Ot­to Car­ring­ton

Se­nior Re­porter

ot­to.car­ring­ton@guardian.co.tt

The sun beats down over Ce­dros on Fri­day af­ter­noon, cast­ing a sharp, sil­very glare across the shore­line. Gulls wheel over­head, squawk­ing as wood­en boats drift gen­tly on the calm, sun-dap­pled wa­ters.

The smell of salt and fish drifts across the air, car­ried by a warm breeze that brush­es against the faces of the fish­er­men. At first glance, it seems a qui­et, re­mote cor­ner of Trinidad. But be­neath the bright calm, the wa­ters car­ry risk.

Re­cent US mil­i­tary strikes just be­yond Trinidad’s mar­itime neigh­bour­hood have sparked alarm and height­ened the sense of un­ease.

Two lethal US strikes on Venezue­lan-linked boats in ear­ly Sep­tem­ber, on the 2nd and the 15th, sent shock­waves through the re­gion. Then US Pres­i­dent Don­ald Trump an­nounced on Fri­day night an­oth­er lethal mil­i­tary strike on an al­leged drug-traf­fick­ing ves­sel in in­ter­na­tion­al wa­ters that he said was af­fil­i­at­ed with a des­ig­nat­ed ter­ror­ist or­gan­i­sa­tion.

In these op­er­a­tions, ac­cord­ing to US state­ments, ves­sels be­lieved to be drug traf­fick­ing nodes were de­stroyed. So far, up to 17 peo­ple have been killed.

In a so­cial me­dia post on Fri­day, Trump said the strike tar­get­ed a ves­sel op­er­at­ing in US South­ern Com­mand’s area of re­spon­si­bil­i­ty–which in­cludes Cen­tral Amer­i­ca, South Amer­i­ca, and the Caribbean—and killed three male “nar­coter­ror­ists” on­board.

Now, geopol­i­tics, pira­cy, and il­lic­it ac­tiv­i­ty feel clos­er than ever, threat­en­ing a cen­turies-old way of life.

Every boat on the hori­zon, every shim­mer of sun­light on the sea, is watched close­ly by anx­ious fish­er­men and wary vil­lagers who know these shores bet­ter than any­one.

For vet­er­ans like Clay Chick­urie, who has fished these wa­ters for more than 40 years, and Solomon Smart, a fish­er­man of decades, life has al­ways been dic­tat­ed by tides, mar­kets, and the rhythms of the sea.

Chick­urie, shield­ing his eyes from the mid­day glare ear­ly on Fri­day, said, “We are qui­et, but we are cau­tious.” The sun warms his back and shoul­ders as he speaks. He has no­ticed oth­ers in the re­gion speak­ing of ves­sels be­ing “repacked” and of car­go look­ing un­usu­al or sus­pi­cious. “But me? I do not repack my ves­sels. I don’t do that nor­mal­ly.”

Stay­ing close to home

He added that many fish­er­men are now stay­ing clos­er to their tra­di­tion­al grounds.

This fol­lows a pub­lic warn­ing from Prime Min­is­ter Kam­la Per­sad-Bisses­sar, who said that fish­er­men caught in Venezue­lan wa­ters would be “on their own”.

“Af­ter the Prime Min­is­ter said that, most fish­er­men are not tak­ing the chance. They are stay­ing clos­er to home now,” Chick­urie said.

Solomon Smart, an­oth­er vet­er­an we found on the wa­ter, said the es­ca­la­tion be­tween the US and Venezuela has not “di­rect­ly” af­fect­ed him yet, but he ac­knowl­edged the lev­el of un­cer­tain­ty that ex­ists and re­mains ex­treme­ly cau­tious.

“If it does, then we have to look at oth­er ways to ply our trade,” he said. “Fish­er­men in the penin­su­la at times are al­ways un­der at­tack, be it from pi­rates or even the Venezue­lan Na­tion­al Guard. For now, I am ply­ing my trade, but I am not throw­ing away the wind of cau­tion.”

Ce­dros and its neigh­bour­ing coastal zones are no strangers to dan­ger. Fish­er­men here have re­port­ed armed board­ing of small boats, theft of catch, and some­times vi­o­lent con­fronta­tions.

While of­fi­cial sta­tis­tics, specif­i­cal­ly for pira­cy in Ce­dros, are sparse, re­gion­al se­cu­ri­ty re­ports and lo­cal tes­ti­monies in­di­cate a rise in mar­itime theft and “fast-boat” raids. Ce­dros, Ica­cos, and Moru­ga are of­ten men­tioned in me­dia ac­counts of such at­tacks.

