There were men standing up here that day and they could see what he was up to and one or two of them were slowly licking a lip at the thought of the drink at the funeral. But they said nothing and they watched to see what he would do.

Birds aren’t afraid of a man in the water and where he fell was where he had been throwing the pieces of fish and they continued to pick at the fish and they started to pick at his hair and his hands as he splashed to try and find where he was. The strength of the birds’ beaks drove him quicker under the water, he was going under anyway with the weight of his clothes but those beaks are sharp and they tore at his hands and his blood started to flow in the water.

As he went down under the surface he remembered how quickly he had caught the mackerel and his mind filled with how thick they must have been in the water and as he started to float down with the weight of his boots he said it was if he was caught in a wind of silver light as the fish were around him and he could feel them crowd upon him and as he closed his eyes and let himself go. And there was nothing so soft then he would feel again as the press of those fish as they swam over and around him and his bare face and his hands were filled with the passing of those mackerel.

Well he was a feckin’ fool for those fish and then he kicked off his boots and was able to grab at the side of his boat. And the men up here they watched as he hung on for a time and then pulled himself in. He sat still in the boat for a while and then he rowed it back into the pier. He took himself home after that and it was only later, ardent in drink, that he spoke of the mackerel and how the mass of them had carried him back up to the boat.

So if you see him like that asleep in the sun he’ll be dreaming of mackerel and their feel as they swim past his face there in the water.

We were quiet then for a while and drank at our pints and the man lying there grumbled again in his sleep.