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I stood on the pier with Aislinn's hand in mine, watching amateur fishermen and their families at business. It was exciting for her. My cousins hail from Edmonton, Alberta, which has a distinct lack of ocean. Even if our ocean is the Puget Sound, which today was as still as lake water. Except for the salt taste and low tide, or the barnacles and clams and baby tidepool crabs, you might not have known. The kids like to see starfish, which are more like vivid burgundy sunflowers and enormous with age and regenerated limbs. They like to comb the beach for seashells. They aren't connoisieurs. After five minutes, the pockets of my sweatshirt were full of broken shell bits that Mckenna needed me to keep for her.
Someone on the pier caught a shark, and for a few minutes I was incredibly pleased that Aislinn could get to see such a thing. It was only two feet long, although otherwise just like the sharks of imagination. Size though, matters. It was cute for being small. Muscley, though, and you could see in the way it twisted. It was beautiful. For the moment, I love sharks. They are perfect for what they are, and amazing.
Less amazing was the man who caught it, and his sons.
"It's bad. Cut it up." That was a son. The father didn't say much. He stepped on it, one foot pressing down on the tail, the other just below its head. He tore the fish hook out. Their booted feet shifted around, more than enough weight pressing to cause internal bleeding, the action less to restrain the animal and more like some absurd assertion of dominance. Aislinn wanted to see what they were doing. I ushered her away.
Apparently there is a place in the world for a family man who amuses his sons by traumatizing sharks, then cutting off the fins on only one side of its body before throwing it back. An hour later, I walked back to the pier. Twenty feet below, I could see it swimming on its side, in circles. The kids playing on the pier found this very entertaining.
It made me hate my species a little bit.
Someone on the pier caught a shark, and for a few minutes I was incredibly pleased that Aislinn could get to see such a thing. It was only two feet long, although otherwise just like the sharks of imagination. Size though, matters. It was cute for being small. Muscley, though, and you could see in the way it twisted. It was beautiful. For the moment, I love sharks. They are perfect for what they are, and amazing.
Less amazing was the man who caught it, and his sons.
"It's bad. Cut it up." That was a son. The father didn't say much. He stepped on it, one foot pressing down on the tail, the other just below its head. He tore the fish hook out. Their booted feet shifted around, more than enough weight pressing to cause internal bleeding, the action less to restrain the animal and more like some absurd assertion of dominance. Aislinn wanted to see what they were doing. I ushered her away.
Apparently there is a place in the world for a family man who amuses his sons by traumatizing sharks, then cutting off the fins on only one side of its body before throwing it back. An hour later, I walked back to the pier. Twenty feet below, I could see it swimming on its side, in circles. The kids playing on the pier found this very entertaining.
It made me hate my species a little bit.
