Three decades after it began, the Women of the Sea oyster cooperative is still thriving in the wetlands south of Puerto Pe�asco.

From the banks overlooking Mor�a Estuary on the outskirts of Puerto Pe�asco, Mexico, Francisca Luna gazes out at the rows of stacked trays anchored in mudflats to bolster the life cycle of oysters wrapped inside.

It's a balmy Saturday morning and Luna has just arrived at the open-air restaurant where she and other women sell the oysters they cultivate in the water. She squints in the bright sun as she tries to assess whether it is prime time to don her rubber boots and plunge into the lagoon. After brief contemplation, she decides to wait.

"The water is still high," she says, almost in a whisper.

Luna's sturdy frame slips past a ramada and into a narrow kitchen where her sister, Rosario Luna Javalera, shucks oysters over a big sink. Nearby, Francisca's daughter, Ang�lica Medina, chops onions and chile peppers. Luna dives into a supply basket to retrieve crackers, condiments, and napkins. The crew's daily ritual of preparing to serve the oysters nears completion.

"Let's hope for a good day, girls," Luna says, then rectifies. "It's going to be a good day."

The trio belongs to a women's cooperative that for three decades has farmed oysters in the estuary just a few miles south of the heart of the town known in English as Rocky Point, which is about 60 miles south of the U.S.-Mexico border. The women's enterprise is among the oldest oyster-farming ventures in Sonora, a leading producer of the shellfish. Pacific oysters (Crassostrea gigas) are the species most commonly produced in the state.

One of seven oyster farms in the region, the Women of the Sea cooperative has the distinction of being the first established by an all-female membership.

In Puerto Pe�asco, residents refer to the cooperative simply as Las Mujeres, or The Women. Luna is one of the original 118 members who staked out a place in the estuary back in the early 1980s, when the beach resort that hugs the Sea of Cortez was still an isolated fishing village few Americans had discovered.

Through the years, the back-breaking labor that is seeding, sorting, and cleaning oysters tested many members who chose to leave. Some left because of the unpredictable nature of trying to make a living growing oysters, others over apprehension about the staying power of the cooperative. The physical rigors of the job, which requires standing in water for hours at a time, also forced members out. Nowadays, six hardy women comprise the cooperative. Most rely on family members-including some males-to lend a helping hand.

"Growing oysters comes with many challenges," says Maria Isabel Cervantes, the president of the cooperative. "It's not for everybody."

In the beginning, oyster mortality posed the greatest threat; cultivating the bivalve mollusks is risky because they are vulnerable to natural forces. But the mid-1990s ushered in a boom in growth that began to transform the town into a coveted tourist destination. Pristine beaches and teeming fisheries beckoned vacationers from both sides of the border. The wetlands became increasingly attractive to developers as new luxury houses and resorts took shape all around.

Sitting behind the wheel of her work truck one early afternoon, the soft-spoken Cervantes is not in the mood to recall legal battles waged to defend the women's livelihood. She would rather talk about how the women are working to boost oyster production and obtain organic certification from the government. Someday, she says, the cooperative would like to export oysters to the United States.

From her vantage point on the shoreline, Cervantes points toward a wooden structure that stands half-built next to the restaurant up above. When completed, it will serve as a lab where the women will grow their own oyster seed, or larvae. The idea is to reduce the millions they buy from hatcheries each year to stock their operation.

"We will start small and, little by little, add more of the seeds we raise ourselves," she adds.

All the women will be trained to handle the lab work, while continuing to care for oysters in the trays that stay in the water for months at a time, feeding on plankton and algae as they grow.

Luna was in her mid-20s when she attended the first workshop on cultivating oysters after a friend told her about the nascent cooperative. She was an unemployed, single mother who had moved to Puerto Pe�asco from Sinaloa state after the death of her husband.

Luna knew little about oyster farming, but she quickly seized on the new opportunity and set out to learn the trade.

"It's intense labor," she says. "But I'm grateful I came across the cooperative when I needed a job the most."

Though her earnings are unpredictable because they depend on a variable rate of oyster mortality each season, Luna says she makes enough to raise her family's standard of living and put two of her four children-three girls and a boy-through college. Luna's second-oldest daughter chose to work alongside her mother and aunt.

The job has allowed Luna to be her own boss and, when her children were growing up, to bring them along to work and keep watch over them.

Compared to more than 30 years ago, when Luna and the other women farmed oysters without running water, the operation has come a long way, she says, wiping down kitchen counters before heading outside again. She jumps into her pick-up truck and drives to a shack overflowing with old boxes, foam squares, and plastic trays. Before she owned a car, Luna and her kids often slept in the darkened, closet-sized dwelling because transportation in and out of the estuary was hard to find.

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