The Fish Changes Everything

It’s summer now, it really is. The tourists have come, the sculpture show on the cliff path is on, the sea is warm, the sky is a pale blue and we all smell of sun screen and hot skin.
In the morning I pack a bag and walk barefoot down the gulley steps to the beach. Day ten, no cigarettes. Meg and I got drunk last night, two chilled bottles of white and two glasses, wandering among the sculptures, playing art critics, giggling and staggering, critiquing rubbish bins and dog turds, me in straw hat and bare feet, Meg in ripped jeans and a skirt. Into the second bottle we were as much an attraction to the tourists and art lovers as the welded bits of scrap and Henry Moore rip-offs were, living the dream, brown and young and reckless, golden glow in love.
We argued before I left the house this morning, maybe just so we could spend some time alone, maybe just so I could spend some time alone.
I cross the road, hopping from one foot to the other on the hot tarmac, and walk quickly through the park to the beach. I find a spot without too many people and dig in. I saw a Japanese guy do it once: he dumped his bag, fell to his knees and quickly and efficiently dug a bum shaped hole, piling the sand to make a back rest. Then he laid his towel over hole and mound and sat down like a sandy armchair ninja. Ever since that day I have done the same. Now I distain those who lie flat, it’s just so one dimensional.
Twenty minutes of sun is all I need, so after my swim I pack up, flatten my mound and wander over to the cliffs. The tide’s high and the big rock pool where dogs and kids swim and piss together has temporarily become part of the sea. I paddle, ankle deep around its edge, wincing as barnacles spike my heels. Then I see a fish, as long as my forearm, swimming lopsidedly in the deepest part of the pool. I wade in for a closer look. I don’t know what kind of fish it is, but it looks quite normal, compared to some of the weirdoes we get out here. I walk slowly towards it, until I’m nearly on top of it, then I reach down into the thigh-deep water and make a grab for it. It bolts away from me and tries to ride a small wave back out to sea. I leap after it like a bear leaping after a salmon and pounce! It slips away again, but again I pounce. This time I manage to get a finger in one of its gills and pull it flapping out of the pool. I wade back onto dry rock and examine my prize. It looks healthy and tasty enough, apart from two puncture marks on its back which are seeping blood. I stand looking at it. Has it been poisoned? Will I die if I eat it? Two young local blokes have walked up. They’re standing in the pool, looking at me, looking at the fish.
“What you going to do with that?” One of them asks.
“Eat it?” I answer. It’s quite normal to answer a question with a question here.
“Good man”, the other bloke says.
Now that I’ve got their approval I feel better. I show them the two seeping puncture marks. One of them pokes the fish. The fish wriggles. Neither of them says anything about deadly poisons. I nod decisively, thank the blokes and stalk off, holding my pray before me like a prize marrow. I’m not sure what to do with myself now though. My plan was to set up camp on my favourite cliff ledge and read some more. The fish changes everything. As I pass an older, blonde, crazy-looking surf bum, he accosts me loudly:
“What you going to do with that?”
“Eat it”, I tell him confidently.
“Good”, he says. Maybe he’s a bit deaf. I’m about to move on when I have an idea.
“What is it?” I ask him.
“Taylor”, he says.
“Good eating?” I ask.
“Good enough. Bloody fish though. Have to bleed him first.”
“Hmm”, I say, “got a knife?”
“No”.
I shrug and start to walk away again.
“Wait!” He bellows after me.
I walk back to him. He’s rummaging frantically in his bag. Triumphantly he produces a red plastic surfboard fin. “Use this”.
His eyes widen as I take it from him. I lay my fish on the rock and examine the fin, find the sharpest edge and make a test cut in the air above the fish’s head.
“Not that way!” He yells at me, “Underneath!”
“You think so?” I ask meekly. I turn the fish over and do another little test cut in the air.
“Not near me clothes!” The surf bum roars, sun-bleached eyes protruding.
I turn my back on him and jam the fin into the fish’s throat. It thrashes and squirms, but I cut it good. Blood runs through my fingers. The surf bum is standing really close to me, breathing in my ear. As I sever the spine he whispers: “bloody good”. His voice is full of awe and admiration. We stand, very close together, watching the fish die.
“Now you’ve got to clean him!” He shouts. I jump at the inappropriate volume of his voice. He motions towards the sea and mouths the word: ‘go’.
Still wincing I dutifully take fish and fin down to the sea to wash them off. The man watches me from his rock, his blonde hair buffeting and twitching in the wind. Other people watch me too, tourists, dog-walkers, the parents of toddlers. Proudly I clean my kill and my weapon, then I limp back across the barnacles to the surf bum. He starts to ask me how I caught it but then his phone rings.
“Hello!” He screams. I stand for a minute, still holding my dripping fish, listening as he bellows into his phone. I’m not sure why I’m still here. Maybe I want to discuss my victory against the sea, my prowess with leap and blade. I start feeling a bit silly though, so I gather my possessions and walk off. He yells after me: “Bloody good one mate!”
I wave without turning and hop from rock to rock back to the cliff path. On the path there are so many people gawking at sculptures I can hardly move. I hold my fish like a battering ram and charge through them to one of the plastic bag dispensers meant for picking up dog shit. I pull out four bags and wrap the fish. A Chinese couple stop and gawk at me, as if I too was art work. I smile at them.
“Fish”, I explain, nodding encouragingly.
“Yes. Fish”, they agree, smiling and nodding also.
I spend the rest of the morning on my ledge above the bay, reading, puffing on a little pure one and watching the surf. Occasionally I lean over, open my bag and touch my fish, just to check that it’s still there. It is cold and firm, sometimes it twitches slightly or its muscles ripple; just a little life left in its nerves.
At lunch time I take my fish home, steam some veggies, boil some rice, make friends with Meg and cook it, with an orange, ginger and coriander sauce. Then I wait a while, and when I’m convinced I haven’t been poisoned, I rub my belly and thank the universe I don’t always have to write about the darkness.