I lean over the rails, harpoon in hand, ready to strike.
They used to be everywhere, practically jumping into the boat.
Those were the good old days.
Did we overfish?
Too much pollution?
We had agreements. Treaties.
Not worth the paper they were printed on.
I see a shape in the water, and I spear it.
Hanging from the tip is a wild brain.
Not one of the best, mind you. Those days are over.
But this will fetch a good price. Wild is what they want most. Better than college-raised.
I clean the harpoon, and watch the waves again.