T'was the Salmon What Done It

I got the shits, chucked a tantrum ... whaddever you want to call it. Fishing with Old Salt means strange hours, harsh conditions (wind, sun, night, scary sometimes) and not a lot of money. So being the deckie to end all deckies does not mean I have to listen to the whingeing. A boat means freedom, right? It shouldn't mean being confined within a few feet of someone who needs to get their shit off their liver.
I quit.
After thirteen days and numerous bets between everyone as to the exact date I would unquit, Old Salt turned up at my house with a freshly bled salmon, and left.
That night, some friends and I ate salmon. I baked it scales on, foil wrapped, with lemons and bacon (a traditional Toa family recipe) and we peeled succulent strips of this great southern peasant food into our slavering gobs.
I unquit.
Well ... it's salmon season, and then it's herring season, and then it's King George whiting season. And I miss it. And computers and writing and meetings just don't cut it, compared with being out on a WineDark Sea, in a little boat, at night, stars all around and mullet jumping out of the water. Dammit. I'm an addict.