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The evening was falling over the dark rocks of the north when the shoreline fishermen approached. A thick fishing line wound around a piece of cork, with a sizable hook, was the system used to try to catch moray eels and conger eels—sea predators that, in those years of scarcity, served to make fish soup.

To increase the chances of catching something, besides casting the baited hook in a suitable place and tying the line firmly to the ground, they also poured into the sea a liquid filled with blood and fish remains. Species that live by preying on others have keen senses to detect where there may be potential food—such as a wounded prey.

Indeed, moray eels, like sharks, are attracted to wounds and are more likely to approach places where blood can be detected in the water.

A similar analogy applies to the financial dealings of human beings. When there is a scent of easy, fast profits, the economic sharks soon appear—and they tend to be much more dangerous. Those of the sea prey to survive; those on land live to prey.

When public authorities promote urban deregulation, when they announce “simplification” measures that are in fact about removing protection, it is as if the shoreline fishermen were pouring bloody water into the sea. It attracts predators.

If there are swimming pools that consume large amounts of water because they are almost entirely renewed every day, but that were originally approved as systems for collecting rainwater and treated water, we are facing a double breach: unauthorized construction (urban infraction) and excessive water use (environmental infraction).

If in the end those pools are legalized and the initial fine is reduced to almost nothing, we are spilling bloody liquid into the environment — spreading the feeling that this is a good place for quick-profit deceit.

Creating laws that allow illegal buildings to be legalized and then greatly increase their value is secreting the very substance that drives further fraudulent real-estate operations in rural areas, disguised as something else.

At the first light of dawn, the fishermen came to collect the gear they had left in the water. There was a natural stillness, broken only by some pigeons stirring in the coastal caves.

On many of the lines, large moray eels were hooked, writhing vigorously as the hook pulled them from the sea and from life. There were also a few conger eels — dark and elegant. The baits and the reddish liquid poured into the water had served their intended purpose.

The shoreline fishermen of those times fished to eat. The catches were shared among families, who then had to deal with an animal full of internal bones.

In the 21st century, houses are no longer within reach of Menorcans, nor are moorings. The money that moves goes into a few pockets. Attracting land sharks to an island like Menorca is a deep strategic mistake. In the end, they bite the resident population.

 

(This text is an adaptation of the original article published by Miquel Camps, as coordinator of territorial policy for the GOB, in the Menorca newspaper on 10/11/2025).