I see its grey shadow still, the high-backed fish truck, carefully passing our kitchen window, slippery load of pungent cods' heads covered with a frenzied blanket of blue-arsed flies.

Across the river, Dad would spread the heads and plough them under. But sometime before the burial, a sibling ran into the kitchen, panting hard: "The maggots are coming; the maggots are coming." The family took to the backyard, dumbstruck, as the ochre potato field had not only turned white, but was rippling determinedly towards us. We waited for our omnipotent dad to speak, then, hoarsely, "All hands inside, time for bed."

Was it the river or the cold night air? By morning the maggots had vanished and the potato field was back to ochre. Later, when the heads dried into razor pieces, weeding brought sharp surprises to our bare knees. We made a game of it; such was our zest for life.

Fishing was not in our vocabulary; we trouted. Our young reflexes were honed and deadly, snapping many's a hungry trout into eternity on the unforgiving spike of a safety pin.

How wide that small river seemed, snaking through our farm, carrying those sweet mouthfuls from unknown gullies that never felt the ripple of a human foot. And Mom, allowing us to fry up our own: "As long as ye washes the pan after."

Fish came in the trunk of someone's car or the back of a pickup. Mom would pass a crumpled bill from her apron pocket, "Get a 50-cent one; make sure it's nice and black."

And who could forget a kitchen filled with the choking of sizzling fatback, thick golden steaks of cod or salmon piled high on a plate in the warming oven, with supper almost on the table? And then I went away.

In Ottawa, fish qualified as fresh as long as it wasn't machine-pressed into a frozen oblong block. Anorexic filets presumed themselves on my plate.

As the seasons passed and the winters became meaner, I travelled south and grilled Red Snapper, smothered in garlic, caught before breakfast that morning, became my fish of choice.

I suppose because I always ate fish at the same beach restaurant, he assumed I was a good prospect. A pleading young man with a 40-footer, trying to fill a place for six. So far he had two. "Please, senora, help feed my babies." Who could resist?

Five miles out to the fishing grounds, one of our three kept throwing up, and I wasn't feeling so good myself; then, the only one fishing slackened his line for a second, losing his catch, and gave up in disgust. I'd come this far; I was game.

In position, I remembered the drill from TV fishing programs. It didn't take long for a strike. I braced myself, pole end held tight in its pocket: "Forward - line tight; Back - line tight." I couldn't tell who was winning, but something primal had seized me somewhere deep down. It was between me and the fish now, and I wasn't about to give up. Then the mate stepped quickly to the end of the boat, scooping my catch to safety. As the two of us held its struggling body, I looked in wonder; a middle-aged Newfoundlander, and this was the first fish I'd ever caught - imagine that!

The photo was taken in Cartagena, in November '86.

Mary (Dooling) Howell   Submitted By: NULL