At the end of the bed, two tiny feet were excitedly poking from underneath the covers. The morning peaked through the blinds, slicing the carpet vertically with orange strips of light. As the sun slowly stretched towards the bed, gently goading the world to wake, two tiny hands brusquely rubbed sleep away. After doing so, the tiny scrunched up face returned its gaze to the ceiling fan. While Davy’s eyes marched around in circles, his mind was far away. The day’s possibilities orbited around him. He was finally old enough to go on a fishing trip. He felt like he was finally a man, finally part of his community. And maybe he’d catch a gigantic fish! And maybe the market would applaud him, pat him on the back as he hauled it to their stall. Maybe his dad would lift him in the air and say, “that’s my boy!” and parade him around to the other vendors. Yes, today was going to be his dream come true.

A holler from the kitchen knocked Davy from his thoughts, sending him crashing back into bed.

“Davy, get up! Your father’s almost ready. You don’t want him to leave without you now, do ya?”

And up he sprang. After bursting into the kitchen, Davy declared proudly, “I’m ready.” Without turning her back from the stove his mother accused,

“And your bed is made?”

He let out a frustrated groan but returned to his room and tossed the comforter over his mess of sheets.

“Done. Where’s Dad?”

“Still loading the truck–” and at the mention of the truck, Davy headed for the door– “Hey–nuh uh, breakfast Davy. Sit down and eat.” And she plopped a pile of scrambled eggs on his plate.

“But–”

A stern look from his mother cut his sentence off immediately. He quickly shoveled the eggs in his mouth and downed his glass of milk.

“Done. Can I go now?”

“Yes,” and she gently wiped the mustache of milk from his face. “But be careful and listen to your father.” She laid a kiss on his forehead, dismissing him.

“Davy, remember your lunches!”

Two brown bags sat on the counter and he snatched them up just before bounding out the door. The morning sun slapped him across the face. Through squinted eyes Davy saw his father loading up the pick up truck. He was a burly man, tall and sturdy. Dark sunglasses obscured his eyes and the thick mustache atop his lip hid any expression; therefore, it was impossible to ever decipher his mood. He didn’t address Davy; instead, he kept loading things onto the truck bed.

Cicadas hummed in the distance, the morning sun began to light the entire yard.

“Cooler, Davy.” And his giant hand motioned to the red cooler by Davy’s foot. He scurried over and clumsily handed it to his father. A grunt conveyed his gratitude.

“We’re leaving later than usual,” he grumbled as he slammed the trunk shut.

“C’mon.” And little Davy climbed into the back of the truck.

The windows were down and the early morning sun warmed Davy’s face. Wind tousled his hair. The radio was blaring some country song and Davy tapped his tiny toes to the beat.

At the dock, two other fishermen greeted Davy and his Dad, their hands busy with rope. To his dismay, a life vest was placed over his shoulders. None of the others had one on. He wanted to be tough, to be strong. He wanted to be like his father.

Once they were out on the water, his father began showing him what to do. His instructions were more visual rather than verbal, and Davy watched like a hawk. When he eventually felt a tug on his line, his father yelled,“reel it in, c’mon now Davy, let’s go, be strong!” And Davy pulled and pulled, tugged with all the might in his little frame.

“Don’t lose it now, boy, c’mon.”

And his Dad pulled the rod with him, his huge hands covering his own two completely. Finally, a plump red snapper was hoisted from the ocean. Davy’s hands began to tremble and he stumbled back in fear. The fish was spazzing, panicking, contorting itself in the air. He let out a terrified scream.

“Dad!”

The other fishermen laughed, “What, tell me, your son’s never seen fish before?”

“Not a live one,” he grumbled in response.

Sensing disappointment, Davy recomposed himself. The fish was slammed onto the boat floor and it flopped and flopped. Its gills flared, desperately searching for water. Davy came close to the fish as its movements slowed, its gaping mouth silently screaming. A huge hook pierced through its upper lip kept clanging on the floor as the fish jerked its body. But Davy’s eyes weren't on the hook, they were locked on its eye. It didn’t look like his own eye, it was a big clear orb with a dark black spot. But Davy knew it was looking back at him. The fish returned his gaze.

And while they looked at each other Davy began to cry. Tears silently stained his cheeks. He remained there, by the fish as the rest of the men continued to pluck fish from the ocean. The large white coolers steadily became filled with corpses.

“Davy, come here. Wipe your face and take back the rod. My boy doesn’t cry, especially not for a stupid fish.” He gripped his shoulder. “Be a man. My father taught me to fish, and his father taught him to fish. Now it’s your turn to learn.”

So Davy wiped his face on his shirt and held the rod in his hands, secretly hoping no more fish would grab the line.

But they did. And one by one the men’s rods made an awful screeching sound, calling out that another prize had been won. Each fish seemed to make one last desperate look at Davy. By now, his face was beet red and the vastness of the ocean crowded around him. The smell of fish continued to drown out the salty sea. The boat rocked steadily. A wave of nausea passed through Davy.