One NDTV re­port not­ed that fish­er­men in Ce­dros have been held at gun- or knife-point by ar­riv­ing Venezue­lan pi­rates, with goods, some­times food and some­times more valu­able items, stolen or trad­ed.

Trinidad and To­ba­go’s strate­gic lo­ca­tion, just about 11 kilo­me­tres from Venezuela at some stretch­es, makes it an ide­al tran­sit point for drugs and firearms, as well as mi­grants.

Ac­cord­ing to a re­cent Unit­ed Na­tions re­port, strong cul­tur­al ties in south­ern Trinidad, in­clud­ing Ce­dros, Ica­cos, and Moru­ga, mean these ar­eas are heav­i­ly used in the traf­fick­ing of drugs, mi­grants, and guns.

Height­ened diplo­mat­ic ten­sions

Venezue­lans flee­ing eco­nom­ic col­lapse and po­lit­i­cal tur­moil con­tin­ue at­tempts to reach T&T, of­ten in small boats or pirogues land­ing at re­mote beach­es along the south-west­ern penin­su­la. By late 2023, an es­ti­mat­ed 44,800 mi­grants, refugees, and asy­lum seek­ers from Venezuela were liv­ing in T&T, the high­est per capi­ta in the Caribbean.

The re­cent US strikes form part of Pres­i­dent Trump’s re­newed push to clamp down on Venezue­lan-linked traf­fick­ing net­works across the Caribbean. US of­fi­cials have said the op­er­a­tions are in­tend­ed to “dis­rupt” nar­co-smug­gling routes, but re­gion­al lead­ers warn they may height­en risks for near­by states, in­clud­ing T&T, which shares one of the hemi­sphere’s clos­est mar­itime bor­ders with Venezuela.

These strikes have height­ened diplo­mat­ic ten­sions, but for fish­er­men in Ce­dros, the im­pact is more im­me­di­ate.

The T&T Gov­ern­ment has not con­demned the US ac­tion, but of­fi­cials pri­vate­ly ac­knowl­edge that uni­lat­er­al strikes so close to na­tion­al wa­ters raise sov­er­eign­ty ques­tions. “Any es­ca­la­tion in the Gulf must be treat­ed with cau­tion,” one se­nior se­cu­ri­ty source told Guardian Me­dia. “It may push crim­i­nal el­e­ments fur­ther in­to our wa­ters as they try to avoid de­tec­tion.”

The sea feels watched, its cus­tom­ary rhythms dis­rupt­ed. The sun re­flects off the sur­face in blind­ing streaks, and the faint tang of fu­el from pass­ing boats min­gles with the salt in the air.

Height­ened vig­i­lance the new nor­mal

In re­sponse to the mix of pira­cy, smug­gling, and mi­grant en­try, T&T’s Coast Guard has in­ten­si­fied its pres­ence along the south­west­ern penin­su­la. Vil­lagers re­port that the Coast Guard’s moth­er ves­sel is now seen more fre­quent­ly off Ce­dros, with small pa­trol craft sweep­ing from Moru­ga through Ce­dros and in­to the Gulf of Paria.

Guardian Me­dia ob­served these pa­trols in re­cent weeks, and fish­er­men said the stepped-up se­cu­ri­ty has had an ef­fect, with pi­rate at­tacks and smug­gling at­tempts ap­pear­ing to slow down.

Still, the new nor­mal is one of height­ened vig­i­lance. Chick­urie summed it up sim­ply. “At the end of the day, if you get your­self in trou­ble, you’re go­ing to end up in some­thing else. You have to make sure you’re safe.” Smart nod­ded in agree­ment.

These strikes il­lus­trate how glob­al geopol­i­tics can rip­ple in­to small com­mu­ni­ties.

For now, Ce­dros re­mains a qui­et fish­ing vil­lage, its co­conut trees sway­ing in the warm breeze, its boats mov­ing steadi­ly across the sun­lit wa­ters. The sun beats down on the fish­er­men’s backs, and the salty scent of the sea clings to their clothes.

But be­neath the bright calm, the com­mu­ni­ty is alert.

Every de­ci­sion—where to set nets, how far to go, when to turn back—car­ries greater weight than be­fore.

For the fish­er­men of Ce­dros, the dif­fer­ence be­tween a safe day and a dan­ger­ous one may be just a few lines on a radar screen or a sin­gle mis­judged course.