Women of the sea make their mark in Argentine Patagonia

Women of the sea make their mark in Argentine Patagonia In the South Atlantic, one of the richest corners of the world in variety and abundance of marine resources, fisherwomen and shellfish gatherers forge a silent but constant path, challenging the inequalities of the sector Jazmín Defrancesco often has her nails sculpted so she can better pluck mussels from the seabed . Neat and colorful, the painted sheets help protect her hands from the sharp edges of shells that refuse to be removed. At Larralde Beach, in Chubut province in the Atlantic Patagonia, she sets out daily, like other fishermen, at high tide, and returns when the day’s harvest is exhausted.

Meters underwater, she will fill crates that her father Eduardo, on deck, tirelessly raises and rearranges. Like her cousin Anahí, Defrancesco, 30, is one of the few female divers among the shellfish collectors of the San Jorge Gulf. It’s not easy, the two cousins agree.



But it’s a lifestyle they’re committed to. “Women have always been there,” says Paula Ibarrola, a Patagonian researcher who has focused on them in a world where men have traditionally dominated. The sociologist explains that, in the past, it was common to see them caring for children or in other stages of production, such as preparing nets or cleaning the harvested product.

But today, they also venture into the sea. Although studies on the presence of female fishers emerged toward the end of the 20th century, this is a male-dominated world, and statistics are difficult to access, as these tend to unify fishing with agriculture and livestock. According to the FAO 2024 report, women represent 24% of the total global fishing workforce.

Furthermore, the World Bank records that women represent approximately 50% of the workforce in the fishing sector, but in maritime activity, this figure drops to just 2%. In Argentina, the overall wage gap between men and women is 25%. There’s one sector in particular where women have been most active: shellfish harvesting .

There, they “work side by side,” says Ibarrola. This is the case with Anahí Defrancesco. Diving for shellfish at Larralde Beach, on the Valdés Peninsula, might sound like something out of a movie: going out in a boat, dodging the waves, using the hookah that allows air to flow underwater, and, while harvesting mussels or scallops, coming across a dolphin or a whale.

The harshness of the trade comes from the winters of southern Argentina. “I always say I’m privileged to be where I am and to do what I do, but I say that when I dive for two hours and the day is crystal clear, gorgeous, and beautiful,” she says. “When I dive for six hours and the day is horrible, there’s a strong current, and I’m freezing to death.

I tend to say: ‘This isn’t so much for the privileged.’” From the age of 15, Defrancesco, now 36, turned her passion for the sea into a job. She particularly remembers the day her brothers, Gastón and Matías, were diving and teaching her the techniques for picking scallops and mussels, how to do it faster, and how to perform better.

“It’s pretty epic that they passed on that wisdom to me, which also took up their time, instead of leaving me to tough it out on my own,” she says. Despite their good rapport, she acknowledges that there’s a lot of sexism at sea and that, sometimes, colleagues can feel overshadowed by the performance of women. Paola Signorelli also learned how to catch octopus from her family: how to use the hook, how to look for the right light, and how to know where to find it.

The 42-year-old lives in Puerto Madryn and gets up early to scour the coasts in search of large octopuses. Further north, in the San Matías Gulf, near the idyllic beaches of Las Grutas and San Antonio Oeste, other octopus collectors also perform the same task. Her mother came from there, spending her nights on the beach to enjoy the first rays of the sun in search of sustenance, and she taught her what she knows today.

Signorelli’s story resonates in Vigo, Spain. In Galicia , they highlight the origins of this task, which became a southern tradition, and the strong role the activity played long before among the Indigenous communities of South America. This is how the migrant past and the Indigenous identity of the women of the fishing industry merge.

Further south, in the town of Camarones, another woman is making her mark: Carola Puracchio. Born and raised by the sea, where she collects seaweed, this chef recreates the spirit of marine cuisine. As a child, she accompanied her grandfather to collect what the current brought.

Today, she has fused her passions into A-MAR, a culinary project that puts seaweed at the center of the menu . “They are a super-nutritious food, loaded with vitamins, proteins, and nutrients, with numerous benefits,” she explains. “There is a great variety in our sea, and many of them are suitable for human consumption.

” Among her dishes, she mentions the pickled wakame, an invasive seaweed that displaced the native macrosistis. “The beauty of having the sea in front of us is that it allows us to use it in its natural, very fresh state,” she explains. She literally means it: her backyard overlooks the beach.

In fish processing plants, the female presence is also important. In Puerto Madryn, Rawson, and other towns, women are usually the ones who sort shrimp and place them in the two-kilo boxes that later ship worldwide. These places are full of workers like Mariana Fernández, 45.

With her work clothes stained orange from hours of handling shrimp, she skillfully separates the large, whole ones on a table and arranges them. She only pauses for a second to tell her story, which is that of many others: women who came from other places, accompanying their husbands, and who later separated and found connections with their colleagues at work. Furthermore, they value the work in the fishing industry because it gives them financial independence.

Despite the long, tiring days and little time to go out, Fernández says that there, during breaks, sisterhood is present. However, women still bear the burden of caregiving and face the loneliness that comes when their partners head out to sea for days, sometimes weeks at a time. It’s a dynamic similar to that of oil families who also settle in Patagonia — men arriving from elsewhere in search of good wages, and families migrating with them, forced to navigate the dislocation.

Lorena Rossi is a psychologist married to a maritime agent who works in the fishing industry. She came to Rawson and to this world through him, and treats many women and men in the sector. She herself knows the challenges of families accustomed to the comings and goings of ships.

“There are no schedules. The ships come in with the tide, and it can be late at night,” she says. What she hears in her office has similar nuances: the pay is better, but the price is high: raising children alone, enduring the anguish, because the sea always has the last word.

“They continue working without giving it a second thought, but their families’ fears remain on land.” Sign up for our weekly newsletter to get more English-language news coverage from EL PAÍS USA Edition Tu suscripción se está usando en otro dispositivo ¿Quieres añadir otro usuario a tu suscripción? Si continúas leyendo en este dispositivo, no se podrá leer en el otro. ¿Por qué estás viendo esto? Tu suscripción se está usando en otro dispositivo y solo puedes acceder a EL PAÍS desde un dispositivo a la vez.

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