Fish Oil
New York City is never far from the sea
When I brought my well-loved Subaru Crosstrek into Angel Auto Repair just weeks after moving to the untraceable seam between Williamsburg and Bushwick, I left with three fresh porgy caught by rod and reel that morning. It was a gift brought by fish talk—Angel noticed the trout and “Go Shuck Yourself” stickers on my bumper—and made the most tender fish tacos, if you know how to dodge the bones.
I returned to my new friend this week and found him beneath an old truck, motioning toward his fishing boat, Seamaster, parked beside the shop, retired for winter. The sight alone pulled the smell of salt from memory, where it mingled with motor oil and alchemized into something older, like shallow ancient seas. Angel shrugged and said, “That’s what we do, fish and work,” then called his friend John, who talked through a spotty connection about learning the water young, after his father put him on a boat to keep him out of trouble, and about how the ocean remains both his peace of mind and his grocery store—though lately, he said, the water hasn’t been feeding itself the way it used to. “The big fish no longer follow.”
Grinders shrieked. Tools clattered. Listening to them, I recognized the seamen I’ve grown up trusting. Those who know how to work the lure between abundance and excess, taking only what they need and leaving the rest for another day; a way of being as vital as the tides themselves.
“Today, how many [fish] we take is no longer limited by how many we can catch, but by how many there are left to be taken.” — Jonathan Balcombe