I had a dream

I woke up this morning from a horrible dream. I left off cornering Tets in my grandmother's out building, pleading with him to tell me where my children were and him giving me that look that he reserves for folks when he is playing the martyr.

What a way to wake up. When he visits my stress level goes up no matter what he is actually doing. It's all that he has done and might do that puts me on edge.

In this dream I was leaving him, escaping to my grandmother's house; which is essentially what I did in real life.

Leaving wasn't easy. I wasn't physically abused but his mental difficulty with me and the actions he took to satisfy his intense jealousy and hatred of me did scare me.

He followed me to work, not at a distance, but right on my heels, getting into the same cab, pulling me back in when I tried to get out, finally I convinced the driver not to drive us and got out and continiued to the Skytrain.

He followed me up the escalator. I told him then if he followed me, I was leaving him. He continiued all the way to work. At work I called a big 6'3 Scotsman I knew, husband of a friend and an acquaintance of Tets, I asked him to somehow help me with the situation. They went out for beers that night but that was the extent of the help available.

He came home at all hours of the day from his work 2 hours driving time away to catch me in the act of cheating. The only person I was cheating on him with was our daughter who was less than one year old.

He went through the trash in the apartment building to search for clues of my supposed infidelity. I can't imagine what the guards thought of him. They knew my movements, who was in and out of the building; they had to have known he was crazy.

Finally, I had had enough and I planned my escape. I was supposed to be moving from Bangkok to Japan to live with his parents, Bangkok was getting dangerous, with a side trip home to the U.S. so I could visit my family. I changed the plans and moved the date of the flight forward, to Boston no return.

The day before the flight we had a councilling session. We had been seeing a relationship councilor for months before our first daughter was born. It was there, with our councilor, that I told him we were leaving the next day and not returning to Japan.

I would have liked to have use less shock and awe tactics but I was afraid. He had been so irrational lately, I had no idea what he would do. I thought that given only one day, he wouldn't manage to do much.

I can't remember that last day. I was so stressed out and scared that something would happen. My friends, the tall Scotsman and his big American wife, drove us to the airport. Tets came with us and saw us off.

When the plane took off, I was headed toward uncertainty but I had left behind crazy and was feeling much better.

When he visits these type of anxieties have a way of cropping back up. He unsettles me. I always look forward to his arrival, some time for myself away from the kids, but there is always the nervous feeling I get leaving them with him. I honestly don't think he'd take them away, his visits have shown him how incapable he is of handling them. But a part of him hates me so much he could do it for spite.

So I dreamt of leaving him and loosing the kids. It's not the first time. I can look across the road and see his car in my yard and I know that their passports are safely tucked away where he wouldn't look.

Fat of the land

I am preoccupied by something that really doesn't affect me: fat. Its a touchy topic no matter what side of the scale you are on. If you are fat then you become uncomfortable around those who aren't (although those people are becoming a minority group in North America). If you are thin you have to deal with how others look at you with disdain and envy.

I think about fat, read about fat and watch the media for any news about fat. I am not sure why? I used to be bigger than my current weight but I have never been fat and have never been on a diet to loose weight. I have, in my adult years, been satisfied and even content with my body despite it's many flaws.

It seems to me that it must be a cultural artifact in my psyche; this fat obsession. Perhaps a Lamarkian learned trait; my mother and sister were always dieting. Whatever it is, I know I am not alone in my preoccupation.

A room with a view

This afternoon while I waited for one child to take a nap and held my hand up to the other child to silence her while I was on the phone conducting an interview, I decided to take a night off. The father of my children is visiting and that gives me two more reasons to get out of the house: 1 I have a built in babysitter and 2 I can't stand to watch his ineptness with the children.

I took the shortest route to freedom I could find and walked across the road to The DesBarres Manor Inn. The manor house is huge and I am the only occupant; neither guests or staff are around. It seems like this might be an unsettling Shining-esque situation but it reminds me more of the nights I spent as the sole occupant of our small hospital when I was a kid. Then there were nurses but I still felt like a singular event in the house/hospital.

My intention has been to read and write without an ear listening for cries or the cessation of breathe. I have gone out for snacks and returned home for my camera only to find the kids sitting at my computer watching a DVD with their father no where in sight. I assumed he might call out when he heard the door close again but I heard nothing. Perhaps I should be worried. I am confident that my 5-year-old can keep things on track. Plus I can see the house from my room at the Inn.

