The fisherman doesn't choose the fish , the fish chooses the fisherman. All her life she rides the ocean's current, weightless, buoyant and playful. She circles the fisherman nimbly as he stand waist deep into the roaring ocean and swings his net with sinewy arms. His feet planted firmly on the sifting sand - his brow and arms and legs stinging ever so slightly with grain and salt. Patient , persuasive, powerful.
She carefully observes the fisherman cast his net, feels the swoosh of the net as it hits the turbulent water , and watches it as its pulled back out into his calloused hands. When the time is right, she surrenders herself and lets herself be carried away by the swoosh and gasps as she feels the wonderful emptiness of air in her lungs. She hazily feels the calloused but warm hands on her as she fades away- but she dies knowing what wind feels like.
She chooses to know.
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