Ah Xing set sail on his first distant-water fishing job in 2018. At just 21 years old, and hailing from the landlocked Guizhou province in southwestern China, he knew nothing about seafaring life.

With his newly acquired seaman certification, he went in search of opportunities in Zhoushan, an urbanized archipelago in the eastern Zhejiang province. Soon, he’d agreed a two-year contract with an employment agency and been assigned to a 35-person crew on a squid trawler bound for the South Pacific Ocean. He was to be among 20 novices taking their first trip out to sea.

Ah Xing boarded a ship measuring 77 meters long by 12 meters wide, one of a dozen owned by the same company. Fresh from port, it was spotlessly clean, and was equipped with positioning and monitoring systems so that it could be tracked throughout its voyage.

As the vessel glided out to sea on that first day, Ah Xing watched from the navigation deck as the shoreline slowly dissolved into the horizon. The journey to the fishing grounds would take about 40 days, and what lay ahead was unknown.

It wasn’t long before he encountered his first challenge — seasickness. For days he felt dizzy and could barely eat, managing only sips of water as his stomach churned. The pungent smell of machine oil compounded Ah Xing’s discomfort, while his ears were filled day and night with the constant drone of machinery and the ship’s vibrations.

Five hours after leaving shore, every cellphone on board lost signal. From that point on, the crew could communicate with loved ones only via satellite phone, an expensive option. Ah Xing says that when the vessel reached the North Pacific, a six-second call home cost him 90 yuan ($12), with charges starting at the first ring. Calls were also only possible in good weather and stable seas.

The worst thing was the lack of internet. With almost all contact to the outside world severed, he recalls that a creeping sense of panic began to set in, intensified by his longing to see his grandmother and younger sister.

The first three months were the toughest. Ah Xing felt constantly torn between two inner voices: one wondering how to talk to the captain about returning home; the other reminding him that distant-water fishing ensured a basic income. The ship was to dock at a port to resupply after about five months, providing an opportunity to quit. But breaking the contract would mean a 10,000 yuan penalty to cover his transport back home.

He eventually decided to stick with it. Drifting at sea made the days blur together, and he eventually grew numb to the situation. After a year, Ah Xing reasoned that having endured so long, another 12 months wouldn’t make much of a difference.

Rations and rashes

On these kinds of vessels, most space is allocated to fishing operations and storage, leaving the crew with cramped living quarters. Ah Xing’s trawler had more than 10 cabins, each housing six sailors in bunk beds. The narrow aisle between them was barely wide enough for two men standing side by side.

There were no showers or private toilets. The crew washed on the open deck, sometimes using seawater, as fresh water was so scarce. And aside from the mess hall, there were no recreational spaces. The only forms of entertainment were playing cards or Chinese chess.

Seafaring life is also not made for picky eaters. In the galley, “fully cooked” was considered the highest standard. Meals consisted mainly of pre-processed ingredients packed in boxes and stored in the ship’s freezer, enough to feed an entire crew for six months. Potatoes, onions, and Chinese cabbage had the longest shelf life.

A typical meal included meat and a vegetable dish, usually green beans, cabbage, or pickled vegetables. Fresh produce was a luxury. Every six months, the trawler would rendezvous with a company vessel to replenish supplies and transfer its haul of squid. Ah Xing recalls that they would sometimes also receive fresh vegetables and beverages from refueling ships. For Chinese New Year, the captain shared his personal supply of beer and soft drinks with the crew. At other times, the cost of onboard snacks was deducted from the crew members’ wages.

Every sailor dreaded the prospect of falling sick. The infirmary was stocked with basic medicines for fevers, colds, rashes, and minor injuries, to be distributed by the second mate, who typically doubles as the ship’s doctor. In cases of serious illness or injury, the captain would arrange for a supply vessel to transport the patient to shore for medical treatment.

One sailor on Ah Xing’s vessel had to be taken to a hospital in Peru when a broken fishing line snapped back and tore open his lip, causing inflammation. After two weeks, he had recovered and was back at work.

During training for his seaman certification, Ah Xing learned about firefighting, emergency life-saving techniques, and basic medical care. Yet, he remembers still feeling helpless in medical situations, such as when a crewmate developed a high fever and lost consciousness for an entire day.

Sailors have fixed roles on distant-water fishing vessels, with no backup. So, unless they fall seriously ill, they must keep working.

Although demanding work, Ah Xing was motivated by the prospect of earning money to improve his family’s living conditions. The base salary exceeded what he could earn on land, plus he stood to earn a bonus for meeting the minimum catch quota. Everyone on board earned an extra 700 yuan per ton of squid.

Rock and roll

At night, in the pitch darkness, the fishing vessel was lit with hundreds of large lightbulbs, casting pools of light on the sea. This helped draw aquatic animals toward the surface. From bow to stern, crew members in black rubber suits operated trawling machines.

Being a novice, Ah Xing was regularly sprayed with ink as he hauled in the squid, leaving him covered in black stains. He wasn’t alone — after a few months at sea, almost every surface on the vessel was stained black with ink.

The fishing grounds were in Peruvian waters, several hundred kilometers offshore, at depths of 2,000 to 3,000 meters. The ship’s lines had specially designed squid hooks and glow sticks, around which the squid would wrap their tentacles.

Despite the hard toil, Ah Xing would often take a moment to appreciate the aesthetic. He recalls the endless expanse of blue ocean, as well as how the nighttime lights cast colorful patterns on the water, with the undulating waves creating the effect of an impressionist painting.

