A thousand slim silvery fishes decorate the high tide line on the beach, extending as far as I can see in both directions. Short lives, churning at the waters edge so thick they make the water black. Short weeks, a life cycle completed: the run along the coast moving slowly from village to village, inspiring bonfires and late-night revelry. Laughter and silver beer cans shining in the dark as nets swoop through the teaming rush of surging life. Whales following the schools during the daytime hours, a bit farther off shore; black backs shiny, the sunlight reflects off their glistening surface as they break through the calm water, blowing a puffing breath before they sink below. The Minke circles round and round, creating a whirlpool, trapping hoards of Caplan in its pull, and then rushing up like a SeaWorld performer, mouth ajar for maximum harvest. All that is done for the season. Now, on the beach, there are too many Caplan even for the greedy gulls to devour. The tide will take some away. Others will dry out and get covered by sand, or possibly eaten by my dog, who seems to prefer them desiccated to fresh, crunchy fish-chips rather than fish 'n chips.
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