The Book of Herring

 

                     

 

And lo:  the fish came unto the cove for four days and four nights.  And there were many.  And the men from Chinatown threw countless nets upon them.  

And lo:  the fish kept coming. And coming. And coming.

And lo: they came.

And the water turned white with their coming.

And the white men in the big boats pulled their long nets and filled their holds.

And back onshore, the Samoans were well represented.

And so too the Greeks and Filipinos.

And so too the residents of the fancy new Mission Bay housing complex {who knew nothing of these, their local waters, where once Mission Bay teemed with life.  And the herring sought not rocks, pier pilings and old rusted knots of discarded rebar but eel grass and sea lettice and what other sea weeds grew there} stood agape and agog before the awesomeness of the great spawn.

 

 

And the rocks and the rock weed and the turkish washcloth were frosted grey with eggs. And still the people (the Greeks, the Filipinos, the Russians, the Samoans, the Honkies, ("White man gotta represent!" screams the one known as Pissed-Off Pete as he elbows his way to the rail and hurls the net with perfect form), the Afro-Americans, the Chinese, the Vietnamese, the Mexicans, the Cambodians (yes, several of these), and everyone else, threw nets upon them.  And the gillnetters chug-chug-chugged and their beaters rolled.

And lo they kept coming. For there is no such thing as coitus interuptus for Clupea pallassii {they come while their dying in your hands}.

 

                    Agua Vista Pier after 4.5 consectutive days of carnage. 

 

I close my eyes.  Images flash like a silvery fish in the murk.  I still hear the chug of the gillnet beaters. The wild Asiatic shrieks of the shore flingers.  Somewhere, someone imitating Champion de la Banana's infamous "A-yaaah." The babel of languages on the pier:  Greek and Chinese. French for a moment (a tourist snapping photos).  Then Spanish.  Russian.  Tagalog. (Was that Tagalog?). And several tonal languages that sound to my unkowing caucasoid ears like the strident, wailing of wet, miserable cats.

And still they came.  As they have always come.  Since there was a coast to come to (err... on).

And in the end I left them.  Still coming.  Hoping for the love of Gawd that we, the people slaughtering them, truly appreciate how awesome they are.  

And don't

for one moment

just assume

that they will always be here. 

 

                     A familiar sight to a herring fisherman.  Scales on boots.

Comments

[D.A. Sherwood]

The Keens wear the badge of toil and suffering. Sounds like a great time.

[Magnolia Vahey]

Awesomeness -- definitely! I witnessed it for about an hour along with colleagues from GANDA while on lunch break adventure to Agua Vista last Wednesday. You spoke to our gang and gave us some biz cards. I'm glad now to be reading an update. I've been thinking of those fishies...and wondering how it's going/gone in the Bay. And next year I'll allot time for the spawn so that I can be there more. And net some of my own! -- gotta try the pickling. Thank you for the news (photos and homage) here Kirk.

[kirk lombard]

Hi Magnolia. Nice to see you guys out there. Glad you visited. Stay in touch!

[Stephen A.]

Prophetic fish scripture. Love it. Amen!