Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
Takeshi and I bob up and down on the deck of a restored, aluminium dingy. The air is cool and the odour of dead fish is wafting through the boat. We huddle together for warmth, but it’s not yet dawn, and I have to squint to try and trace the outline of Takeshi’s face. But it’s futile in this darkness. I am deprived of all my senses and all I can feel is the relentless swaying of my body as we drift over the black saltwater that heaves and swells underneath. I capitulate to the darkness – to the emptiness of the open sea. There is a subtle and strange peace when everything of unimportance and irrelevance is rendered black. As we bob up and down on the waves, I start to feel a bit queasy. Take holds me tightly, so tight that I can feel the heat of his body. A radiating, pleasant heat. Out here, we are just two animals surviving – rocking and swaying on the waves.
The darkness is penetrated by the first rays of morning sun that trickle into the boat. Through the narrow beams of radiating light, I see the tip of Take’s fishing rod start dancing – and right on cue, the fish start biting, as if playing their part in nature’s orchestra. Accepting his cue, Take is jolted into action. He clasps the cold, rubber handle of the fishing rod and steadies his body for the battle ahead. It is still dim. But now there is enough light that I can vaguely make out Take’s silhouette as he fights the fish. His hand moves mechanically as it controls the reel, winding and releasing. The tip of the rod, bending and straightening, like an obedient puppet, yielding to the will of the puppeteer.
The fish must be nearing the surface now, but it’s difficult to say – peering into the black depths provides no clues. I lean over the wobbly boat with a net, ensuring the fish doesn’t make a lucky escape. Abruptly, the blackness is pierced by a shiny, glowing creature that flails and fights to escape. But I am too quick. I haul the creature onto our boat. It thrashes about on the deck but stands no chance now. Take secures the shimmering, slippery body with one hand, and with the other, mercifully drives a sharp blade through the magnificent creature’s head. It stops flapping. It simply stops still. With a cursory toss, Take flings the corpse into the cool esky. I steal a glimpse of the whiting’s face as she lies in an icy morgue. She stares at me – the shock of being hooked still lingering in her eyes – or is that my shock simply reflected back at me? Cruel I think to myself. Or is it? Caught locally from the middle of Port Phillip Bay, she is a decent size and would have led a good life for a fish. She will be our lunch later, and we won’t bag more fish than what we can eat. In the darkness I muse: perhaps the world would be a less cruel place if we all engaged in this type of honest cruelty.