I am on the 3rd floor of the Manor, my windows look out towards Guysborough Harbour and also across the road to my house. My house was built as an office for the lawyer that lived in this fine manor house circa 1837. My room here has a lovely big bed with a white comforter embellished with musical notes. There's a leather arm chair, a brocade armchair, bureau, writing desk, seaman's chest, and some other furniture including a TV which rather ruins the look of the room but most guests, other than me, prefer to have the infernal thing around.

When I walked in, what most took my attention was the bathroom. I love a good bathroom; the one I have at home would certainly not qualify. I took a shower and then a bath admiring how the upper most tiles had a nice motif. I noticed my reflection in the tubs enamel and pondered it. When I got out of the tub I saw myself in the oversized mirror and when I looked over my shoulder I was surprised to see how freckled my butt was. When did it last possibly see the sun? Overall, the mirror looked good to me. I've never been too fussy about that sort of thing but I have wondered recently if this almost 40 year old body is one I would willingly expose to the scrutiny of a young man.

Recently, there has been a young man that I feel might have been showing some interest in me. I stayed awake most of last night wondering if I was right in this assumption, if I would dare to ask him if he was interested, and if he said yes would I follow through? And then I wondered why I had to wonder about such things. He is single, I am single so why should I feel bothered about how much older I am than him? This has yet to be resolved but will be one way or another in the next few weeks.

And then there is Big Daddy. Hannah has desperately been waiting for her father's visit with great anticipation. She was more excited about daddy than about Santa. I was happy, and not in a generous way, when Hannah told me that Daddy was boring. I have been staying away from home as much as possible while he is here to both minimalise my annoyance with him and to help Hannah appreciate her mother more; both very selfish aims but it seems to be working. I have always represented him in an indifferent and often cheery light to the children knowing that given the proper amount of time and lack of care he would tarnish his own image in their hearts and minds. I am just surprised it has happened so soon.

While Big Daddy is here, I have been tooling around town, out and about more. This has provided some good blog fodder.

On Boxing Day I went to a dance at the Erinville Firehall. When I arrived with my recently reaquainted friend, a man who had I had dated 20 years before when we were both still in High School, we were two in a crowd of four. I was driving so I couldn't even drink to take the edge off the boredom and it looked like a long night.

After about ½ an hour and old friend of my friend showed up. He sat with us and the men took a walk down memory lane while my head swivelled whenever anyone entered the room. I searched the faces imploring them to be someone I might know or someone I might want to know.

Close to 11 pm the room started to fill. Mostly collegd aged kids home for Christmas. We sat and watched them. We sat and talked about them. The new old friend commented that he was once like them 15 years ago-now married with three kids ranging in age from 13 to 9. I said we looked like some movie detailing middle aged life. I wasn't ready to start singing 'Glory Days' just yet.

Eventually, I got out on the dance floor with the friend I had come to the dance with. I saw a few people I knew and danced with a young guy who I had recently put in the paper. While dancing with him I wondered if I would ever be the one looking back on the Glory Days or would I just keep living them. I hope it's the latter.

The following night I went out to the local performance center to see a band I had recently interviewed over the phone. I saw a few people I knew but had come alone and sat alone. At first I felt a little selfconscious about being by myself but after the music started it didn't bother me anymore. I talked to someone about some paper related stuff and fell back into the happy little niche I had made for myself in this town.

Yesterday, my vacationing friend and I went for a morning walk at TorBay beach. It was brisk and beautiful, a truly inspiring place. From the beach we went to visit a little waterfall near New Harbour; a small secret place. The roar of the water was devine and the smell of the trees is the best unbottled fragarance.

My friend and I have not seen each other in the 20 years before this past week and I think we have made a friendship that we certainly never had before in our hormonally charged teens. It's great to make old friends new. I wonder who I'll get reaquainted with next.

My Job

It has come to my attention, on more than one occasion, that people don't really know how a modern newspaper works. It seems likely that some people think we are still setting type and rolling ink. Although I know not all my acquaintances who wonder what I do at the magical paper factory will read this, I hope a few do and will have a greater understanding of 'My Job'.

