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joints. It was about this time that I went stir crazy.
    The small town offered little in the way of entertainment. There was a grocery store and drug store that combined also covered the town's book, hardware, and appliance needs, and a theatre that played movies already released on DVD. The only real excitement was the fishing. I loved to watch the fishermen bring in their hauls at the end of the day.
    I watched in awe as boat after boat pulled in with bluefin tuna that weighed hundreds of pounds. The biggest fish were dragged in behind the boats — the carcasses staying fresh in the briny water that had given them life minutes before. The fishermen took turns raising the giant fish onto the docks. Tour groups stood with the hanging catch for photo opportunities — the captains smiling biggest of all. They got the profit of the catch while the charter passengers got the cheap photo and the priceless story to go along with it.
    Once the photos were taken, the largest tuna were taken apart on the dock with a chainsaw. In the same spot in which they had just been immortalized on film forever, they were dissected for the value of their parts and put on ice. The large tuna were soon riding the ocean once more, only it was in the belly of a boat bound for Japan.
    I watched the haul every day I could before making the long walk back to the house in the woods. On my way home one night, I decided I would book a charter of my own.
    On a cold Wednesday morning, I headed out fishing with a man named Jeff. His boat
Wendy
was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars making me think the giant fish must be worth their weight in cash.
    “Good money in this?” I asked as we plowed through the water.
    “Charters? Oh, sure, couple a fellas out on the water makes me a good bit for sure,” he said.
    “Not the charters, the fishing. The boat doesn't look cheap.”
    “Fishing is a funny thing. When it's good it pays the bills and more for sure, but when it's bad you can't even put fish on the table.” He laughed at his own joke for a second before going on. “Chartering is like the middle. It gives me some cash on a slow day, and if we catch something I get that too.”
    “Win, win,” I said. Jeff smiled at me and looked out at the vast expanse of water ahead. The blowing sea air was clean; nothing polluted it with exhaust or pollen. I breathed deep as though for the first time and smiled. It wasn't the cold grin I learned from my uncle that usually came before violence — it was a genuine smile. I was happy on the water.
    Once we came to a stop in the water, Jeff pulled a fish from a tub at the back of the boat; it wriggled alive in his hands.
    “If this is your idea of fishing, I want my money back.”
    “Get lost, boy. This is the bait. The fish love 'em. But first . . .” He put the fish down on a work table and pulled a knife from a magnetic strip that held it above the work surface. He cut the fish into chunks and threw the pieces into a stained bucket. He repeated the process, pulling more fish from the tub to chunk them on the table.
    “Why not just do this ahead of time.”
    “You gotta do it this way. The tuna like it fresh, and if the bait is too cold they'll spit it out before the hook gets in.”
    “They can spit?” I said. My tone gave away the fact that I thought I was being fed a script meant to entice the tourists.
    Jeff stopped his bloody work and looked me in the eye. He pointed at me with the knife, and his words had no humour in them. “You got to get your head around what you're dealing with here. These aren't goldfish you're hunting. These are monsters. Dangerous monsters who know what they like, and aren't afraid to tell you different.”
    I nodded at the knife and realized Jeff didn't work from a script. “How do you know there are tuna here?” I asked.
    “I work this water every day. I know where the monsters are, but you can check the fish finder if you don't believe me, city boy.”
    I followed his