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PostPosted: Mon Sep 10, 2007 9:57 am 
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Joined: Tue Jan 03, 2006 11:41 am
Posts: 1231
It was Sunday morning and I should have been resting in bed with a cup of coffee and a piece of toast while looking at the latest news or an unfinished DVD. But, Junior (my son) decided that we would go fishing and so ....
we scoured the house for odds and ends of fishing poles and tackle and when we felt we had enough, we took off to points unknown to bring home the fish (Can't bring home the bacon while fishing).

In the car, we discussed "Father & Son" things.
Why did a meteor land on Mexico?
Why are there Tsunamis?
Why do wheels go around?
I was still struggling with the "Meteor and Mexico" issue and then the best of them all ....
Why do I love you?
My response - Junior - Cause I love you too. That settles things and gets me a head-lean on the shoulder for about 5 seconds and then back to Meteors and Mexico.

We finally got to the intended spot. The Wooden Fishing Village. It is one of those places that is very easy to get to and impossible to find. Just go to Marina Pirata, keep on going down the coral coast line for about 100 Yards, look to the ocean and you will see the tops of 3 staircase railings, stop the car, get out, walk to one of the railings, climb down and there you are.

Down there at ocean level are fishing boats with names of women that must have meant something to the owner. After all, no one names a small wooden fishing boat "Carmelita-Mia" without good reason. Hope it worked in his favor.

Junior walked straight to the fishermen and greeted each one. They greeted back but all stared at the 'scaling table' - that is where the action was.

There on the wooden table was a huge fish. A Barracuda. I would guess about 4 feet long and thick in the middle. It looked like a missile, and actually was. Standing in front of this fish was a man that had a large t-shirt on. He had pulled the back of the shirt up by the collar to cover his head thereby leaving the round collar (where the neck should be) to fit around his face. He had a handkerchief around his nose and mouth - something like a bandit does and a baseball cap on to hold the t-shirt in place.. Over this, he had on large dark sun-glasses and a long sleeved shirt that he kept open in the front. His hands were covered with cloth gloves that had round rubber pads on the fingers and plams to ease or secure a strong grip. As I looked at him sharpening a knife on a stone, I realized that this outfit would keep the scales from going into his hair or nose and it struck me that much like a hangman, he was there but invisible. Perhaps instead of a hangman I should compare him to the village itself - There but impossible to see.

He held the fish around the tail with one hand and then started scrapping the scales from this animals body. They did not come off willingly. The scales were big and he had to work at getting them off. Scales jumped everywhere and as they did, his outfit looked like Armanis response to the fisherman. My son moved closer to me and put his head against my belt as he looked on. One hand played with the back of my belt and the other one was in his hair.

This warrior fish - this brilliant animal with so many brilliant abilities was there and his armor was being torn off. After one side had been stripped of scales, he was dipped in a tank of water and one of the onlookers came over and caressed his recently scalled skin. Then he was turned over and the process began anew.

I looked on and recalled barracuda fish in the water. I recalled the way they swam in huge schools and surrounded me. I remembered how every once in a while one of the warriors would dart from the dark outside ring of fish and come to me - face-to-face and with open jaw and razors on display, would silently send me the telepathic message
"This is my home - take that silly tube out of your mouth and go back" Mostly I heeded them. Anything that travels in a school all day has to be smarter than I am. These animals swim so very fast. They blaze through water and are there as quickly as they are not. Their bodies lend them to that. They are warrior machines that eat others of their kind.

Yet ... there on this wooden table was a fish with one side stripped and the other headed in the same direction. We watched and finally it was done. The fish had lost its defenses. The armor was gone. Here and there cigarettes were lit and mumbling started. Most of the words centered around how this was a great fish. And it struck me that even when lifeless. Even when dead. No-one said a word during the process but mumbled after the armor had been ripped off - and then did so quietly and in honor. It says something about fish and fishermen.

The warrior became fish steaks and these steaks resided in plastic bags of about 4 pieces each. Money changed hands and people dispersed leaving me there with my son and the man behind the t-shirt.

The cap came off. The gloves did the same. The outside shirt fell to the deck and finally the t-shirt was lifted over the head and there was the henchman. We looked at him. A normal man. A fisherman. He tossed the remains of the warrior into the water and small insignificant little fish ate his last remains.

Junior wanted to go . When he asked he did not face me as he normally does but instead looked at the deck. I knew the message and the reasons behind it.

We left and in the car talked about meteors landing in Mexico

be well

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