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onto the shore, and shook the boat to slide the fish in the hold down
to the bow hatch. Their backs had turned a deep aquamarine and
their bellies had taken on a pink iridescent flash. They glowed in the
evening light.
I fetched a board and another knife from the car. I filleted one of the
mackerel, exposing the clean, translucent bone, then pinned the tail of
the fillet to the board with my penknife and skinned it with the other
knife. The flesh tasted of raw steak. I filleted two more fish and
ate them. I sat on the riverbank for a while, watching the mullet dim-
pling the surface and the crows landing momentarily on the rusty
bridge then flapping away when they saw me. I gutted the remaining
fish. It was not a great haul, but for the first time on the boat that
summer I had caught more energy than I had used.
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