Yet, while beautiful, the ocean is a dangerous place. The weather can change in the blink of an eye, and fishing vessels are at constant risk of localized low-pressure storms, with winds up to 117 kilometers an hour creating waves several meters tall.

Modern distant-water fishing vessels are designed to withstand heavy storms, but if the waves are exceptionally strong, a captain will usually make a beeline for the nearest port. In milder conditions, they will hold position and wait for the calm to return.

Ah Xing recalls that in severe weather, such as typhoons, the vessel would rock and roll in unpredictable ways. Like dice shaken in a jar, the crew could barely stand, and would stumble around as if drunk. At these times, the seasickness tended to return with a vengeance.

The howling winds and relentless roar of the engine fused to create a terrifying soundtrack, he says. Waves hammered the deck, hull, and even the roof, sending seawater cascading down, flooding the cabins, and drenching the sailors.

Shore leave

After eight months at sea, the vessel finally docked at a Chilean port for 15 days, allowing the crew to once again set foot on solid ground. The night before, Ah Xing was unable to sleep from the excitement. It was his first time traveling abroad.

The captain distributed some local currency for shopping, and the company’s agent guided the crew ashore, explaining where the men could and couldn’t go. The first thing most of them did was buy a SIM card to call home.

On the first evening, after a company-hosted dinner, the sailors made the most of their shore leave. They got haircuts and stocked up on essentials: snacks, beer, and plenty of fresh fruit.

Although he couldn’t understand the language and was exhausted, Ah Xing savored the feeling of being on land. He watched the seabirds walk freely through crowds on the streets and felt a sense of happiness.

When he originally boarded the vessel in Zhoushan, his arms were laden with 10 bottles of shampoo and body wash, along with bags of chips and packets of cigarettes. However, he’d forgotten to bring hot sauce — essential for a native of Guizhou, which is known for its spicy cuisine. During the stopover in Chile, he spent a significant chunk of his cash on chili sauce, which made the food onboard less bland, but still nothing came close to that hometown flavor.

Keeping the peace

To say the distant-water fishing industry is male-dominated would be an understatement. Crews are nearly always all men; job advertisements even state “No women.” Offshore, sailors will often walk around naked, while TVs play a 24-hour loop of adult content.

Ah Xing’s shipmates ranged in age from 19 to 56. The captain, who was about 60 and had spent almost four decades at sea, was good-natured and showed concern when crew members were burned out from the intense work. Ah Xing says even a simple word of encouragement went a long way.

On a vessel, the captain is king. He bears full responsibility for managing the ship and its crew, overseeing safety systems, and taking command in complex waters, storms, fog, narrow channels, and when approaching port. In the event of an emergency evacuation, he should be the last one to abandon ship.

The engine room — a ship’s beating heart — is run by the chief engineer, while the bosun manages cargo and maintenance when the vessel is in port, and all fishing operations when out at sea.

Novices like Ah Xing are at the bottom rung of the ladder. Few new recruits make it through an entire voyage, especially on those that require being away from home for two years. As a result, a fishing vessel is like a floating society, with crew members coming and going whenever it docks.

The sailors working the ships come from across China, with many from less-developed regions, where there are fewer opportunities to work and study. Interpersonal relationships can be primitive and simple, like the rules of the jungle.

Close friends are not allowed to serve on the same vessel due to concerns about cliques forming onboard. Companies also avoid having too many people from the same region in one crew, as this could make it more difficult for the captain and first mate — second in command and responsible for discipline — to step in when tempers flare among shipmates.

Conflicts are inevitable. Long stretches at sea can affect a sailor’s mental health, with isolated conditions combined with hard labor known to cause hallucinations, paranoia, and extreme behaviors. In the event that tensions reach boiling point and mediation fails, with no resolution in sight, the captain has the option of having the crew members involved transported to shore.

Equally, the intensity of the environment can forge strong bonds. Despite Ah Xing almost coming to blows with the second mate in an argument at sea over fishing techniques, by the time they returned to China two years later, they had become lifelong friends. He also keeps in touch with other former crewmates.

Terra firma

It’s said that most people wouldn’t choose the sea unless they had no other option. Ah Xing has long since returned to China, and now works an onshore job for the fishing company, overseeing fishing vessels and recruiting workers.

In 2020, when his first contract ended, his hair had grown past his ears. Like his first days at sea, he initially felt dizzy back on land. “We get seasick going out and landsick coming back,” he says. But this time the joy outweighed the discomfort, as he had his family and wages to welcome him home.

Ah Xing received more than 120,000 yuan as payment, slightly less than he had expected. He had planned to start a small business at home, but that never materialized.

Unable to find steady work, he signed another distant-water fishing contract, again for two years. When that ended in 2023, he returned ashore, found love, got married, and became a father. His days of drifting on the waves are now firmly behind him.

Today, when he interviews novices for crew positions, he emphasizes how life at sea differs considerably from factory work. “On land, if you don’t like a job, you can easily move to another factory. But once you’re onboard a vessel, there’s nowhere to go,” he tells them, urging them to think carefully before leaving the safety of solid ground.

Reported by Yuan Lu.

A version of this article originally appeared in The Paper. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.

Translator: Chen Yue; editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao.

(Header image: Workers take a break on a fishing vessel in Zhoushan, Zhejiang province, 2018. Wu Huiyuan/Sixth Tone)