Untouched by the beauty of first light, Ucafian reached behind him and felt for his calcal, the traditional red net used by caballito fishermen. It was a few metres long and tipped with hooks of varying sizes. He inspected the closely woven mesh, squatting upright on his little reed boat. There were no seats inside a caballito - you had to straddle the boat or crouch on top – but there was plenty of space at the stern for stowing nets and other equipment. Ucañan balanced his paddle diagonally in front of him. Traditional paddles made of split guayaquil cane had fallen out of use elsewhere in Peru. His belonged to his father, and Juan Narciso had brought it with him so the old man would sense the energy with which he thrust it through the water. Every evening since his father had fallen ill he had laid the paddle alongside him, placing his right hand over it, so that the old man could feel it was still there – the ancient tradition and the core of his life.

He hoped his father knew what he was holding: he no longer recognised his son.

Ucafian finished inspecting the calcal. He had already looked it over on dry land, but nets were precious and worth the extra attention. Its loss would mean the end for him. He might have been defeated in the bidding war for the Pacific's remaining riches, but he had no intention of jeopardising what was left to him with sloppiness or by turning to drink. He couldn't bear the crashed look on the faces of those fishermen who had left their boats and nets to rot. Ucafian knew it would kill him if he were to glimpse it on himself.

He glanced around. The flotilla that had set sail with him that morning had spread out in both directions, now more than a kilometre from the shore. For once the little ponies weren't bobbing up and down: the water was almost perfectly still. Over the next few hours the fishermen would sit and wait, some patiently, others with resignation. In time they were joined by a few other boats – larger craft made of wood – while a trawler motored past, heading out to sea.

Ucañan watched as the men and women lowered their nets into the water, securing them to their boats with rope. He hesitated. The round red buoys drifted on the surface, shining brightly in the sunshine. He knew he should get started, but instead he thought of the last few days' fishing.

A few sardines were all he'd caught.

He watched the trawler disappear into the distance. El Niño had paid them a visit this winter too, but it had been harmless by comparison. There was another side to El Niño when it was like that – a brighter, friendlier one. Normally the Humboldt Current was too cold for the yellowfin tuna and hammerhead sharks, but warmer water would lure them in, guaranteeing a Christmas feast. Of course, the smaller fish all ended up in the bellies of the big ones rather than in the fishermen's nets, but you couldn't have it all. Anyone who ventured out a bit further on a day like today stood a good chance of bringing home a nice fat specimen.

Idle thoughts. Caballitos couldn't go that far. As a group they sometimes ventured ten kilometres from shore – there was safety in numbers. The little reed ponies had no trouble coping with the swell: they rode on the crest of the waves. The real problem was the current. In rough conditions, when the wind was blowing out to sea, you needed good muscles to get your vessel back to shore.

Some fishermen didn't make it.

Ucañan crouched stock-still on the woven reed of his boat. His back was straight. They'd begun their vigil at daybreak, but the shoals wouldn't come today either. He scanned the horizon for the trawler. At one time it would have been easy for him to get work on a big ship or in one of the fishmeal factories, but not any more. After the catastrophic El Niños at the end of the 1990s, even the factory workers had lost their jobs. The big shoals of sardines had never returned.

And he couldn't afford to go another day without catching anything.

You could teach the señoritas how to surf.

That was the alternative. A job in one of the numerous hotels that loomed above Huanchaco, making the old town cower beneath their shadows. He could go fishing for tourists. Wear a ridiculous cropped jacket. Mix cocktails. Entertain spoilt American women on surfboards or waterskis… and later in bed.

But the day that Juan Narciso cut his ties with the past would be his father's last. The old man had lost his reason, but he would still know if his youngest son broke the faith.

Ucañan's fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles blanched. He seized his paddle and started to follow in the wake of the trawler, paddling with all his strength, his movements violent and jerky. With every stroke of the paddle he moved further away from his comrades. He was making rapid progress. He knew that today he had nothing to worry about – no vast breakers would appear from nowhere, no treacherous currents, no powerful north-westerlies to hinder his return. If he didn't risk it now, he never would. There were plenty of tuna, bonito and mackerel in the deeper waters, and they weren't just there for the trawlers.

After a while he stopped. Huanchaco, with its rows of tightly packed houses, looked smaller, and all around him there was nothing but water. He'd left the flotilla far behind.

'There was a desert here once,' his father had told him, 'the desert plains. Now we've got two deserts – the plains and the ocean beside them. We're desert-dwellers threatened by rain.'

He was still too close to shore.

As he powered through the water some of his old confidence returned. It was an almost exhilarating sensation. He imagined riding his little pony right out to sea, paddling on and on until he saw glints of silver darting through the water, catching the sunshine in shimmering cascades. The grey humps of whales would appear above the surface and swordfish would leap through the air. His paddle splashed rhythmically, taking him further and further from the stench of corruption in the town. His arms moved almost of their own accord now, and when he finally set down his paddle and looked back at the fishing village, it was just a squat silhouette surrounded by of white specks, the curse of modern Peru: the hotels.

Ucañan started to feel anxious. He'd never been so far out on a cabaUito. It was hard to tell in the early-morning haze, but he was at least twelve kilometres from Huanchaco.

He was on his own.

For a moment he was still. Silently he petitioned St Peter to bring him home safely with a boat full of fish. Then he filled his lungs with the salty air, pulled out his calcal and let it slip into the water. Gradually the web of net and hooks disappeared into the glassy depths until only the little red buoy was visible, floating alongside the boat.

What had he been worrying about? It was a fine day and, besides, Ucañan knew exactly where he was. Not far from here a jagged range of fossilised white lava rose up from the seabed, almost to the surface. Sea anemones, mussels and crabs had made it their home, while countless little fish inhabited its chasms and hollows. Some of the bigger fish came there to hunt, but it was too dangerous for the trawlers: they might rupture their hulls on the sharp peaks of rock. In any case, they were after bigger catches. But for a daring fisherman astride his cabaUito there was more than enough.

For the first time that morning Ucañan smiled. His boat swayed back and forth on the swell. Out here, far from the coast, the waves were bigger, but he was comfortable on his raft of reeds. He stretched out his arms and squinted at the sun as it cast its pale yellow light over the mountains. Then he picked up his paddle and, with a few quick strokes, steered the caballito into the current. He squatted and prepared to spend the next few hours watching the buoy as it bobbed up and down not far from the boat.