Lionel's Guide to Fishing

She'd caught fish before. That summer when something lopsided happened to the tides, storms every night and the spit beach covered so often they couldn't get food to her for a week. After anything bigger than the piddly seaweed eaters who shoaled at the lighthouse base, stupid enough to bite onto nothing but the bear hook shine. She decked herself out. The black slicker, salt wrecked round the cuffs and base. Hat flaps, clipped back. Rough handed gloves, green boots to the knee. There was something splendid about it. Dressing up to fish. For a week, she cooked up feasts that lasted her the radio-filled nights.