THE SUNSPOTS ON HIS FOREARMS are constellations in time. I considered how many hours he had spent baking in the sun, waiting for something to happen. Just how many mackerel had his hands claimed, how many sea trout fell to his cooler?
“Need anything else?” the man snapped, waiting for me to grab my beef jerky and make way for his next customer. That man’s arms are not unlike many of the arms I see, speckled with stories and, like any good fisherman or guide, filtered with lies. The line of skiffs sliding into the gas station before dawn load up with ice, REC-90, and junk food for another day in the sun. After a few waves,