I am going to start at the end...production day. This is the day when I inhabit the office for 10 hours straight editing the paper. Editing means reading through the entire paper, several times, looking for typos, misinformation or any other glaringly obvious screw ups; wrong font (size and type), incorrect names with pictures, etc. This is done on a computer in a program specifically made for magazine and newspaper publications. It's called InDesign.

On average we publish a 16 page paper but occasionally we go to 20 or 24 pages. By some quirk of the publisher, we always have to add four pages. And when we add those four pages we have to fill them. That is where the other side of my job comes in; as the writer.

Throughout the week I look for interesting things to write about. Some times it is glaringly obvious what I will write as in School Board meetings (dull and long) and Municipal Council meetings (dull and short). I attend these meetings and write an article which we then insert into the paper. Other pieces, aka articles, involve telephone or face to face interviews. I ask the questions, and write the answers in a hopefully skillful and entertaining manner.

That is essentially it.

At the end of production day, the graphic designer, who is the person who creates the ads you love and the layout of the paper, sends the paper to our publisher via the internet. There is no printing of papers at our office.

The following day, our drivers deliver the paper throughout the county; and it's a big county.

That's how you get your paper. But my work isn't quiet done. After production day I have one more job left; upload day. I take the paper and load articles onto our website and post the full paper for digital subscribers in a PDF file. Last week the PDF didn't work and I am the closest thing to a comp tech at work and I don't know how to fix this problem. We'll be seeking additional help in the New Year.

So now you know how to publish a newspaper; the Coles notes version. Just wanted to keep you all informed. It's my job.

A venting post: Big Daddy

Sometimes I wish I wasn't so damn nice. This visit of Big Daddy is really getting under my skin. I am not sure why but one possibility is that I have finally gotten over my personal fantasies about him-both the murder and marriage related ones.

Usually it takes more than 3 days before I want him out of my house and back in Bangkok but today he said something in conversation with my f ather and step-mother that just irked me to the extent that I can hardly look at him.

It was a discussion about his own parents; his mother is taking English Lessons in the hopes of one day meeting with her only grandchildren, my kids. He told his mom to keep living for 15 more years then the kids could travel and they could finally meet their youngest grandchild and become reacquainted with their first, whom they had known only as a baby.

My blood boiled. Playing for sympathy and martyrdom for himself and family-so unfortunate that I am not letting his parents experience the grandparent hood they so richly deserve and yearn for.

At first I was going to say nothing; let things slide- I didn't want a fight. But I hate having him always coming across as the victim in this relationship.

So I said, "I offered to take the girls to Bangkok last year to meet with your parents but you didn't want me to come."

He thought for a second and said,"Yes, well it's too dangerous."

I responded, "It wasn't at the time and that was not your reason for not wanting me to come."

He didn't pursue the line of conversation and nether did I.

Last year when I had offered to fly half way round the world and bring his kids to his doorstep, his reaction after thinking about my proposal for 3 weeks was, "You threw away Bangkok so you shouldn't come back here."

And now I had to hear him talk about how his parents had to live for 15 more years if they had any hope of seeing their grandchildren when they could have seen them in Bangkok last August.

Livid is not word enough to describe how I felt.
And now I have several more days of his visit and I have already had enough.

Cat Fight

The other day I was privy to a little cattiness on the wall of one of my Facebook acquaintances. My friend, had indicated how excited she was about a guest speaker she was hosting at work, another Facebooker, who shall henceforth be known as Cat Woman, commented:
Before you learned of Shauntay Grants' visit..did you know who she was and what she does?

My bitch meter was automatically alerted and I felt incensed for my friend. Why was this woman trying to take her down, question her intelligence? Why did she find it necessary to take something good, happy and bright and turn it into something hurtful?

Friend's reply:Yes.

Me: and even if she didn't, there would always have been a time in our lives when we hadn't known of her yet.

Cat woman: What???I'm going to only drink one glass of wine and read that again cause it didn't make sense with glasses or maybe it was just the grammar or lack of.

I can't really speak to my grammar, I don't usually have a grammatical filter on my Facebook posts. I am a writer but I need my spell/grammar check function. My grammar, was clearly not the point I was trying to make but I found it amusing that Cat Woman would take the opportunity to aim her venom at yet another woman, one she did not even know.

Where has this attitude of women against women come from? A friend of mine suggested there were some feminists theories about that but after a not very intensive search on the net, I have not found any profound answers.

