I was a small girl when we departed,
my father, brothers, and me,
from San Pedro Harbor for deep ocean fishing that day.
This was out where we regularly caught
big albacore tuna and bonito.
Enough to fill a freezer.
Dad baited my hook—heaven knows why—
though he likely knew
how I hated torturing things with eyes.
Or anything at all.
They were called water dogs.
You can imagine.
We dropped our lines, my brothers and me.
Presently I felt a tug,
and it became clear right away
the size of the catch
was beyond anything
I could handle myself.
Maybe I had snagged a whale.
Maybe a shipwreck lay just underneath,
and I had hooked a hulk.
When my father took over,
the creature fought for its life,
almost tugging us and the entire boat
far ahead of where we were anchored.
As it came close to the gunwale,
what got hauled in was still thrashing.
It was a shovel-nosed shark.
But we did not know it then.
I was, I suppose,
without recalling details,
pretty impressed with myself.
We went back to fishing.
I was told the harbormaster would know
if this beast was worthy of consumption.
Hours later, we cruised back into port.
The shark had given up its fight
on the gritty deck,
smelling of fish guts and blood.
When my father returned
with the news that we would not be able
to eat the creature,
overboard it went.
Along with my wishes
that I alone
could feed an entire family of nine.
I heard the plop.
Watched it slide
into the murky depths.
Moments passed.
Suspended in that dark water,
it began to move.
Within minutes,
what had lain still in sunlight
for half a day
on the deck of a fishing boat
reanimated itself.
And it swam.
Slowly and surely
away.