastal villages, La Barra de Chaiguao and San Juan de Chadmo, to listen to the stories of Williche women. These women are the guardians of the maritorio, a concept that sees the sea and land as one big, interconnected home rather than two separate places.

The researchers found that for these women, the ocean is not just a workplace; it is a classroom, a playground, and a family living room all rolled into one.

Sailing Together: The Family Boat

For generations, the women of these villages didn't just watch from the shore; they were out on the water with their families. Imagine a family boat as a mobile house. In the past, mothers, fathers, and children would all pile into small rowing boats or sailing vessels to go fishing, gather seaweed, or visit neighbors on other islands.

One woman, Oriana, remembered sailing as a child with her brothers in a boat with a makeshift sail made from a sheet. Another, Mara, told a story of steering a boat while her husband ran the engine, with their children safely tucked away in the cabin, learning the rhythm of the waves as they grew up. For these women, sailing was how they built their lives. It was how they got to school, how they visited relatives, and how they celebrated. The boat wasn't just a tool; it was the thread that stitched their community together.

The "Privado" Problem: When the Sea Gets Locked

However, things have changed. The researchers explain that in recent decades, the sea has started to feel "privado" (a local word meaning both "private" and "confused/annoyed"). Large salmon farms and strict government rules have taken over huge chunks of the water.

Imagine if your favorite park suddenly had fences built around the best swings, and you needed a special license just to walk on the grass. That is what happened to the sea. New rules require expensive certifications to dive or fish, and the salmon farms have crowded out the small boats. Many women found they could no longer sail freely. They were pushed from the open water to the shore, or they had to leave the sea entirely to work in the salmon factories. The researchers suggest that this shift has made it harder for families to stay connected to the ocean in the way they used to, turning a shared home into a restricted zone.

The ECMPO: A Legal Shield for the Sea

But the women didn't give up. They fought back using a legal tool called the ECMPO (Coastal Marine Area of Indigenous Peoples). Think of the ECMPO as a community garden deed. It allows indigenous communities to say, "This part of the ocean is our home, and we have the right to manage it according to our traditions."

In La Barra de Chaiguao, the women successfully got an ECMPO approved. In San Juan de Chadmo, their application was rejected, which caused a lot of frustration. But in both places, the process of applying brought the women together. It gave them a reason to "revolver" (mix and get together), sharing stories and planning how to protect their seaweed and fish. It became a way to rebuild their community and ensure that the ocean remained a place for life, not just for profit.

The Art of the "Pateado": Walking the Seaweed

One of the most fascinating things the researchers discovered is how these women harvest luga (a type of edible seaweed). There are two main ways to get seaweed:

1. Diving: Usually done by men, this involves going deep underwater to cut seaweed. It's industrial and often geared toward selling to big companies.
2. Pateado: This is what the women do. They walk along the shore at low tide, "trampling" or picking the seaweed that the ocean has washed up or that is just barely visible.

This isn't just picking; it's a dance with the tides. The women know exactly when to go based on the moon and the sound of the waves. They have a deep, sensory connection to the water. One woman, Irina, explained that they don't need flashlights at night because their hands can feel the difference between seaweed and rocks.

Crucially, the women practice a special kind of care called "stewardship." When they harvest, they are careful not to pull the seaweed up by the roots. They leave the base attached to the rock so it can grow back. They wait for the seaweed to be fully grown before taking it. They only take what they need. It's like picking apples from a tree but leaving the branches so the tree can keep producing fruit for years.

The researchers found that this "shore-based" gathering is mostly done by women because it fits with their lives. They can take their children with them, or do it while managing household chores. It's a flexible way of working that keeps the family connected to the sea, even when the big industrial rules try to push them away.

The "Impure" and Fluid Life

The paper concludes that these women live what the authors call "impure and fluid" lives. This sounds a bit messy, but it's actually a superpower.

Imagine a person who works a 9-to-5 job at a factory, but also grows vegetables in their backyard, heals neighbors with herbal medicine, and organizes community meetings. That is the life of a Williche woman. They don't fit into neat boxes like "traditional" or "modern," or "worker" or "caregiver." They do all of it at once.

They might sell seaweed to global companies to pay for school supplies, but they also harvest it carefully to make sure it grows back. They might work in the salmon industry, but they also fight to protect the ocean from the pollution those same industries create. They are constantly negotiating, adapting, and finding a way to keep life going in a changing world.

Why This Matters

The researchers suggest that these women are the secret keepers of the maritorio. While the world often looks at the ocean as a place to extract money, these women see it as a place to sustain life. Their knowledge of tides, their care for the seaweed, and their ability to navigate the complex rules of the modern world show us a different way to live with nature.

By shifting our focus from the "productive" deep sea to the "caring" shoreline, we can see that the women of Chiloé are not just surviving; they are actively weaving a web of care that holds the human and non-human world together. They prove that you can be part of the global economy without forgetting how to listen to the waves.