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Oct. 21, 2006 It was a lot of money to go fishing on a private boat for a day, or for even an afternoon. He was surprised, at first, upon inquiring, that people paid so much money. But it made sense when he thought more about it. There was gas, and food, and there was the maintenance of the equipment, and the boat staff to be paid as well. There was the boat itself. Powerboats were expensive. There was also time itself. Time as money. Of course time was not money, but people had made time to be money, so time was money. Time was and was not money. The boats could play the averages. They didn’t sweat, but just waited for customers. If location was everything for a restaurant, it was certainly also everything when it came to being a charter boat. Many tourists were around. The owners didn’t mind that they had to wait for a bite as it were. All a tourist was, for the most part, in the scheme of the world, was someone who had too much money. ‘ Some are born to sweet delight. Some are born to the endless night,’ or so said the song by James Douglas Morrison, inspired by the Celine book, the title of which was inspired in part by the song of the Swiss Guards that Celine quoted, which went ' Our life is a journey/ Through winter and night,/We look for our way/ In a sky without light.' What this might mean is that the Swiss Guards, whomever they might be, never went charter fishing. His eye got caught by a woman across the road, the other way from the boats. She was about twenty-five to thirty; brunette, of perfect height and perfect build. She was a looker, and she was closing the trunk of a medium sized white car. She had on a white blouse, and was beautiful by anyone’s standards. Where did they all come from? Who made them? Then, when she reached up to close the trunk with her right hand, her body stretched out a bit, and she was as good as the sea, which was something, because the sea was infinite, and had a vicious beauty. Nature had left a few muses on a rock otherwise full of dregs and thorns. He looked back to the sea, beyond boats that were bobbing a bit, and thought back to years before, to ‘many moons ago,’ as someone had once put it to him. His father had taken him on another sort of boat. There were about what seemed to be fifty other people, but if that were not the correct approximation, the number would have been more and not less. All the people stood side by side with their rods over the railing, and there were too many of them, with hardly any space to move about. The lines kept getting tangled. Many fish were being caught. Kingfish were numerous. Many Tuna were there, with their nice pink hue. Strange looking fish arrived also, and as those ones would come on board, people did not know their names as quickly. It was the barracuda that startled him. Every time one came up, there was a commotion. People moved away, and a crewmember appeared. The barracuda would flip itself over, and while up in the air, snap its teeth shut. If any one of these big fish caught something while snapping like that, that something would be in trouble. The barracuda were a garbage fish, and weren’t for eating, like the Tuna fish, or the delicious Triggerfish, named that way because you could pull the top fin and the sides of the fish would move, like a toy. The crew smashed the barracuda about the head with aluminum baseball bats. After a few whacks, the fish did not jump up and snap. After this was taken care of, calmer fishing resumed. One or two bats though, could be seen, if someone cared to look at them, leaning against a wall, waiting to be used again. The black rubber, or rubber like grip. The words printed in block letters along the sides. Bloody. Blood over all of this, and the sun shining on it. They could have washed the bats off each time, somehow. They could have had a water source, or a bucket to dip it in, and then a rag or a towel designated to give it a wipe with. It could have been wiped well, soaking the bat, and then part of the towel too. Then holding the handle, with the other end of the bat over the sea, or even a bucket, the towel would be firmly rubbed along the bat a few times. Then it could be dried, in the same manner, with a dry part of the towel, the other half of the towel. They didn’t do that. ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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