At the edge of Madolenihmw, Pohnpei — part of the Federated States of Micronesia — where the Pacific’s breath meets the shore, the water hums an eternal rhythm of tides, nets, and fishing lines. For 35,000 people here, the ocean is life: the source of food, income, and cultural identity. Throughout the years, overfishing has depleted wild stocks; rising sea temperatures have triggered mass coral bleaching, and coastal erosion is swallowing traditional fishing grounds. Yet, in the heart of this crisis, the ocean still whispers through the lives of those who listen — like Maylane and Jessie Santiago, a couple whose hands are woven into its story.
The alchemy in partnership
Jessie Santiago is a man shaped by the sea. For decades, he ventured into the lagoon at dawn, returning with whatever the day allowed. But overfishing and climate shifts have left wild stocks depleted. "Ten years ago, you could throw a net and pull up dinner," he reflects. "Now, you throw a net and pray."
Into this silence stepped Maylane, his wife, whose inspiration was both practical and audacious. "My father-in-law was sick," she recalls. "He wanted fish, but it was hard to go fishing afar. So, I thought, why not bring the fish to us?" In a region where women rarely lead aquaculture, Maylane became one of Pohnpei’s first to dive into rabbitfish farming. Her journey was supported by the Micronesian Community-based Fisheries Management as NbS for Coastal Resilience project (MiCOAST), funded by the Kiwa Initiative: "I didn’t know anything," she admits, "but I learned. And now, I can teach."
Jessie, the fisherman with a comedian’s timing, defers to Maylane’s organizational skills. "She’s the boss," he jokes, though pride rings in his voice. Together, they can now feed their family. Their farm has become a nursery for baby rabbitfish, distributed to new farmers. "It’s not just about us anymore," Jessie says. "It’s about the whole community."
A community in transformation
For generations, fish has been central to Micronesian life, not just for daily meals, but for traditional ceremonies. In Pohnpei, sharing fish on the third day of a burial is a customary way to honor the deceased and foster community solidarity. Maylane and Jessie’s farm now provides fish for these rituals, ensuring cultural continuity. "Before, we had to buy fish for ceremonies," Maylane explains. "Now, we give it."
Their venture is a family affair. Their children feed the fish before school, learning responsibility and safety. "They don’t have to put themselves at risk by fishing in the wild," Maylane says. "This is sustainable."
At dusk, the Santiagos’ cages glow gold in the fading light. The fish stir, their movements a whisper of the ocean’s old abundance. Maylane laughs as she scolds Jessie for splashing her; he retaliates by tossing a handful of feed into the water, sending the rabbitfish into a frenzy. Their children watch; their faces alight with the kind of wonder that comes from knowing the future is not something to fear anymore, but something to build.
