A small motor boat floated alongside its dock, held on by a frayed rope, and it waited patiently for its fisherman to arrive. It never had to wait long, as he always arrived the same as he did this day, in the subtle morning light. Crunching leaves he treks down the hill with his fishing rod and layer upon layer of clothing on his back. He greets his boat as he always does, silently and straight-faced. If the boat could feel it would know that he cared only based on the way he touched it, gently and with utter protection. The fisherman loved his boat as a man loves his dog, as a best friend, loyal and reliable. The boat loved him too. The fisherman knew that because of how it held him, and how its motor never gave out even when he abused it through storms and fog.

This day began like every other day and the fisherman silently set off from the dock, leaving behind his land-life. He set off thinking that if he had to describe his life on land he probably couldn't. To him it meant nothing unless his boat was beneath him, his friend and chariot. He knew other men, mostly from childhood or from out on the water, but he rarely made new friends and those who knew nothing of him often found him to be distant, cold and vapid. This fisherman walked numb on land. His only joy was to feel the cold morning air as water rushed away beneath him. On some days he almost felt more like a boat than a human. When he walked home at night he felt that he too, was tethered to the dock by a frayed rope and it would pull tighter and tighter as he left.

But then of course, there were the fish, and that was worth it for him to be human. To him, catching fish was as natural as waking up in the morning. Just the action of catching them made him feel more nourished and alive. Though, he never ate them, out of respect. If the boat were his best friend then the fish were his brothers and his teachers. They taught him about freedom and purity. They taught him self awareness and self respect. Because of them he was more aware of his body in relation to the earth, the moon and the tides. He realized that he too, like the fish, felt more wild in a storm and calm during a sunset. Each time one bit onto his hook he learned something about being alive, being hunter and hunted. He felt that he could go on living each time he hooked a fish, and if he had a day without one, he felt weakened and as unsure about life as when he began the day.

Today, he cast his line by a rock not far off the shore. This, he knew, was a favorite spot among the fish in the early morning stillness. And as predicted, he didn't have to wait long to feel a tug at his line. When he felt a sure second bite, he yanked the rod upwards quickly in order to hook the fish well, and then let it down a bit as he reeled. The catch was like a dance between man and fish. The fish ran with the line and the man pulled it in closer. Let it go, reel it in, let it go, reel it in. Like a mantra to the fisherman he was perfectly at peace. It was this same mantra that came to mind each time he experienced pain or sadness in his life, even as a child. The fish dance was almost religion to him. When he had reeled the fish as close as possible to the boat, he knelt down and grasped it with his hands. It was upon touching the fish that he felt most respectful of it. 'Thank you, thank you, fish', he thought. Thanking it for the dance that was his therapy and his understanding of life.

This happened many more times as the day went on, and fish piled up in the livewell where he kept them. The fisherman did not like to think of the part of the day when the fish are sold at the docks. He tried to suppress the memory of the greedy faced Japanese fish mongers who would surely be waiting at the dock. Instead he looked at his fish, admiring their silvery skin, reflecting like glass in the early rays of sunlight. He gazed at them and thought what a sorry role it was to be a man. To have to sell the beautiful creatures in order to survive. He wondered if they would do it to him, if roles could be reversed. He asked them, "Fish, would you sell me to the Japanese?" In response, they laid motionless aside from the occasional fin- flap, and blankly stared at him with one eye. He could be romantic, but he was not stupid and he knew if roles were reversed, he too would be sold away at the docks. Such goes life and survival. He grinned because of his own predicament and because of the pleasure he felt when he thought of himself as a fish.

Low and behold, as the sun began to rise in the sky, thus came the time of day to sell the fish. And the fisherman head for the large commercial dock where all the Japanese men gathered to buy fish. They always expected him and knew that he came in good supply. They respected him and wanted his fish, so they left him alone, understanding the sensitive line between catcher and buyer. The fisherman did not know that in Japanese the men referred to him as 'eel'. They said this because of the tiny rock barriers that eels build around their caves in the sand. They thought the fisherman had some kind of rock wall around himself too. "Mister Unagi!" they'd cry out each time they saw his boat approaching, and giggle for minutes afterwards.

