The diesel engine of the fishery boat roared to life, a deep, thunderous rumble shaking the deck as if declaring war on the sea itself. Shark stood firmly at the stern, preparing to drop the nets with practiced ease, while Eddie, ever the strategist and never the laborer, turned and bolted for the bow. He had no intention of doing the dirty work.
As the fishing boat sliced through the waves, the silhouette of Farewell Island slowly faded into the misty horizon, replaced by the vast, endless blue of the Atlantic Ocean. The sea opened its arms wide to greet the tiny vessel of the BE Fishery, as if welcoming an old friend back into its embrace.
The salty wind brushed against Eddie's face, crisp and invigorating. He inhaled deeply, savoring the freshness, then raised his arms high and shouted into the wind like a triumphant hero on a mythic quest:
"Great winds will someday rise to carry me across the boundless seas! I am Eddie—and I salt my own damn fish!"
Shark, standing behind him, squinted in confusion. He didn't understand a word of Chinese, but he was used to his eccentric boss shouting strange things at the sea. To him, Eddie was a quirky but harmless sea god in training.
Still, the old fisherman had one concern. "Boss," he called out, frowning, "there's a swimsuit in the cabin. Go wear it. If you fall overboard, it'll help you stay afloat."
Eddie laughed. In truth, he felt more at home in the sea than on land. He didn't need a life vest—he could practically breathe underwater. But Shark was clearly nervous about his boss standing on the bow like a man ready to reenact Titanic.
To keep him occupied, Shark found something else to distract Eddie. "Ever tried eel trapping?" he asked, dragging out a peculiar bunch of tangled ropes, each knotted with bamboo tubes of varying sizes.
Eddie blinked. "What's this? Gourd soldiers? Are we summoning the Calabash Brothers?"
Shark grinned. "Nope. This is a traditional Torse net trap—perfect for catching North American eels. I'll slow the boat when we hit the right spot. Drop these into the water and wait. With the right bait inside, those eels will crawl right in."
Then he explained: Eels are ancient, mysterious fish. They grow in freshwater rivers but return to the sea to spawn, dying after their one and only reproductive act. Most species prefer tropical and subtropical waters, but the European and North American eel can survive in the cold.
Newfoundland's location—where the warm Gulf Stream meets the cold North Atlantic current—made it a rare sweet spot. Here, tropical, temperate, and arctic fish species coexisted in a rich, chaotic blend of marine life.
"In spring and summer," Shark said, "the eels migrate back to sea. They're not fat now, but they're full of roe. That's where the flavor is."
"So what do I do? Just throw these gourd thingies into the sea?"
"Exactly. Tie them down, and in an hour, we check. If we're lucky, we'll have lunch!"
Eddie did as told, dropping the traps into the deep water, then securing the ropes. Job done, he returned to watch Shark operate the trawl net.
Shark explained as he worked, "This is just a scouting trip. It's not peak fishing season yet, so we won't get many big ones. But we need to estimate potential yields. Every fish counts."
The trawl net had small mesh—too small for comfort in Eddie's view. "Isn't this kind of... unsustainable?" he asked.
Shark nodded. "Yeah, but don't worry. We're just sampling. Everything we catch today gets thrown back. In autumn, they'll be bigger and ready for market."
As the net was cast into the depths, Shark continued his lecture. "Dragging speed is key. For fast swimmers like cod or mullet, we speed up. For slower fish like salmon, we go easy. And the seabed matters too. Hard bottom—slow drag, or you'll rip the net. Soft mud—faster, to prevent sinking."
Then, as if remembering something vital, he slapped his forehead. "Damn, Boss—I forgot to give you the fishery equipment shopping list!"
He handed over a small, worn notebook. Inside, scribbled in shaky handwriting, was a list of essential gear: purse seines, bottom trawls, dredges, gill nets, traps, spears, hooks, harvesting machines, refrigeration units—along with brand recommendations, rough prices, and even placement diagrams for big gear.
Eddie flipped through it, occasionally asking questions. The technical terms were new, but fascinating. Time passed quickly.
The sea rolled on, the boat gliding smoothly. Blue waves stretched to the horizon, glittering under the midday sun. Despite the sameness of the view, Eddie couldn't get enough of it.
Eventually, he checked the eel traps.
Waterlogged bamboo tubes were heavier than expected, but Eddie yanked them up with surprising strength.
"Whoa!" Shark whistled. "Boss, you hiding a gym in your cabin? That's some power."
Eddie just chuckled and flipped the first tube over. A flat, dark-green fish flopped out.
"Greenland halibut," Shark noted. "Too small to eat, but tasty when grilled."
Eddie tossed it back and checked the next few traps. Nothing.
Then, finally, a dark, wriggling body tumbled out. Eddie held it up triumphantly. "North American eel! Looks over 20 cm—must weigh a full pound."
Shark leaned over. "Nice catch!"
By the time Eddie finished, he had two eels total—not much, but something.
Shark frowned. "Water quality must be declining. Used to get ten pounds in one haul. Now just two eels?"
Eddie wasn't surprised. He had sensed the truth long before. As the Sea God's chosen, his awareness extended far beneath the waves. The bamboo traps were nearly empty—and the trawl net wasn't faring much better.
But so what?
If fish were gone, he'd buy fry. If the sea was sick, he'd heal it. With hard work and faith, he would bring prosperity back to BE Fishery.
He would build an empire from these waters.
They dropped the traps again.
This time, as Shark moped, Eddie activated his hidden power—his divine perception swept through the depths, seeking out eels and subtly guiding them into the traps.
When they hauled the second batch, Shark gasped. Over half the traps held eels!
"Maybe things aren't as bad as we thought," Eddie said with a sly grin.
Shark was stunned. "It's like divine intervention. I haven't seen this many eels since I was a kid!"
Then his face darkened. "You know what's really killing the fish? The damn factories on the island. Chemical plants dumping poison into our water!"
Eddie froze. "Wait—we have factories here?"
Shark spat overboard. "Three of them: a plastics plant, a fertilizer plant, and one we suspect makes pesticides. They're destroying our home!"
Eddie tossed the eels into a bucket, then went to the cabin and poured two glasses of whiskey. He handed one to Shark.
"What about the town government?"
Shark shook his head. "They've tried. But the factory owners have deep connections. We protested, contacted media—nothing changed."
Eddie sipped his drink thoughtfully. Now he understood why Farewell Island's pollution was so bad, even far from the mainland.
But that wouldn't stop him.
He would fight for the sea.
Because this fishery—this ocean—was his destiny.