Back on the shore, Don Lupe puts on white rubber boots and a leather glove and starts pulling the fish out from the openings in the net, using an awl that he keeps on a string around his neck to help him. One at a time, he pulls out the carcasses of several dozen dark fish and hurls them back into the lagoon. "Devil fish," he explains.
The peje lies stomach-up in the net. Don Lupe holds up the fish, still wrapped in a web of nylon strings. It weighs "a kilo and a half," he says.
He pauses, pulling the strands of the net over the fish's slimy red fins, looking at the peje's rough scales and alligator mouth. The fish is still and its sharp teeth are clamped shut. "Sometimes they really move when they are in the boat," Don Lupe says. "A big pejelargarto is so dangerous it can hurt your stomach. One bit me in the leg... it really hurt," he adds.
He slips a long strip of tree bark into the fish's gill and hangs it over a tree branch. A man named Moses in an orange t-shirt walks by, "how lucky you are to find one, and such a beautiful one," he comments. "Will you sell it?" he asks Don Lupe.
"Well yeah," Don Lupe says.
"How much does it weigh?" Moses asks.
"More than a kilo," Don Lupe responds.
The vendors in the city will pay him 50 pesos for it, about four U.S. dollars. Until fish farms start winning over consumers, Don Lupe and his peers will continue to serve as the sole suppliers for the Pino Suarez market. The peje, so important to Tabasco's culture and so woefully unable to fight off attackers, will continue to try and fend for itself.
Don Lupe sits on the side of his skiff and nods at his catch for the day. "I thought there weren't any big ones [now]. It's a rarity," he says.
Meanwhile, "El Peje," Lopez Obrador, continues to contest the election results and fight for his place in Mexico's history.
"He's still a tough guy. He still might get to triumph. Anything's possible," Don Lupe says. Smiling, he lets out a slow, quiet laugh.