knees on the rolling gunnels.
knees on the roiling gunnels we lean out drawing the trap up slowly hand over hand, lifting a thousand fish in a tightening house. something boiling begins to emerge, one, two tails turn swelling the surface, then long backs braiding smoothly rise clear to the light as we claw more and more of their mesh walls away from them. Cyril is dancing, already guessing how many thousand pounds as he jabs the dip net among them yanking thudding their slippery bodies into the skiff he digs wildly ripping the air through his teeth, making a rainbow of fish white bellies, eyes, mouths wide with amazement going by in a blur, he works like a man in a fairy tale who is shown a mountain of gold and told he can keep whatever he digs in a day.
from The Grey Islands (McClelland & Stewart, 1985; Brick Books 2000) reprinted by permission of Brick Books