For four months I spent my early mornings on the river with a handful of men who still fish the Tagus the old way: small wooden boats, hand-pulled nets, coffee from a thermos at five in the morning.

The first weeks I barely lifted the camera. I carried crates, learned the knots badly and listened. By December they stopped noticing me, which is the only moment documentary work really begins.

What changes when you stay

Staying long means seeing the same scene fifty times. The pictures that matter are rarely the dramatic ones. They are the small repetitions — the same hands on the same rope, a little colder each week.

The story was published in October with a short film. A selection of prints is available in the shop.