Today I went to a memorial service for the national day of remembrance and action on violence against women. I had already started this post when I blogged off to attend the service and in the back of my mind I thought, “How can women expect men to respect us and afford us peace if we can not do it amongst ourselves?” I am not saying that catty women justify some male attitudes about violence against women, just that it is, in a small way, not helping the situation. It's hard to respect a group who don't respect themselves.

Women will never all get along but it would be fabulous if we could stop trying to pull each other down. One day an unknown woman pulled her car up next to my house as she was leaving the nearby tourist office. She rolled down her window and called out to me on my front yard, “That hair colour looks really good on you.” “Thanks,” I said.

I try to never miss an opportunity to pay a compliment, befriend a lonely soul, or speak up for people I feel are being denigrated. When I left the memorial service today, preparing to come home and finish this piece, there was a vibrant rainbow encompassing the Guysborough sky. Trite as it seems, it gave me hope that women might start being a little nicer to each other.

Thankful

I should be trying to finish my Nano project, writing articles for the paper or housework but I am going to take a few moments to write about Thankfulness.

I just got off the phone with Ryan MacGrath, a young musician in Halifax who I am doing a feature article on this week, and before I could write one word I was overwhelmed with joy. My life could not possibly be better. I am doing the job I was made for; working at the paper, raising the family I always wanted and living in a town that makes me smile everyday. How I got so lucky I'll never know. Life has certainly not always been this easy.

Just three and a half short years ago I returned to North America with no money or prospects. I had one small child and was expecting another. I was living in my aunts front room. I had no idea how I was going to take care of my family.

Things have certainly turned themselves around. After one year in the US I was forced to return home to Canada, it was not a choice I would have made if I'd had my druthers. I came back to my home town and lived the first month at my fathers' house with a 6 week old baby and a 2 year old. What was going to happen next?

Little by little things started to get better. I got some money both from the government and from my childrens' father. I moved into my own apartment. In the fall I started to work for my cousin as a babysitter. After working as a teacher and journalist for 10 years overseas, this was a big adjustment. My self esteem and prospects were both feeling low. I had a Masters degree and this was my job. I thought I would leave Canada as soon as the kids were of an age to travel.

Things continued to get better but not before they got worse. The following September I had no job. Money was very tight and I was very worried about how to keep food and heat in the house. Then, the perfect job for me was advertised in the paper; a writer of community histories was wanted. I interviewed for the job. It went great. I didn't get the position. WTF.

Several weeks after I had lost the job that would have been perfect for me I got a call and was asked if I was still available. The person who had got the job had left it for an even better job. I was quick to say yes.

I worked all winter and got my contract extended into the spring. The job finally ended in June and I was sure of another position with them in the fall. It was a good summer- free of financial worries and time off with the kids. Or so I thought.

Out of the blue, I got a call from a nearby university asking me to teach a summer course to foreign students. It was a short contract but the pay was significant. Again, I said yes and went to work at 6:45 every morning to drop the kids at daycare and pick them up after 5, arriving home at 6 or 6:30. It was a tough 5 weeks but getting back into teaching was good for me.

Now I really was going to take a break. I had my hours and was about to become a EI bum for the first time in my life.

Except, there was a job posted on the EI website for a graphic designer at our local paper. I know nothing about graphic design but have done lots of jobs that I learned on the fly. I applied. I didn't get the job. Instead I got hired on as copy editor and reporter-the job I was really qualified to do.

And so, now I am working on stories, raising my kids and loving my hometown and the life we have here.

Regards,
A very thankful woman.

Sick Kids

Yesterday one of my friends posted this on facebook,
‎'Do you have kids?' A blank stare in return. 'Do you have kids?' I repeat. She smiles, 'No, but I have a niece, so I understand.'
How the mother had the reserve not to hit the woman or at least scream at her is beyond me. That's more self control than I would have. And my friend, is not only a mother, she is the mother of a sick kid.

I have several Facebook friends, people who I really only know as acquaintances in real life, who have sick kids. The ups and downs of their mothering lives are often laid bare on the computer screen. And we, mothers of healthy kids, will never know what it is like.

As mothers, we do know that when those new lives come into the world everything changes in ways you could never have predicted. The constant need for attention, the responsibility for another life that rest on your should every minute of every hour. It's a daunting role to choose in life.

