Be Careful What You Fish For

by Wilkinson Riling

Every fisherman worldwide has a story of the one that got away, but in his seventy years, as one of his village’s most reliable providers of fresh fish, Pi Leung knew no one would ever believe the tale he could tell of today’s encounter. It’s a story that begins before dawn on a rainy day by a Pearl River tributary along its shanty stacked embankment where neighbor pressed against neighbor leaving little room to even turn to safely sneeze, or at least that’s how tight it felt to Pi.

Each home sat fronted by a fishing skiff docked in silent patience awaiting the rising tide. The scalloped gondola’s, with their wooden roofs and single oars locked in place, were alined stern to bow floating up and down rhythmically while the mild current passed as if a large snake swam beneath them heading downstream.

Rain usually meant a bad day for fishing, but Pi, a man of stubborn habit and faith was compelled to venture out. Habits learned from his father, plus a faith he had in himself because of those learned traits, had served him well. They helped him provide for a family which once included a wife, now made up of a son and a daughter-in-law and a grandchild.

The fishing yields of late had tapered off. To make money, the child’s father, his son, had taken a job at a textile mill fifteen kilometers inland. His son would be gone for days, returning on at month’s end usually bringing back a treat for the boy and linens for his wife and metal for Pi to fashion more hooks for fishing. Pi’s own wife had passed several years ago from pneumonia. A day didn’t go by where he didn’t long for her to be in bed beside him keeping him warm, sharing a comfort that comes from years of trust and love.

Today was different. There was an added pressure that threatened Pi’s very abilty to think straight. It took a focused concentration for him to fight away tears threatening to break the emotion controlled levy that held his normal stoicism. His grandson had taken ill and feverish in the night. The boy had attended his first day at school only the day before. Pi and the boy's mother worried another measles outbreak was on the horizon. His grandson’s eyes indeed were red, but there was yet to be any signs inside his cheeks of the Koplik spots that accompany the illness. This kept a spark of hope in the grandfather’s heart that it was nothing more than reaction to an infection yet to be determined. One in which there’d be a simple medicine for. Yet, in order to afford that medicine, Pi knew he needed to bring home some fresh fish to barter with.

In the cold drizzle of the dawn Pi held a lantern to lead him to his boat where he checked his equipment; hooks, line, netting, and bait. For bait he used the larvae of the Chinese Moon Moth. Pi learned from his father it was most effective as bait when it changed from it’s early orange/brown hue to it’s bright green and white pattern. The brighter colors seem to attract the bigger fish. Over many years, Pi Leung has had much success with this insect on the end of his line.

With gear ready and stowed, Pi took the single long handled oar from the forcola, slid it into the rear oar lock, and pushed off silently into the cold gray drizzled river.

The oar, acting like a giant fishtail, hung from the rear as Pi Leung stood tall at the stern paddling and leaving a gentle wake behind that would absorb the circles of raindrops with each stroke. Pi guided his fishing boat lit by the lone lantern along the tributary of the silt laden Pearl, past the leaning shanty’s with its fishermen still asleep in hammock and bed. Pi kept his strokes small and silent. He wanted to be sure no one was following him as he made for the secret fishing spot his father had shown him all those many years ago, and if the fates would cooperate, he’s be able to one day show his grandson.

Three miles down river there was a snaking canal off to the side that drifted beneath the umbrella of a banyan tree. The superstitious avoided this waterway that meandered through the thick foliage of bamboo, cattails and greenery, finally emptying out into a reservoir. In this man made lake, two boulders of varying size rested in the center. Together they resembled a large turtle, head and shell respectively. It was a place believed to be haunted.

The two mile wide reservoir had been built at the turn of the century to provide fresh water for the lower provinces in the valley below. In order to build it, an entire population of a small village was relocated, then the hamlet flooded over. There was rumor, the injured, elderly or infirmed who could not make the trip, were left behind to drown in the coming headwaters. The reservoir was said to contain evil spirits and was avoided by the fearful.

