Pensacola Zoo

Part 1 - What the Good Fish Said

I was inspired to dust this one off after reading Knightwriter's beautiful collection, 'The Golden Key'. In the chapter called 'The Lake of Sorrows,' she writes: "I am amazed to hear fish speak; fishy gossip give the clues I seek."  And that little spark is the reason I pulled this one out. Thank you, Kay.

The monkeys at the Pensacola Zoo are maniacs. There's no other way to dismiss their behavior. Traumatic events fill our lives and visit singly or crash into us like so many waves. Midnight thoughts and death dreams aside, some experiences so shape the soul and heart as to become individually ingrained as self. Fortunately or unfortunately one of my childhood experiences in Pensacola came to mould me, to quake and shake the foundation upon which my self-image had theretofore been built. For had we not been at the Pensacola Zoo that day, I probably would not have subsequently taken on the occasional behavior of a common ape.  

Animal behavior has manifested itself in me in various ways over the years. But having experienced that day a raw ape-human experience firsthand at such a tender age, life was never again the same. For, since that day, animals looked and acted differently toward me. For one thing, we began talking to each other.

I like animals and always have, but have never been convinced they like me. Even the lowly fish and I have had difficulties. As a twelve-year-old kid fishing with my grandfather, I first learned that my relationship with fish was a bad fit. This in later years would evolve into what my Buddhist buddy would call "unfavorable, conflicted animal karma". But back then, I thankfully wasn't yet acquainted with such things. So it was with pure joy that afternoon that Pa and I were having a go at some striped bass.

"Danny," Pa said, "we've got the legal limit, I reckon we should push on home."

"Do we have to?" I complained. We've got another two hours of daylight and plenty of fish out there for the taking. Might as well just pick up a few extras."  

Pa squinted at the sun, still high in the summer sky. He was enjoying the afternoon as much as I and not eager for it to end. 

"Well, it is a little early and Ma's not expecting us for another hour or so. I guess it wouldn't be too bad to take in a couple more. Ten more minutes and then we'll go. We're gonna need some time to clean 'em up. This mess of fish ought to last a month of good eating." 

I smiled in agreement and Pa and I threw our lines back in the water. We hadn't been at it two minutes when we saw a man about a hundred yards out with a green uniform and badge on his cap walking towards us at a good clip.

"No worries," Pa said. "He ain't a ranger."

Then he squinted a bit harder and I heard him whisper, "Shit-fire," under his breath. That was one of Pa's favorite expressions, but used only under the most dire circumstances. He did a quick survey of how many fish we had. "Hurry," he said. "It is a ranger. Start cutting those fish loose...a lot of 'em and quick!"  

The boat rocked with nervousness, water splashing as I sprang into action. Pa did his part, too. The man walked faster as the path descended and he was coming towards us with obvious purpose. We'd heard the fines for over-fishing were steep. Our hands flew like engine pistons. 

Cut-dump, cut-dump, dump-splash, ca-whoosh.  

A lot of fish went overboard and they went quickly. 

And then something very strange happened. Every one of those fish; every last one, looked me straight in the eye and thanked me as I cut them loose. "Thank you, Danny," they said. Then they finned themselves under water and blew bubbles to celebrate their unexpected freedom. I don't know what caused the bubbles, but later figured it might have just been fish farts. 

By the time the man was within twenty feet, we were safely under the limit. I felt sick and relieved at the same time and was white as a cod from nervousness. 

"How ya'll doing?" he hollered in a friendly voice. "You catching many?"  

The bastard. Obviously patronizing us before the big bust. He drew closer and we got our first good look at him. A rangy, athletic fellow, well tanned with long sideburns. The picture of authority; a model of wildlife enforcement. Then we got a closer look at his uniform and realized with shock that he wasn't a ranger at all, but a Texaco gas station attendant. 

"Not too bad," Pa said in his lackadaisical manner, then casually spit over the side of the boat and added. "We've done better..."