I know that my friend, Roger Gump, is a rare boat builder, who even made the carbon fiber mast for his 40’ TRAVELLER. I did not know that he is so talented a writer until I got ‘The Fish’ from him in an email this morning. I actually Googled to discover who wrote it. Well he did, and I would have been proud to have done so. In a subsequent email, Roger sent me the above photo simply captioned “said fish.”
The Fish
I am a reluctant fisherman.
Reluctance as an activity is confusing.
While I steer White Cap over the Sea of Abaco in a fresh breeze,
Doron is fishing with my pole and lure.
I am sailing.
He is fishing.
I’d rather we not catch a fish, but we do.
When the fish hits the drag sings.
Doron is excited.
I am excited for him.
He commands me to furl the jib and luff the main.
The rod and Doron are under strain.
It is a big fish fighting for its life
under trade wind clouds and blue sky.
I am the fish
Fighting a 10 ton boat and a 6’ foot man
I am surprised that in my entire life of swimming and hunting in these waters
that I am hooked!
I am afraid.
I am straining against the hook.
It jars my mouth open as I fight to get free
to go back home.
Doron pulls the rod tip back and laughs with joy.
Others are watching me as I am dragged away from my life,
from the swimming sea
and everything I know about how to survive.
I am not surviving.
Doron orders me to get the gaff.
I have never gaffed a fish, but I get the gaff.
As I rise into the air hanging and swinging by a hook
I feel the gaff slice into my side and blood runs all over me
and onto the deck.
Doron throws a bucket of water over the beautiful red, gray and blue body of the Mutton Snapper.
I fall off under the main and steer for Black Sound.
My sight is leaving me.
I can smell them.
I can smell my blood.
I don’t know where I am going.
I lean over from the wheel and touch the beautiful fish.
He does not move.
Doron throws a bucket of water on the fish to clean the blood.
I feel the water and try to swim flopping on the deck
gasping for it.
I want it.
It is not enough.
As we sail back we delight in discussion of how we will prepare the fish.
We might fry or steam it with potatoes and onions.
Just butter and salt and pepper.
The beautiful red color that is me fades.
I can’t smell my blood.
I can’t find my will.
Doron showed me how to clean the fish very thoroughly.
He strives to eat everything he can.
A thorough cleaning and eating is our moral equivalence
to honor the life of the fish.
The knife is very sharp.
We look in his guts and see he was eating crabs.
We will bottom fish with his guts come another evening.
We steam the fish with potatoes, onions and squash.
It is lovely.
It nourishes.
We drink wine and relive the day and talk about drinking wine in Paris
and the Louve
We go to bed early.
Come morning my chronic knees feel much better.
I wonder if it could be the fish.
—Roger Gump
To put Roger in good company, here is a line from Thomas Hardy’s ‘Night-Time in Mid-Fall’.
It is a storm-strid night, winds footing swift
Through the blind profound
I just did my workout and am about to go for a walk before showering, returning to GANNET and lounging indolently on deck watching boats, birds and sea lions, listening to music, enjoying the warmth of this last day of February, and of course sipping something, probably gin.
