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Show meated cousins. The ice chest was full with their bodies, overfull, tails and fins bursting at the seams. Every now and then the cooler lid shuddered with the effort of a not-yet-dead fish trying to regain the water. The ice prolonged the freshness of their meat but not their lives. How will we ever eat all this, my mom laughed. I realized only then that the fish were coming home with us. They would fill the back of our van, the floor between the seats, the freezer. Salt water would remain in their bodies like a memory only to dribble out when they were cleaned. We would label the paper packages in black marker, seal them with masking tape, and store them with the ice cream in the deep freeze. Later my mom would shape their bodies into quenelles or saute filets and serve them to guests for dinner. And I would eat them. At some point I, too, reeled a fish in. I am sure I did. I remember the feel of the acrylic rod, my dad's hand on my shoulder, the on and off pull of the fish against me. Mostly the on and off pull. Then surrender. Then another flat gray fish. I returned to my spot out of the sun while the rest reeled fish after fish onto the deck. The Hawaiian sun or the lack of food or the Dramamine had made me dizzy. I tried to remember which of the fish flopping on the deck was mine, but they all looked the same. It was getting late. As a child I spent Sunday mornings at Subase Chapel. While our parents were in church, Stacy and I attended Sunday School in the nearby Quonset hut where I peed on the floor. After class we would walk over the grass-covered bomb shelter to meet our parents for 173 |