About midday, when the sun got unbearably hot, the men retreated to the shade and cracked open the red cooler. While they downed their beers, Davy sat to the side with his face pressed against the edge of the boat. His eyes darted across the shimmering ocean. Suddenly a dolphin fin sliced through the waves. Davy sat quietly, not wanting to alert the others of the dolphin. He was scared that the dolphin would also be put in the cooler. No, he couldn’t tell them about the dolphin.

After a quick glance of his watch, one of the fisherman said,

“We should start heading back.”

Back at the dock, they loaded the coolers onto the truck. They drove to their local fish market, the one Davy had gone to since he was a baby. But something was different today. Davy became completely overwhelmed by the familiar sight. Everywhere he looked there were bodies and bodies of fish laid over ice, their eyes frozen in fear.

As they hauled their bounty to their usual stand, waves crashed in the distance. Hundreds of seagulls were squawking and swooping down to the stands. Angry vendors waved them off, cursing the greedy birds. Seagulls answered with terrible squawks, telling off the fishermen. The yells of offers and lively bargaining filled the air.

Steve, a fellow vendor came over with a cigarette dangling from his lips and said, “Well someone looks upset…how’d it go son? Your Dad told me you were going out on the boat today. Catch anything good?” And then he turned to his father and said, “...or did he just gawk at the fish all day?”

“My son ain’t no wuss, look at this beauty. The first fish he ever caught. And its half his size. My boy’s carrying on the tradition, the family business. Ain't that right, Davy?”

Davy quickly nodded his head and returned to behind the counter. He couldn’t meet Steve’s eyes, so he looked down at the coolers.

“In fact, I was just gonna teach him how to filet the fish.”

His father got out the knives and popped open the cooler lid.

“Ah, here we are, your beautiful red snapper.” 

He plopped it on the board and began cutting the fish down until it became mere pieces of flesh, filets ready to be cooked. “Atta boy. Clean cuts.”

The knife was a delicate thread of silver that his father meticulously weaved in and out of the carcass. The disassembly was meticulous yet fast, his father’s large hands moved swiftly with routine. And a chill rippled down Davy’s spine as the blade made a metallic hiss against bone.

Afterwards, the head of the fish remained intact. And it laid there with its eyes, empty and dark. Davy felt tears warm his throat, his eyes locked on the fish head.

“Davy.” his father sternly called.

“Get away from the scraps, it’s your turn to do the next one.”

And he did. And to do so, he stopped looking in their eyes. He stopped thinking about the bones detaching from the flesh. He ignored the sounds of the scales being skinned. He wanted to be a man. He wanted to be tough. He wanted to be like his father.

After they had sold most of their fish, the two returned home. In the kitchen, his mother prepared the snapper with a generous amount of spices and lemon. Although it was a favorite dinner for Davy, he had no appetite.

As the food was served, Davy asked,

“Would you ever catch a dolphin?”

“What? Davy, don’t be ridiculous.” his mother scolded.

“Well, why not?” fear and confusion swirled in his eyes.

“Because its a dolphin. We catch fish.” said his father, annoyed by the question.

“Why don’t we catch dolphins too? What’s the difference?”

“Because.” He stuck another large piece of fish in his mouth.

“It’s a dolphin.” he sneered with his mouth full.

“Why do we catch fish?” Davy poked his food nervously, knowing he was pushing the topic too hard.

“So you can eat – now stop asking stupid questions and finish your dinner.”

That night, Davy dreamt he was the red snapper. And he swam and swam until he was hoisted into the air, and slammed onto the boat. He couldn’t scream, he couldn’t talk, he couldn’t run, he couldn’t leave. And he recognized all the men’s faces on the boat. And he tried looking at them, desperately trying to get their attention for they had made a mistake. It was Davy, not just a “stupid fish.” It was Davy! But they just laughed and left him to flop around.

“If only I were a dolphin,” he thought and continued to squirm. And on his side, he was faced with the beating sun. He looked deep into that white nothingness until everything was still.

His eyes opened and he was in bed, laying motionless underneath the ceiling fan.

“If only I were a dolphin,” he thought, still half asleep.

As he blinked away sleep, he quickly flung his blanket aside to look at his feet.

“No fins,” he confirmed.

Yet dread seeped into every inch of his tiny frame for he imagined all of the fish he’d have to kill again today.

“Davy, get up! It’s almost time to go!”

A heavy sigh, one far too heavy for a little boy like himself, left his mouth as he got ready for another day of fishing with his father.

Delaney Johnson is an honors alumna of the University of Florida. She graduated in December 2025 with a triple major in Italian, Linguistics, and Psychology. Delaney is currently in Northern Italy where she is spending three months teaching English as part of the “English for Everybody” program. In the fall, Delaney will pursue her masters in the Psychology of Language at the University of Edinburgh. Her poetry has been published in the undergraduate academic magazine Waves as well as in Poesia prima persona plurale in Italy.