The Fishing Steps

Still clear and sunlit are the tanned, weathered faces of the fisherman, their bloodshot eyes, beanies and checkered shirts, how they stood hip deep in their boats looking up at a gathered crowd, the fish arrayed in neat rows with glistening scales, caressed, turned and splashed with seawater by reverent hands, translucent mops of squid and trays of crabs whose tormented writhings rippled beneath blankets of wet hessian bags. I can hear accented voices yelling out prices and frenzied seagulls overhead, a haze of smells and noise jostling in a silvered morning, when all was spliced and wound into a bright necklace of wire from which a dozen or more fish hung to carry home, a ring of “tommy ruffs” fit for the pan or to smoke in an old tea chest until they became a sweaty glaze of amber flesh, a filet of sunlight and good to eat.