Beneath the Surface

In a fish cleaning station near the equator, off the coast of Africa, summer stretches over the barracudas, their long mirrored-chrome bodies heaped like eel fillets, slung jaws gaping, red canine teeth exposed as if they still crave meat and muscle. Even dead, they are a melancholy fish, never satisfied, always wanting to bite off more than they can chew, their curious white eyes in a lidless showdown with an existence beyond the visible. Maybe they are the spawn of the serpent who prowled and tempted Eve, cast into the saltwater. They are terrifying and defiant, their pointed heads hammering towards the light, waiting for the first sign of weakness. The fishermen catch them hovering just beneath the surface. What is it like to die with your eyes wide open in the bright sun?