John Smith, 2023, Atavistic Fishermen, acrylic on mixed media, 76 x 120 cm
I remember slipping into a load of Black Fish in the boat when I was 14 or so. Black Fish seemed to lay dead still to the uninitiated. Their gills are razor sharp. And they boiled into a frenzy as my father dragged me out, blooded. Watch your step! I was also afraid of the swell rising behind the boat, thinking it would smash over us at any moment before it lifted us up and passively passed beneath us. And the gulls would follow us all the way across the bay if my uncle skinned Leather Jackets for them.
I remember asking my aunty why the men never got skin cancers, “…well there wasn’t a big hole in the Ozone Layer in those days John.”
The fishermen I grew up with were all preoccupied with the weather. They studied the barometer, considered predictions, and watched for any breathe of change on the water or a hint of something building in the air above that could herald a Southerly buster. And they drew on their atavistic instincts while I leant over the side of the boat drawing into the water with my fingers and watching the little fish flashing through the water grasses.
And now they have all quietly gone into what lays ahead and yet draws behind, like the wake trailing from the stern of the boat and dissipating, leaving us alone sailing into an unchartered future.