The rain was letting up when Pi Leung stowed the oar and set to drift just off the rock formation. Climbing through the boat he went to work preparing his bamboo rod and line. Fishing suited Pi Leung well. There was meditative state he achieved, spooling the line onto the wooden reel, threading it along the pole and eventually eye balling it through a hook and tying it off. Pi’s weathered fingers worked like a skilled guitarist plucking or strumming a single string.

Today's target fish was the wild yellow croaker, so beloved by gourmets and guaranteed to bring in the best price. Ordinarily, Pi would be joined by his son and along with other boats. They would trawl the outer shoals of the Pearl for the once plentiful fish. They would actually listen for the fish. The yellow croaker has a sonic muscle for bouyancy control. When a school passed by, the fishermen by listening carefully, could hear the fish even be able to tell which direction they were heading and where to cast their nets. No one knew why fish yields have not been as plentiful of late, and with his son away, Pi knew he needed other places to make his catch.

Usually worn to protect from the sun, the brim of Pi’s triagular dǒulì dripped with the last few raindrops of the day landing in the bit of water that had gathered on the floor of the skiff. The cold puddle chilled his sandaled feet providing him an alertness to complete his preparation despite an underlying weariness. Pi Leung made his way to the bow of the boat. In wide whipping arcs the bamboo pole whistled in the air, creating the only noise in the immediate area. A final whip sent the bait and hook sailing thirty yards out from the boat dropping it straight down to land on the water’s veneer, sending concentric circles rippling out like a flower rapidly blossoming. The line itself lay gently down on the surface until the weight of the hook submerged it beneath the dark waters.

Pi barely had time to sit when the tip of his rod vibrated and he felt a bump on his pole. He held his breath awaiting another bump. It came, slightly smaller than the last. Pi sensed a fish was inspecting the delicious larvae trying to make a decision. There was a third pull on the line and instinct took over as Pi locked the bail by yanking the pole up and back while setting a foot to the bow’s front seat.

What happened next caught Pi completely off guard. The line went rigid, the pole bent in a bow-like arch. The whole rig was thrust from his hands. The pole was in danger of going straight overboard when the reel itself caught the edge of the wooden seat. The seventy year old man’s hat fell off as he lunged forward and grabbed the pole, his frail body splayed across the boat. The line was taut and now the boat started to move. Whatever fish Pi had on the end of the line, it was large. It was now pulling him and his boat around the turtle shaped boulder in circle after circle leaving a much bigger wake than the one he arrived with.

Pi’s years of experience kicked in. He managed to pull back on the pole and use that tension to lift himself to his feet. He took a step forward and then lowered himself into the wooden slat of a seat. He pressed his cold, numb, sandaled feet against the bow and leaned back as he started to reel in line. The boat no longer encircled the rocks. It was heading across the reservoir for the opening of the canal. Pi sensed if it eventually got to open water he might lose the fish. In a series of rocking and reeling motions, Pi pulled the fish closer and closer to his skiff.

The smooth waters ahead exploded as a fish, three meters long and bright as gold, broke the surface and flayed trying to shake loose the hook from its mouth. The spray from the splashdown wet Pi’s face. Fifty yards from the canal entrance the boat drifted almost slowing to a stop. The fishing line hung straight dow. Pi knew he had exhausted the fish. By the soreness of his own muscles he knew he wasn’t in much better condition.

Now it was just about hauling up the dead weight. Maybe it was only 50 pounds but at this part of the fight it felt like one hundred and fifty. Pi looked down into the inky depths and he saw it coming to the surface like a golden treasure.

It was the largest croaker he had ever seen in his life, only this one wasn’t yellow, it was gold. And not the gold of some carp or goldfish, this was a glittering gold, like a temple idol. Pi wasn’t sure if his net was big enough to bring it aboard. He reached for his gaff and hooking it by the mouth raised it and dumped it onto the floor of the boat.

“Ow! That hurt!” A voice protested.

Startled, Pi stumbled backwards dropping the gaff and fell into the well of the boat. Pi popped his head up and scanned the lake looking for the source of the voice. It was empty.

