Thousands of highly prized, relatively expensive striped bass, were, in a rare feeding frenzy, suddenly there for the taking. You had literally only to throw bread on the water, bash the tasty fish on the head with a gaff and then haul them in. They were taking them by the hundreds of pounds. Every restaurant in town was loading up on them, their parking lots, like ours, suddenly a Coleman-lit staging area for scaling, gutting and wrapping operations. We worked for hours with our knives, our hair sparkling with snowflake -like fish scales, scraping, tearing, filleting. At the end of the night's work, I took home a thirty-five pound monster, still twisted with rigor. My roommates were smoking weed when I got back to our little place on the beach and, as often happens on such ocassions, were hungry. We had only the bass, some butter and a lemon to work with, but we cooked that sucker up under the tiny home broiler and served it on aluminum foil, tearing at it with our fingers. There was a bright, moonlit sky now, a mean high tide was lapping at the edges of the house, and as the windows began to shake in their frames, a smell of white spindrift and salt saturated the air as we ate. It was the freshest piece of fish I'd ever eaten, and I don't know if it was due to the dramatic quality the weather was beginning to take on, but it hit me right in the brainpan, a meal that made me feel better about things, made me better for eating it , somehow even smarter, somehow....it was a protein rush to the cortex, a clean, three-ingredient high, eaten with the hands. Could anything be better than that?