The heft of rope. Wind blowing the boat off the nets and straining the corkline. I'm glad for gloves on windy mornings. Pelicans gather, diving their beaks into the sea to tear herring out of the net but shake their heads at the baby rays, tossed back pink and black. Silver gleam. Tailor? Mulloway? Mulloway. A tugging on the corkline and a tangle of stingray and mesh over the gunwale. The smell of flowers from across the harbour. Pull the net across the water against the wind. Salt spray. Start the outboard and go ahead to ease the strain and stop the net from furling. Long fronds of weed with butterflied cockles for anchors. Hair in my face. Seagrass parting under the tinny. A Shepherd's Warning sky. Slap of a black bream tail in the red box. Shake the catching net at the pelicans so they rise away from the herring in a panic and settle again, cruise back in. One barnacled blue manna crab. Gnarly bastard.