Thursday, November 16, 2006

Fish

We'd been swimming past the same seaweed for an hour when I turned to our SCUBA instructor and said, "Do you think the sharks are around here and aren't they waiting to eat us?" In return, he showed me some forks and knives in his satchel, attached to his belt, and told us, "When we're in their stomachs, try not to make them sick." I remembered at that moment a conversation I had with my father the other day. He wore the same alligator skin hat he always wore, and his advice was no better than his usual advice. "Find yourself some seafood, then you will be happy. There's nothing like hiding yourself in a clam on a fine morning." His suitcase was full of canned tuna, and when he knocked into a vase on his way out, Charlie bounced out of the open case and gave us his pitch: "You should try some of me, I taste really great." Suddenly, bouncing me out of my thoughts, a tribe of whitefish surrounded us, told us they were bringing us to their leader. I prepared speeches, the instructor took out his harpoon gun, and the faceless minions with us kept discussing the Great Whites. A giant hook lay in the center of their camp, and they asked which one of us had tried to use it on them. We all raised our hands like Spartacus. The fish lined us up, stabbed us all, and made us their worms.

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