Adrift…

Sailing to the sea of cortez

He saw the fish rise, corkscrewing out of the water, it’s side flashing in the long light. Jack seized the handline, feeling the pull against his calloused palms as the fish thrashed against the hook.  He could feel the fight in it, connected to its wild being, as it dove beneath the sea. 

He kept a wide stance, leaning back against the mizzen, taking in what he could, letting it run, tiring the fish and bringing it closer and closer as it thrashed and dove.  He watched as it broke the scintillating surface of the water, flashing vibrant gold and blue and silver, then diving again into its element, taking refuge under the waves.  When it fought he would take a turn around the deck winch, his arms burning, his hands cut by the line, letting it run when it ran and taking it back in when it slacked.

The connection grounded him in the present, alive with anticipation and suffering.  He could see it clearly now: Dorado as it was known on this coast.  Bull-headed, sharp sleek, fast and agile as it cut through the water.

 Careful not to lose it, he worked the line as the fish tired and brought it alongside, then sank the gaff into its side and hauled it aboard.  It lay with his hand upon its cold body as it thrashed against the red-hued decks, unwilling to give up its life.  Jack held his thumb over the eye to calm it, then drew his knife from his belt and slit the gills, spilling blood across the wooden grain of the decks as the Dorado slapped its body and tail against the wood in death throes.  The golden brilliance of it began to fade, changing before his eyes, fading into a green and blue, then to a dull and cold silver. 

No other death that he had witnessed was so dark in the display of life  passing into cold lifeless matter.  The wounded became the wound.  The act of harvesting one’s own sustenance was, in itself, a trauma.

29 Jan 2026