Heat

As I was saying ... I was climbing into my wet weather gear, struggling to fit the plastic pants over my boots, when a silvery grey four wheel drive cruised past all kinda sharky, no lights in the gloom before the sun. They drove onto the beach, turned around and went past our camp again. Plain clothes, looking for an escapee, I thought. Maybe. No doubt. Cops.

Fisheries. Old Salt hadn't seen them and they didn't stop to say gidday. An hour later I watched them chatting to Unruly, as we picked up the rivermouth net. "They're not cops or tourists. Better check where your demarcation point is," I said to Old Salt.
"Well, fuck. I dunno where it is. Must be where I chucked that buoy. Anyway. Let's get this net out of the water, go in and say good morning like the gentlemen we are."

  They measured every fish from every single box.

Even the big ones

 

Old Salt looked stressed but he had nothing to worry about. Everything was size. "I've been fishin' for sixty five years and never been convicted of nothin'!" He told them. "Betya I don't get charged for another sixty five."

There was a quibble over his license because, like a drivers' license, you have to have it on your person. Old Salt rambled around his glove box and his wallet, his caravan and his dog, stalling and telling yarns.
"Just ring the office and ask them if he's got one," I suggested.
One of the officers walked off to follow his satellite phone around and find some range. Old Salt went into the caravan and made some coffee. I chatted to the other officer while I packed fish. Eventually the first fisheries officer came back, shook his head and they drove away.

They've been watching him for a while now, well for a few decades actually. They would have liked to have got him on a single under sized bream or an overdue license but they were out of luck this day.
Life goes on. New fisheries officers are born, go to school, to university, get a job. The Old Salts of the world just live on, lurking the inlets, getting wilier and smellier every year.