Mothers with sick kids get way more than than they signed up for, including a self-taught medical degree. Lots of time away from home (in hospitals), and a crash course in patient advocacy.

If they have other children, they are spread even thinner. Their outlines become translucent.

Their inner lives, their past life, a distant memory. Forget about being an artist or developing a career; there is not time for you.

My mother had sick kids. My sister had kidney problems that resulted in numerous surgeries before she was 10 years old. I had Grand Mal epilepsy which subsided when I was seven but was replaced with recurrent bowl obstructions which have persisted into adulthood.

Mothers with sick kids are not living the same experience as other mothers and it wouldn't hurt to remember that.

TV deprived childhood

This morning I was struck by the thought that my kids will never know the bliss of Saturday morning cartoons. I do not own a TV, but I do admit that I have a guilty yet pleasurable relationship with several TV shows via the internet. My kids however do not have that option. It's my computer and I rule it's output. Occasionally they get to watch holiday specials that I download and a Disney movie circa 1960 or 70 but that is about it.

Are my kids deprived?
Not really, they get viewing time at the babysitters' and at every other house they visit; cousins, grandparents and friends. Instead, our Saturday and Sunday mornings may start with any variety of play things. This morning was puzzles and books and I must say that I am proud of my kids and their ability to entertain themselves effectively.

There are times when I wish for the parental release of the electronic tit, but they are few and far between. If I could mutilate their little minds with technicolor commercials I might get more done in the span of a day. But for their sakes I don't.

I think they will have fonder memories of morning playtime than I have of mornings tuned into Switchback on CBC. Long live the TV deprived childhood.

Boo!

Another year has past and that night where the rules are suspended has withered away with the coming dawn. Halloween, where kids are propelled by their parents into strangers arms and homes, accept candy from the unknown and go home to gorge themselves on sugar while we all bemoan the obesity epidemic, is over for another year. My kids go to sleep planning next years' costume.

I woke up early this morning ostensibly to write this blog post but found 45 minutes of chores to do before one word was written. It's been a slow news week and as of this moment I have had no stories to file for the paper. I have not written anything all week.

Last night, after my hooligans, hyped up on sugar, went to bed, I logged into an old e-mail account where I had stored many writing files. I was pleased to find my thesis in among the scribbled riff raff. I don't have a copy of it and thought it was lost to me forever. I read little bits and pieces and felt an urge to return to school. I am so much smarter when I am there.

I also dug through some old hard copy files that were fortunately returned from Thailand without rot or ruin. There I found what I consider my fictional masterpiece. I usually don't write fiction. My imagination has atrophied over the years and I only seem to be able to deal with the facts. But there, in two copies, was Blueberry Fields on Mars and Dr. Blood. I sat back and read through the 20 or so pages I had written and was amazed. I might start to write fiction again and perhaps even finish this story. It's got potential. I felt excited reading it and remembered the late nights I spent watching my baby sleep as I pounded it out on the laptop next to her crib.

Now, I just don't think I have a 3 a.m. writing jag in me. I would feel too guilty about how tired and cranky I would be with my children the next day. When I think about all these women who do write successfully and have kids I wonder where they draw the line between the selfishness of the solitary world of the writer and the needs of their children. I wonder if I am lazy or inept but quickly dismiss that idea.

It's almost time to wake the children for another day and the dog is crying to go outside. If I feed him another tootsie roll I can complete this post.
This is Little Red Ridding Hood signing off.

Catch the light

Below is my review in the paper this week of our local theatre company's latest play.

This latest offering from the Mulgrave Road Theatre, in association with LunaSea Theatre, was a pleasant surprise. On the surface, a play about an unknown painter doesn't elicit excitement in the average theatre goer. Once I got past the extreme facial gestures and body movements, which I had forgotten were part of live drama, I settled in for a fun filled evening.

To Capture Light by Mary-Colin Chisholm had its' season opener on Saturday, October 16 at Chedabucto Place Performance Centre. Loosely based on the life of 19th century Nova Scotian impressionist painter, Frances Jones Bannerman, the play imagines the trials and tribulations of a young female painter caught up in the whirlwind of the Parisian art world. While focusing on the stereotypically troubled life of the artist; there is a nod to the added complication of her gender in this male dominated profession and era.