The fisherman pulled up to the dock and ignored the men as best he could until he absolutely had to face them. He knew that they found something about him funny because their laughter always resonated off the water as he boated towards them. But he also knew that they respected him some-what, or at least feared him, for they silenced themselves almost completely by the time he reached them. In the end the dock experience was never all that bad for him. He recognized most of the men and knew, for the most part, who would come for which fish. It was their eyes that bothered him most. The way that their eyes looked at his fish, as if they were porcelain sushi knives already cutting the fish apart. Sometimes there actually were men eating fish at the dock armed only with the sharpest, cleanest knives and sauces for dipping raw bits of fish. The fisherman averted his eyes as if a part of himself were being eaten as well, it was too sickening to watch.

Today there was someone new at the dock, a young girl walking back and forth. Perhaps the daughter of one of the fishmongers. She stood out because of her innocent demeanor amongst the fish-hungry men, and it was odd for the fisherman to see such a clean and pure looking young woman in the bloody, smelly setting of a commercial fishing dock. Even more surprising to him, was the ease at which she approached him and his boat. "Which kind of fish did you bring?" she asked with a curious pitch to her voice. The fisherman looked around, everyone was already too busy to notice her. He exhaled in annoyance and answered, "Bonito, fluke and blue-fish". "Mmm", she responded, "Bonito is especially delicious". His face twisted slightly and he grunted "I don't eat fish". She swayed back and forth, hands behind her back, un-phased by his cold retort. "But why not?" She asked, and a piece of her black hair fell slightly off of her shoulder.

"Because I respect them", he said, hoping that she would go away. He made a special effort to line up the fish right by her feet and to wipe his boat clean maybe a little closer than necessary to her, testing what it would take to scare her off. "So do I" She replied in a kind of baffled way. This time, he ignored her, realizing how he'd already given her more of his time than he usually does anyone. Still she continued, like a child does, "We eat fish because we respect them. Because when we eat them it is like being the same thing. It's like we get to be the fish and the fish get to be us." The fisherman listened a bit more intently, "To eat them is almost to be the ocean for a second too, where all the fish and the other fish-eaters live, and we get to feel all of its power!".

He stopped pretending to be occupied and looked directly at the girl.

"How do you know that the ocean is great and powerful? You're just a little girl. You couldn't know the ocean as I do".

"I could." She said. "My father has eaten and sold fish his entire life. If the docks were empty than our stomachs were empty. If the docks were full, well then we knew what it must be like to be the ocean, big and full of life!"

"My father told us that we could never be unfulfilled knowing that our bodies are like the ocean. And fisherman, you remind us!"

Just then he girls' father caught sight of her talking freely to the fisherman and he yelled something in Japanese, to which the girl went running off like a guilty puppy stealing food. The fisherman stood in awe of the girl's insight. He was amazed that he had never thought of the ocean in relation to himself and his body except to envy it. And that it had only taken one simple conversation with a young girl to change his entire point of view. How selfish he had been to want something other than the ocean he already had within himself. And how cruel for him to have looked out on the mongers as if they should feel any less pride than him. For a moment, he felt that he was one in a group of living things. All these things existing together on land, and in the ocean, in Japan and in America. And he wasn't alone because he stood with an intelligent young girl and they both had the entire sea inside of them. He thought about how wonderful it was to be human, and to be able to feel the sea. For the first time, he felt his true value, as a person, as a fisherman, as the giver of the ocean inside.

But when the docks were empty, so was his feeling of fulfillment. The fish were gone and he could no longer see his friend, his little buddha, the young girl. All the clarity that he had felt only moments before was again a blur without her, and without them. Alone on his boat the ocean grew too vast and he felt lost in it. He shivered, unaware that what he was feeling were the first pangs of true human loneliness and hunger. He patted the boat, told it what a good job it had done as chariot that day, and motored away as his tether began to tighten.