The fish flopped and spun in a circle. “What did I ever do to you?”

Pi’s sense of reality was rocked by waves of confusion. “Y-You can talk?”

“Several dialects of Mandarin if necessary. Now do me a favor, remove this hook and let me go back into the water.”

Pi looked at the talking fish, at the water, and back to the fish. “No way. I cannot do that.”

“Why is it you cannot let me go? Simply remove the hook and toss me overboard.”

“I need the money. A fish your size will bring me more than enough.”

“I am not just any fish, can you not see this?”

“True. I have never met a fish that speaks. Also, your Golden hue is much more impressive than the pale yellow croakers I normally catch, plus your size is incredible.”

“That is because I am a magic fish! My magic comes from the unrequited hopes and dreams of the villagers of Turtle Rock lost in the flood.”

Pi had heard the legends of haunted, magical fish who took on the spirits of the lost souls when the reservoir was formed.

“What kind of magic is it of which you speak?”

“I can grant thee a wish! Any wish your heart desires. You say you need money? Release me and I shall fill your boat with gold from stem to stern.”

Pi Leung was no one's fool. He had heard, even told, his share of fairy tales and legends to know one thing; every story comes with a price.

“You think me a fool, Golden Fish? I no sooner release you and have my wish granted that the weight of the gold you give me sinks both me and my boat. I have no desire to join the other ghosts at the bottom of this reservoir. You’ll have to do better than that! My grandson is sick with fever.”

“There you go! What does your grandson suffer from? Wish for a cure and I shall grant it. Once you return me to the water, of course.”

“I’m not sure, it could be measles. Couldn’t you just give a blanket cure?”

“I prefer to be specific.”

“I know why. You will magically cure him of measles while being sure he catches malaria at some point. I’ve learned many years ago, careful what you wish for.”

“Okay, how’s this? Wish for your grandson to be cured and live a long healthy life. No strings attached there.”

“That sounds fair.”

“But you must toss me back first. You must trust me. And you must hurry.”

Pi Lung looked the magical fish in the eyes. It’s gills sucking in air waiting for it’s arches to collapse. He bent over and pried the hook from its jaw. “Better?”

“Much.” The fish answered.

Pi Leung cradled the fish and lifted it and stepped to the side of the boat readying to toss the fish back.

“It’s my dream to teach my grandson to fish. I can’t wait to bring him back here and tell him the story of how his life was saved.”

The fish looked up at Pi. “Wait a minute. I never said anything about you and him ever fishing together.”

Pi frowned.

It was late afternoon and the Leung family shanty was alive with the sound of a child playing. The smell of shrimp sauce made from milkfish filled the house. Eight-year-old Yung Leung, played with a spinning top on the floor setting it to bowl over wooden carvings of Chinese soldiers his grandfather had made for him. His mother, Lee, sewed quietly near a futon. The door opened and Pi’s son, Wong, home for a few days, entered bearing gifts. They ran to the young father and hugged in a ball of warmth and the joy being reunited brought. Wong looked up. “Where’s father?”

Lee looked to the ground. “Yung had a terrible fever last night. It broke in the morning but not before your father insisted on fishing despite the rains.”

Wong looked anxious. “And?”

Yung smiled and said, “When he got back he kicked us all out of the kitchen insisting he was going to make us the best dinner we ever had.”

With that, the door to the kitchen swung open, Pi Leung gestured for them to come. “Welcome home son! You’re just in time for the feast! Let’s eat.”

On the kitchen table on a wooded platter lay the largest fish any of them had ever seen, surrounded by vegetable garnish and drizzled with shrimp sauce, the golden color of the magical fish hadn’t lost it’s hue in the baking process. It's eyes, dead, stared up with a look of surprise. Lee spoke up. “That is too much for us to eat alone! We should invite the relatives over.”

In these Chinese fishing villages where each shack balanced on pylons lean and are pressed up against each other, everyone knows everyone and everyone is considered a relative.

"Relatives?" Pi Leung sighed, “Next time I’ll be more careful what I fish for.”