Legend of the Squidhound

As a young man, Sean faced nature’s conspiracy of ambivalence at the mouth of the Mississippi River. It was the dark of early morning. Temperature in the air: ambiguous, unconcerned. Temperature of the water: a salted cool. Sean stood drowning his hook in waist-high water. He waited in his waders, snaking line into the flats and retrieving nothing. Was he fishing for flounders? No. They’re flatheads with eyes ever upward. He angled for squidhounds, those rad-ass bass always lithe in the fall. Surface-skimmers, shoal-strikers, they raise their eyes to hunt.

For the fiftieth time, Sean reeled back, unwound, and watched his popping cork splash in the current.

Sean [to nobody]: Great fishing, my ass. Pops, you were so wrong. I haven’t had a single strike! Not one! And I got up at three, too. I’ll tell you what. Three more casts, and I’m gone.

Pop! The cork disappeared, and Sean’s rod arched as line raced out, spool whirring.

Sean [to somebody]: No, you don’t. I’ve got you, no matter how far you swim. I’m bringing you in right now. I’m a fighter as much as you. Ah, and who are you?

A prominent black margin marked the fish’s posterior fin, and dark speckles lined the green ridge of its back. Sean lifted the fish from the water and wiggled the jig from between the fish’s front teeth. One marble eye searched Sean’s face. The fish croaked, sputtered, and spoke.

Fish [to somebody]: Who am I? I’m your nightmare.
Sean [to somebody, too]: You are not!
Fish: Yes I am!
Sean: No, you’re my breakfast.
Fish: I am not!
Sean: Yes, you are!
Fish: No, I’m a spotted sea trout, your nightmare.
Sean: You might be a spotted sea trout, but you’re no nightmare. How could you be a nightmare? I caught you, remember?
Seatrout: Exactly, you caught me. A spotted trout. And if you check the regulations, I have to be fifteen inches, yeah? Measure me.

Sean grumbled and pulled a tape measure from his wader’s illustrious pocket. Fourteen inches scraped out. Sean groaned. And again…

Seatrout [to somebody]: Yes, I’m your one-inch nightmare.
Sean [scoffing at somebody]: I think I can stretch you an inch. I’m hungry. Besides, you’ve been giving me lip. No fish should give me lip, you salt-cruster.

Sean prepared to slip the seatrout into his equally illustrious fish-pouch, but in the distance an engine hummed. As Sean’s eyes queried the horizon, the seatrout pounced at the black sea and disappeared.

Sean [sputtering to nobody]: Gave me the slip. Two hands! Pops always says to hold’em with two hands, never one.

Sean cast again, still muttering. The fishing line seemed to grumble with Sean’s discontent. He continued to cast until light kissed the ocean a deep green. Finally, shluop! the cork disappeared, the rod arced, and the line shantied out.

Sean: I hope it’s the trout. I’ll kill’em. Up you come and…

No. A flounder. Perimeter fins a dusky brown, a sandy tailfin, and those two awkward eyes, twitching. Sean scowled and reached for his tape measure. The fish wriggled.

Sean [to somebody]: Stay still, will ya? I’m just getting my tape measure. No need to get jumpy.
Flounder [to somebody]: No! Don’t! You can’t! I’m your, um, I’m your morning-mare!
Sean: My what?
Flounder: Your morning-mare? Is that right? Are you scared?
Sean: Scared? Why should I be scared? You’re a flounder. Now stay still, if you’re less than twelve inches I’ll let you go.
Flounder: Twelve inches. I’m clearly less than twelve inches.
Sean: You are not! You’re huge!
Flounder: Twelve inches is pretty big. I saw a grouper who must have been at least 13 inches, and she was at least twice as big as me. You should have seen her swim, the sweep of her tail. She swims over me all the time. A massive shadow, trust me.
Sean: Ah, the tape measure.
Flounder: What? You got it out while I was talking? Flip me around so I can look at you.
Sean: Seventeen inches. Aren’t you big?
Flounder: Stop it!
Sean: Sorry, but you’re over the minimum, and I’m hungry.
Flounder: My grandfather’s fins, but we’re disgusting. We’re thin. Stringy. Fishy.
Sean: And delicious. I’ve eaten flounder before.
Flounder: But

Sean dropped the flounder into his pouch and returned to fishing. The sun appeared. The sea warmed. The currents shifted. Sean smiled. His rockfish waited somewhere, scoping the surface, hunting. Shrimp beware. Herring flee. Sardine shipout. The rockfish is nosing from the deep, gilling for the shallow water. Ah, a flash! A surface something dancing. The rockfish bites and fights the illuminated line. A furious struggle: The fish snarls bubbles, and the fishing line winks. But two pillars draw closer and closer, and arms reach down, and

Sean [to somebody]: A striped bass! Record-sized, beautiful. You came, and I caught you. You are nature’s olive jewel, lined to perfection. And your eyes, what eyes! At least forty-seven inches and maybe fifty pounds. Breakfast is going to be monstrous! Hey, flounder!
Flounder [from the pouch]: Don’t put him in here with me! Just don’t!
Sean: I’m letting you out to make room for this fish. Get out quick.

With his right arm draped around the seabass, Sean untied the pouch with his left. Desperate, the flounder slammed his nose against Sean’s knee. Foolish fish, eyes always on the sky. Sean buckled and cried out. The linesider’s ten-pound tail slapped Sean’s face. The greenhead seemed to grin as it swam away.

Sean stood red-faced and dripping. Grimly, he set his bait and cast into the morning sun.
Sean [muttering to nobody]: Greenhead, linesider, rockfish, squidhound.
Sean [muttering a curse]: Striped bass.
Sean: Wait until Pops hears this.