On the shore, he would conjure a folding knife from his shorts pocket or boot and slice into the fishes’ bellies, but not before we’d walloped their heads on the floor of the boat to knock them dead. Then he’d hand us our bleeding fish, unzipped, and we’d run to the rock pools to shake out their guts. For a moment the mackerel steep like tealeaves, then the dogs from the beach come running in. They’ll go for your fish first but if you beat them off they’ll splash their snouts in the redded rock pools to get their guts.
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