Though a thematically serious work, the cast including Mary-Colin Chisholm, Mauralea Austin, Martha Irving, and Sherry Smith, managed to garner their fair share of laughs from the audience. Smith was extremely amusing in her performance of several male characters including Oscar Wilde. The resurrection of the can-can by all 4 cast members charmed many theater goers as did the augmentation to the cast by the addition of dressmakers dummies which were twirled about as dance partners, stood as silent purveyors of art, and supplied a quick means of costume/character changes.

With all but one actor playing multiple roles, costuming was an important element in creating character. Quick changes backstage, an addition of a hat, and sometimes only an actors face atop a dummy gave the illusion of a much larger cast.

A linen backdrop with images projected upon it served as the set. I prefer something more elaborate and tangible but acknowledge that such a small group could not afford such frivolities. On the upside, this arrangement allowed the audience to view the artwork of Bannerman and her contemporaries.

The play ended with several minutes of applause from an appreciative audience. In this digital age where attention spans are declining, it's good to know that new works by Nova Scotian artists are out there to capture our imaginations and transport us from the 2 second sound bite.

Front Page News

What follows is my first front page story for our local paper:
The Guysborough Journal.

Billy Bond and crew land the big one

By Lois Ann Dort

CANSO- Living by the sea, we’ve all heard the story about the big one that got away, but have you ever heard a tale like this?

Bill Bond of Canso, skipper of the Melissa and Poppa III left last week for the giant blue fin tuna fishing grounds for the two-day season open off the shores of Ballantyne Cove, Antigonish County. He and mate Kenny Snow of Fox Island, set out at 6 am on Tuesday morning, September 28, not knowing the drama that would soon unfold.

About an hour after steaming out of Ballantyne’s Cove, the fisherman were baiting their hook with herring. The baited hook lying across the side of the boat was just too tempting for one fish. It pulled up alongside the boat and swiped the bait and the battle began.

Ken Snow manned the rod and played out the line to let the giant tire himself out, while Bill Bond commanded the wheel. “You have to be sure not to get the line nicked by the boat when you have a fish on; the tension on the line is so great that it will easily break and then you’ve lost your fish and a $300 spool of line,” comments Bill as he describes the one hour and 45 minute ordeal.

Although, the fisherman had seen the fish as it grabbed the bait, it wasn’t until they hauled it up alongside the boat that they knew the size of their catch. Bill Bond explains:

“It didn’t feel any different than any other fish we’d caught in the past. Sometimes a young fish will give you as much fight or more. We were surprised when we saw it.” And well you might be surprised to haul up a fish that weighed in at 1,110 pounds, the largest fish landed in the Gulf to date.

Bill Bond has been a fisherman all his life and has been fishing the giant blue fin tuna for the past eight years. He’s caught fish every season, most of them weighing, on average, between 500 to 600 pounds.

He’s seen some big fish before and heard of some fantastic payouts but things have changed in the industry in the past decade and he doesn’t expect to be buying a new truck on the back of this catch. “Years ago, in the heyday of the fishery, there was a father and son team that got 50 and 55 dollars a pound for their catch. Iexpect Imight get between seven and eight, it all depends on thequality of the fish and the quantity on the market,” says Bond. And the market is volatile.

Blue fin tuna caught in Atlantic Canada is sold by auction to buyers in Japan, where the fresh flesh of the big fish is a prized item on the menu of many sushi bars. This past spring, the market received a shock when the United States proposed a ban on Atlantic blue fin tuna exports to the United Nations wildlife meeting. The proposed ban was quashed but the threat to the fishery in Atlantic Canada has not disappeared. Fishing practices in the Mediterranean, where boats use nets that scoop up entire schools of blue fin tuna, have caused concern about the depletion of stocks globally.

Bill Bond describes the difference between the European fishing model and what happens in Atlantic Canada: Tuna fisherman in Nova Scotia pursue these gigantic fish with rod and reel alone, no wenches or other mechanical devices are used to haul in the catch, just pure sweat and blood manpower. The season in the Gulf is open for two days. In that time, the quota of 50,000 tons is met. We only fish mature tuna, although there appears to be more juveniles year upon year. As for the last of the giant blue fin-Ican’t see it. Everybody should be fishing rod and reel.

Atlantic Canadian fisherman can only hope that the rest of the world will adopt their fishing practices and conserve the giant blue fin while still prospering from it’s tasty flesh. This path will ensure that this is not the last big fish tale you read.