Most of his contemporaries were content to swim around all day. It was easy and understandable. Sturgeon can live in their sixties, notorious late bloomers in a sea full of much shorter life cycles. But this sturgeon was different. He liked swimming, not that he had much of a choice.
He saw his friends caught up in trends and nets. Trends as in sneakers with lights on them. Nets as in fishing nets. He would never bite. It’s nice down here, he thought. Up there is strange, mysterious, and airy. He preferred to take his chances at the bottom. But he kept losing friends to the sunny surface. That’s when he caught his first glimpse of a line stuck on a neighborhood reef. He could make out the ripples of a small boat overhead.
This was his chance to get even, and more importantly, to get dinner.
The fisherman fell straight into the water, splashing and flailing as he went deeper and deeper. I don’t have to detail what happened next with the man and the sturgeon. Suffice it to say, revenge is a dish best served at water temperature.
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