Help Me Cut This Fish. (1994)

Each Labor Day weekend my in-laws come to Houston for a deep sea fishing trip. This year, my brother Clayton joined us. We did not have a great trip, but towards the end of the fishing we encountered a school of bluefish. The deckhands assured us the fish would taste good, but required "bleeding" as soon as possible to improve the flavor. I began to hold the bluefish we had on deck, while Clayton, using his pocket knife, slit the tails of each fish for "bleeding".

Each fish we cut caused my hands to become increasingly slimy. Finally, we came to our last fish, which was still pretty lively. I was holding it for Clayton to cut, when my hands slipped and my fingers passed in front of the fishes' mouth. Unlike the wimpy freshwater fish, bluefish have a mouth full of razor sharp teeth. In a flash the bluefish ripped deep slashes into my middle and ring finger.

I released a string of expletives that my in-laws had never heard come from me. There was blood everywhere. The deckhands helped clean the wound as best as possible. The boat lacked a first aide kit, but we found a semi-clean rag and and wrapped my hand with electrical tape.

Seven hours later, the boat docked in Galveston. We drove back to Houston, cleaned the fish, buried the remains, and bathed, then redressed the wound using butterfly bandaids when the wounds required stitches.

And the deckhands were wrong. The fish still tasted like motor oil.

-Wayland