Day Forty-Six: Fishing (Part One)

The memories of last night struck me with such force that my emotions nearly spiraled out of control. It was almost dawn before I managed to regain my composure. Now, my head throbs as though pricked by needles, and my injured arm aches even more from yesterday’s strenuous labor. Yet, the emotional outburst has left me with a rare sense of calm; the heaviness that once oppressed my heart has suddenly lifted.

Lately, for reasons unknown, my body feels exhausted and drowsiness washes over me, but around this hour each day, sleep eludes me entirely. “Enough,” I sighed, rising from bed.

In the mornings, I rarely eat anything substantial. I simply grab a few fruits, biting into them as I go. Stepping outside, I am greeted by a scene teeming with vitality. Transplanting this small garden was a wise decision indeed. The fragrance of the blossoms attracts countless butterflies, bees, and insects, all busily flitting among the flowers. The wind carries their scent to me, and I inhale deeply, the mingling aromas nearly intoxicating.

It is another beautiful day. I plan to collect some turtle eggs and try my luck with the battered nets, hoping to catch a bit of seafood. After so many days, I wonder if the turtle eggs are still edible, or if, upon breaking them open, I might find hatchlings inside. I possess no knowledge of the turtles’ incubation period, so a sense of uncertainty lingers.

The shoreline bears no trace of turtles digging pits to lay eggs; only smooth, dry sand remains after days of the sea’s relentless washing. I have no need to search, for that night, the beach was nearly covered with turtles. Surely, a single night would not suffice for them all to lay their eggs. Though I haven’t checked since, I imagine many waves of turtles have come and gone.

Indeed, when I casually choose a spot and dig into the sand with my hand, a cluster of turtle eggs appears before me. To test my assumptions, I pick up an egg. Unlike the first ones I found, which were soft, this one’s shell is hard, like a chicken egg. I squeeze it firmly, crushing it. The thick yolk spills into my palm and drips through my fingers. No hatchling or embryo emerges—my worries unfounded.

This brings me great joy. Turtle egg fried rice is one of Little Black’s favorite dishes, and its greedy expression last time is still vivid in my mind.

When I set out to search for turtle eggs, I had intended to bring Little Black along, but it was busy near the garden chasing butterflies. Several times, I watched it charge into the flowers, trampling clusters of wild blossoms. My heart ached a little; these blooms had survived so much to take root here. Still, I did not scold it—I would not reprimand it for such a trivial matter.

So as I made my way to the shore, Little Black remained behind, engrossed in its pursuit of butterflies and insects, paying me no mind.

The number of turtle eggs is enormous. In just over ten minutes, I collect nearly a hundred, each slightly smaller than a ping pong ball. My basin is filled to the brim. After several trips, I have accumulated over five hundred eggs, piled atop a layer of leaves in a plastic crate.

Today, the sea is still high, with no sign of the tide receding. I had hoped to set up a net to catch some seafood and improve my meals, but the water is so deep, I fear stumbling into a hidden pit beneath the waves. I have no wish to risk my life for food.

Still, I am determined to procure seafood. I recall seeing others cast nets before, so relying on memory, I begin to tinker. Returning to the treehouse, I select the net with the smallest mesh, patch its holes with dried grass, and repair every tear. Next, I search the yard for stones larger than the mesh, fold the net’s edges to wrap them, and tie them securely with vines.

Soon, I fashion the net into an oval shape, stones lining its perimeter. There are about a dozen small stones, and four larger ones at each corner. In the center, I bind a long, thick vine.

In just forty minutes, this crude hand-cast net, inspired by fleeting recollections, is complete.

Of course, choosing where to cast the net is crucial. I wouldn’t foolishly throw it at the sandy shore, where it would merely land at my feet. I opt for the edge of the reef. The reason is simple: beyond the reef lies a deep area, several meters down, and from what I recall, many small fish and shrimp hide among the rocks, attracting predatory fish.

More importantly, standing atop the reef, I need only cast a meter or two ahead for the net to reach deep water—precisely why I selected this spot.

I wrap one end of the vine around my arm, leaving some slack on the ground, and grasp the net’s center. With a forceful swing, I turn twice and hurl it outward…

To my surprise, the entire net bunches together and drops straight into the sea. This first attempt is, of course, a failure; catching fish like this would be a miracle.

A second attempt—failure.

A third—still failure.

…

The thirty-sixth attempt—failure.

…

Success! I cannot say how many times I cast the net, but just as I began to doubt myself, the net finally spread out like a spinning handkerchief, soaring through the air.

The stones draw it steadily into the water with a splash, sinking toward the seabed. I quickly let the vine slip through my hands, matching the net’s descent. The deeper it falls, the faster it goes, and I must hasten to release the vine.

At last, when only a little vine remains in my grasp, the net reaches the bottom. I do not immediately pull it up, but wait, as though feeling the struggles of fish transmitted through the vine.

Rubbing my hands together in anticipation, I begin to reel in the net, every ounce of strength surging forth in my eagerness.

“So heavy!” I exclaim excitedly as I pull.

The net is about to breach the surface—could it truly be filled with fish?

My eyes widen, waiting for the moment the net breaks through the water.

“It’s coming up!”

“This…!”

…