I take it all back (Nov 29)

Ok well may be not all of it, and not even close to most of it, but what I do take back in quick order is my statement a recently that I would celebrate when the tuna escaped the nets. My brief flirtation with being a tuna sympathizer has passé because now those little scaled escape artist bastard fish are costing me more time spent out here in this barren ocean.

Yesterday we made two sets on two schools that both managed to escape in short order, bringing the count up to three schools in a row escaping. Now by my count, if we had caught all three of those schools we would be one reasonable sized catch, not even large, away from pointing our nose to port and headed in to drop off this load of fish.

So that, I take all of that back, I hope the tuna are slow and dumb and don’t ever realize we’re putting a net around them or escape, because they are costing me time on precious sweet dry solid land, and escape artist tuna are playing with my sanity.

I certainly don’t take back all the mean things I said about Asian fried fish, which I still think is the most god-awful thing on this earth. I don’t understand how they love this so much, these tiny fish, with a billion bones, covered in skin and fried in old fish flavored oil from all the other fish fries. The stench of it permeates everything, it sticks to clothes, skin, hair, and dampens the air you inhale with a foul odor of rotted fried fish. That’s how I describe the smell, rotted fried fish. Like they intentionally wait for a batch to go foul before they fry it. And it tastes exactly as it smells. There is no way people smell this and think to themselves “Oh. My. God. F*#king fried fish tonight! Oh boy the feast of a lifetime! Woo!!”

So on fried fish nights I eat hearty servings of rice and soup (assuming it is non-fish soup), and let the crew devour the fish, and they pick at it, peeling skin back, using chopsticks to snag little insignificant morsels of meat from between the million little razor sharp titanium strong bones, the suck on the ribs like they are extracting elixir of the gods from the grease soaked carcass of the small, tiny, fish. It’s head attached and black burnt eys grimacing up at you from the plate, the strips of grease burn where the skin curled in the fryer having turned a yellow cracked color. It reeks of dirty rotten fried fish – and the stench permeates all.

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