Salt-Life and Death
By: George Randall
Tags: Addiction, Grief And Loss, Short Story, Fiction, Fishing

Photo by Kurniawan kami saputra on Unsplash

I was in my world. The sun was behind me, not yet over the trees, but still, it was warm enough for shorts and mesh water-shoes. The water was cool on my toes as I waded along the shore. I would play top predator this morning.

The cast net puffed itself outward as I opened the small case, which usually restrained its constant urge to expand. Holding the top I shook and spread the weights to ensure it was ready to fly and spread across the water. I pulled the ring-cord from the bottom and placed it in my teeth — perhaps this was a remnant of learning as a boy. It helped to make a perfect circle as I spun like a discus thrower and tossed it aloft. Tiny ripples, vee’s cutting across the surface, and instinct told me where to throw. The water splashed in shock as the net hit the surface and plunged rapidly downward.

I pulled the net rapidly onto the shore, alert for the silvery glints of struggling fish or the snapping curls of shrimp. Definitely a few fish. I pulled the net from the center releasing the central cord and the spider web of lines holding up the weights. Too small. Too small. Well, a little on the big side…but then again, big fish like big bait. I put only the largest into my bait bucket and filled it with water, but it was going to be a short reprieve. I tossed the smaller fish back and grabbed my fishing pole.

I tried to remember I was a predator, and the way of nature is to eat those below on the pyramid as I inserted the hook through the back of the fish, between its dorsal fin and its spine. It shook in an effort to escape but it was powerless in my grip. With minimal jerky acceleration, I cast my rod, releasing the line and watching the fish fly through the air and splash down into the water.

I felt its efforts to swim away but the weight pulled it to the floor of the canal. It was like a sheep tied to a tree struggling against a rope to entice the tiger. I detected the small tugs of its attempts to propel itself away from its anchor, but it could not, nor did it understand its role in the cycle.

Patience. A zen-like attention was required. I ignored the water and the trees. I didn’t hear the boats or feel the warmth on my bare shoulders as I sat like a statue. My center of attention was focused on just the tip of my right index finger waiting for a tug beyond the threshold of the bait’s tail force.

And there it was, a strong sharp pull indicating I had moved up the pyramid. I set the hook with a confident, limited jerk. The rod bent satisfyingly towards the water, like a divining rod pulled towards some yet to be discovered treasure.

The fish fought me, to the best of its abilities. In fact, the force of its struggles prodded my imagination towards a much larger catch than it turned out to be.

It was a catfish. Its body apparently too small for the prey I presumed it had swallowed. Its mouth was large enough, and apparently it had an appetite beyond what it could handle.

I carefully picked it up by the hook, waiting for its struggles to ebb as the knowledge of its unchangeable fate entered its primitive brain. It’s soft white belly was smooth as my fingers encircled it, a side fin slipping between my fingers. My thumb and middle finger did not quite meet just below the dorsal fin.

There was no sign of the bait. Perhaps it escaped, or perhaps it was down the gullet. I removed the hook as carefully as I could and put the fish back into the shallow water. I wasn’t fishing for catfish — I guess that too was a bias from my youth. Freshwater catfish were a tasty treat, but saltwater? I’d always thrown them back and today was no different.

Curiously, the fish didn’t swim away as was typical. In fact, it swam towards me nearly beaching itself as it approached my foot. It seemed to roll a bit on its side, showing me the vulnerable underbelly. Its dangerous dorsal fin tilted away as if pleading for help and promising it wouldn’t attack. But catfish can’t be fully trusted. Instincts are powerful — they feed on refuse and the weak, and they mate — that’s it. And when threatened, their weapons are dangerous.

I remembered the time I drove over the severed head of a catfish dropped by a hawk from its nest. I realized quickly that my tire had become flat. When I got out of the car and looked I saw the gruesome face looking at me, with its dorsal fin driven through the steel-belted radial in one last act of defiance against the niceties of modern life. The hole couldn’t even be plugged.

Back in the moment, I nudged the fish with the base of my fishing pole and moved it into the water. It seemed to resist, like the gulps of air were a drug to which it was instantly addicted even though continuing to consume it would be fatal. Its mouth opened and closed as if talking to me in mute protest. Why did I have the life I had while it lurked in the depths, kept in darkness and constant danger?

“Go on. You’re going to die if you keep this up.” I pushed it more firmly back into the water and it resumed breathing normally, perhaps the near death experience had finally sunk in and it could enjoy its own life.

I had lost interest in fishing anymore and just sat on the bank watching the water — in this moment as an interested friend to this aquatic world, and not the top predator intent on understanding merely for exploitation.

To my surprise, the catfish had stayed in the shallow edges of the canal where it was completely visible to all. Normally they are only seen when brought up from the depths by some tempting morsel with a hook hidden within. It occurred to me that perhaps it was hungry and tired — perhaps the bait did escape.

I had brought down some old, stinky, frozen shrimp just in case I was unable to catch anything with my net, so I pulled out a few small shrimp and tossed them in the direction of the catfish. At first, it swam away from the splash, its first instinct to flee, but the smell of the shrimp apparently overcame any concern and they soon disappeared into its maw. I tossed a few more and realized it was getting hot and I would likely get sunburned if I continued. I packed up and returned to the house.