THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, October 3, 1994 TAG: 9409300465
SECTION: BUSINESS WEEKLY PAGE: 8 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY PEGGY SUSWERDA, SPECIAL TO BUSINESS WEEKLY
DATELINE: VIRGINIA BEACH LENGTH: Medium: 99 lines
Ask people around here where they're from, and you'll likely hear New York, Ohio, Washington or some other out-of-town locale. Ask fisherman Marshall Belanga where he's from, and he says, ``Italy.''
``My family settled in North Carolina,'' Belanga said, ``then moved up here to Virginia after the king granted us some land.''
The king?
His brown eyes twinkled. ``Back in the 1700s,'' he said with obvious pride. ``We were among the first settlers in the county.''
Welcome to a story about modern business practiced by a waterman who remembers the old ways.
Belanga is one of a dying breed of independent fishermen who make a living from the sea. He's fished the waters of Back Bay, Currituck Sound and the Atlantic since the 1930s, and his father and grandfather fished before that.
Now Belanga and his brother, Marvin, run the family business, a shop on Sandbridge Road that stocks their catch of croaker, spot and other seafood.
``It's my livelihood,'' he said. But he's quick to tell you that times have changed.
``It's not profitable anymore, and it's too much bureaucratic junk,'' he said, his eyes darkening like the sky at dusk. ``There's no more enjoyment to it.''
Leaning against a wooden counter where he's cleaned countless fish, Belanga recently held court in his ramshackle retail shop on Sandbridge Road. He's judge and jury when it comes to analyzing what's happened to the fishing industry.
Belanga reached his rough, calloused hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a red plastic card that says: Commercial Registration License, Marshall Belanga. ``Everyone that fishes has to have a number and a red card,'' he explained.
Gone are the days when the sea gave up her bounty to amateurs and commercial fishermen alike. Now it's different for the watermen.
First, you put up your money to get a harvester's license. Then you have to wait two years to fish, Belanga said, shrugging. Not many people are willing to wait two years to go into the fishing business.
``The industry has dwindled so that there are very few of us left,'' he said.
Regulation of commercial fishing extends beyond licensing. Wildlife management affects a fisherman's bottom line as well. Belanga rakes the management techniques of the Game and Fisheries Department.
``The state and the city killed off Back Bay when they cut off the saltwater,'' he said, referring to the decision to shut down the Sandbridge pumping station, which carried ocean water to Back Bay. ``We had fantastic fishing prior to that time.''
Belanga blames the recent demise of crabs on the government's efforts to protect the striped bass. Under protection, he said, the striped bass has proliferated to the point that it's decimating the crab population. He tells of a dead bass he found in one of his crab pots.
``I slit him open before throwing him back, and there were 10 or 12 baby crabs in him,'' he said. ``You multiply that times all the striped bass. . . '' Marshall doesn't finish. He's made his point.
``I think man truly interferes too much. They don't truly know what they're doing.''
His lilting voice echoes that of his ancestors. It has a musical quality, incongruous with his sometimes harsh accusations against those who would control nature.
``I like fishing, but I don't like it that when you fish, there's a law onto it,'' he said.
The screen door slammed. A customer entered the shop. ``Got any crabs?''
``No,'' Belanga answered. ``We've had a very poor year this year and last. I haven't had more than one to four bushels nary a day all season.''
The customer left, the screen door slammed and outside the sign by the road stayed put, announcing LIVE CRABS in bold red letters. With his faded black cap perched upon his weathered face and a corncob pipe fitting into a pocket in his teeth, the fisherman hinted at why he doesn't remove the sign.
``I enjoy people,'' Belanga said. ``There are many people down here that come here year after year, even the tourists. It's like a family thing.''
Belanga pronounces a using the long vowel sound. But don't call his manner of speaking an accent. He'll be quick to say, ``I think all you people have an accent.'' But he does like to talk. He turns to the cycles of nature.
You just look at the water, and if you see fish, you go fishing. But you don't see fish no more, '' Belanga said glumly.
He blames more than the meddlesome ways of civilization. Looking back, he said, ``It's gone from good days for 10 or 20 years to now - it's basically dried up. The '60s, '70s and early '80s was the peak of the up cycle onto your fish. In the late '40s and '50s we had a down cycle. From the bottom to the top is 30 years.''
Belanga paused to light his pipe. Despite all the bureaucratic junk, the lure of fishing is still in him.
``My dad told me long ago if I see an up cycle as a young man, I'll see it again as an old man.'' He smiled. ``I'm hoping to see another up cycle.'' ILLUSTRATION: [Color Photo]
D. KEVIN ELLIOTT
Marshall Belanga, above, in his Sandbridge Road business
by CNB