Bullseye Bob

The scene unfolding through his binoculars made Bob’s blood boil. There below his veranda, not a hundred metres from his beachside shack, bloody Bruno was at it again. Taking advantage of the low tide, Bruno could clearly be seen sawing large hunks off the pristine reef with a chain saw! Had he taken leave of his senses? By the time Bob arrived, puffing and heaving, other townsfolk had crowded around the chainsaw-wielding madman. Their anger was palpable in the stifling November atmosphere, but Bruno was unrepentant.


Fin Pederson strode the gangway purposefully and boarded Zephyr with a confident step. After fifty years of negotiating her pinewood decks, the Big Fin, as he was known, knew every inch of his trustworthy craft intimately. Seven decades young, Fin carried his solid frame lightly, with the deftness of a man half his age.

Turning his weathered face eastwards, he witnesses the first dawn rays highlight the township of Devilfish Bay. He tugged pensively on his white Viking beard, then turned his gaze westward, towards the big blue horizon. On this first day of the fishing season, he silently prayed for just one last safe voyage.

Fin knew instinctively that his days were numbered.