“When the wind blows right, you can smell the sea before you even see it.”
That’s what old Mat always says.
Every morning, before the sun spills gold across the rippling Kemaman River, Mat stands on the dilapidated wooden jetty in Chukai, his weathered hands resting on a post that’s more splinter than wood. The jetty groans beneath him—a tired old skeleton reaching into the tides. Behind him, the small town stretches in silence, still wrapped in mist, with coconut trees swaying gently and the sleepy roofs of kampung houses poking through like curious turtles.
The boats are lined up like patient beasts of burden—chipped paint, patched engines, names written in faded strokes. But they are loved, and they are ready. Chukai is like that too—quiet, resilient, worn by time and salt, but beautiful still in its stubborn strength.
The sea opens up beyond the river mouth like a promise. But for the fishers of Chukai, that promise has become harder to believe.
In the old days, Mat remembers, the sea gave back generously. The bubu traps—woven with care and handed down through generations—would come up full. Enough for food, enough to sell, enough to dream. The market would bustle, and even the air felt warmer with laughter and plans.
But things are different now. Unlicensed trawlers, hulking and hungry, sweep the waters like thieves in the night. They tear through the seabed and through the traps, leaving destruction in their wake. Each time Mat hauls in a broken bubu, it feels like a little more of his past has unraveled.
Fuel prices rise like the tide, creeping higher each month. Wages go the other way—uncertain, shrinking, vanishing. And still, the jetty stands, leaning further with every storm, yet never fully falling. Like the men who stand upon it.
The fishermen don’t speak much about hope. Not directly. But you can hear it in how they patch their nets. In how they take turns fixing one another’s boats, or how they quietly offer half their catch to a neighbour who had none that day.
Mat’s son, Nik, talks about building a new jetty—with the community, not with waiting hands. He dreams of a day when they can push back the trawlers with law, not just luck. Of a small cooperative store with fair prices and honest books. Of teaching the children not just to fish, but to understand the sea as something sacred.
“It’s not just survival,” Nik says. “It’s dignity.”
And sometimes, in the evening, when the sky over Chukai turns soft with orange and purple, and the river reflects it all like a painting, the fishers gather with tea in their hands and stories in their hearts. The breeze carries the scent of grilled ikan bakar and the rhythmic lapping of water against the stilts. There’s music, faint and warm—laughter too. Life, after all, persists.
But there’s a lesson whispered in their struggle.
Hope, yes. Always hope. But not the kind that waits for someone else to solve everything. Not the kind fed only by subsidies or announcements on paper.
Because when help comes, it should lift—not carry. And when support is offered, it should build—not bind.
The people of Chukai know this. Their hands are strong not just from nets and ropes, but from building a future that won’t crumble like the jetty beneath them.
So the story of Chukai is not just about fish or struggle.
It’s about a place where the sea sings in the morning,
Where the people bend but don’t break,
Where hope floats—not in waiting, but in doing.
And one day, perhaps, the jetty will stand tall again—rebuilt not by promises, but by the very hands that refused to give up.
