Flying Squid
I found this gem of an article in the paper today. Whereas I am still a little uncertain as to its provenance and whether or not it is a practical joke, it made me wax nostalgic for the skippy fish that used to shatter the surface of Gulf waters. Startled by what must have seemed from underwater a leviathan silently cutting through the waves, they would rise in fleets and clatter away from our gliding hull. Most mornings underway we would find a few stiffening corpora, winged fins outstretched on the deck. Despite our best efforts, our aging Siamese cat would have nothing to do with them, and they were summarily buried at sea. Though I have no intention of going as far afield as the Sea of Japan, my imagination is captured by an image of ranks of lavender squidlets, propelled like squirt toys on a jet of water, speeding across calm seas on gelatinous wings. Remembering the hard crack that the bony flying fish made as they smacked the hull, I easily conjure the wet slap that would result from such a collision with a flying squid. My mental menagerie is expanded, and I add the flying squid to the ranks of creatures that, while I may never see them in person, endlessly inhabit the warm waters of my dreams.
