Killing a Dogfish

To North Vancouver, to have the Subaru's leaky CV joint examined. Then, with the rest of the day off, and few hours left before Peter Schuyff's opening, to Dundarave, and the West Vancouver seawall. Three or four kilometers of concrete sidewalk, just above the high tide line.

Hustling along in the cold flat light. Late afternoon sun reflected on the big mirrored windows of the apartments on Bellevue Avenue. Diving ducks bobbing just off shore, a bulk carrier angling under the bridge into the inner harbor. Kayakers, the plash of their paddles clearly audible on shore.

My friend Steve's parents, who I haven't seen since his Toronto wedding (pre-Anodyne), out walking.

"Is there a name for this kind of photography you're doing?"

"Just making pictures."

Out on the 14th Street Pier. Fishing lines ranged off the pier's far rail, twenty feet above the ocean. A group of young guys in puffy ski jackets, two Koreans and two eastern Europeans, stand in a semicircle. One of the Europeans half-kneels, jerking hard with his arm.

"Look, shark," says one of the Koreans to me as I approach.

A big grey dogfish, as long as my arm, lies gasping on the pier's wet boards. The other Korean has his foot on its spine, holding it motionless. The kneeling European has a pair of pliers in his hand and is viciously trying to extract a hook from the side of the shark's jaw. "Fuck," he says, working the pliers back and forth. "Fuck."

"...leave it in," says his friend.

"I'm not leaving a $2 hook," he says, and jerks back the pliers. Blood flows from the shark's mouth. It convulses, thrashing from side to side, unbalancing the Korean whose foot holds it in place. He swears and stamps down hard, once again pinning the animal. The European yanks once, twice, and extracts his hook, along with a long strip of fish-flesh.

The Korean with his foot on the dogfish grabs it by the tail and lifts it up. Its grey face and white belly are smeared with dark blood. It thrashes from side to side as the other Korean takes its picture with a digital camera. Pop of the flash in the failing light.

"Big fucker," says the European with the pliers to his friend. "Fucker tried to bite me."

The Korean with the camera retrieves a black plastic garbage bag from a bench and holds it open. The other Korean guides the thrashing, bloody dogfish inside, ties the top of the bag with a clumsy bow, and sets it down beside his bait-box.

The Europeans drift back to their own lines. The Koreans lean beside one another on the pier railing. The one with the camera shows his friend the picture he took on the camera's display screen.

The garbage bag still twitches from side to side. No one acknowledges it.
- posted by cjb @ 8:41 PM