Ah, mackerel season. Say you are a sailor. Naturally, you are sailing on a Thursday evening, enjoying a beverage as the sun sinks below the skyline of Tampa.
Then, zing!
A meaty torpedo of fishiness flies out of the water. Then another! And another!
It seems impossible that no one is brained by the piscatorial hailstorm.
It seems impossible that the near victims often don't even notice it. (Ah, the power of enjoyable beverages and picturesque sunsets on a Thursday evening on Tampa Bay!)
Then, zing!
A meaty torpedo of fishiness flies out of the water. Then another! And another!
It seems impossible that no one is brained by the piscatorial hailstorm.
It seems impossible that the near victims often don't even notice it. (Ah, the power of enjoyable beverages and picturesque sunsets on a Thursday evening on Tampa Bay!)
The Spanish mackerel, scientific name Scomberomorus maculates, which does –– seriously –– translate as "silly spotted mackerel," is back in town. Sharply pointed and oily, iridescently dotted and foolish enough to sometimes bite the hand (or toe) that tries to unhook it.
I don't even need to write fiction.
I don't even need to write fiction.
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