“Do fish have feelings?”

I remember where I was standing when I asked my dad that question, beside him at a low table with running water, my bare feet in the sand under the house by the beach. I was scaling the fish and he was doing the knife work, “cleaning” them. He said no, they don’t. Fish don’t have feelings.

I haven’t fished much since I was a kid. Last week though, I was fishing on a boat with family members when the question came up again.

My brother’s young teenage niece had been standing at the side of the boat, dropping lines into the water with everybody else. Like the smaller kids, she squealed with excitement when somebody pulled one in and put it in the bucket, flopping around. It was fun to watch their fascination, even the youngest taking delight in picking up and holding the wiggly things. Then, as she tossed the line out again, a thought crossed her mind and it wandered out into the air next to me.

“Do fish have feelings?”

The question took me back in time. A moment to decide: tell a truth or tell a lie.

My dad was an honest man. I knew him to be truthful, reliable, and straightforward in his dealings. He was respected for that, and he taught it as a virtue. I came to understand that there were exceptions around Christmas and Easter with the traditional deceptions, but he was a man generally to be trusted. That was probably why I let go of any misgivings about what the fish felt. The easiest path – in that case the path to dinner – was to let it slide. True or not, my child-mind took it as a working axiom that fish don’t have feelings. My understanding on the subject of fish feelings has changed over the years, joining the long list of uncomfortable truths we manage one way or another.

Her question hung in the air.

Instead of taking the mantle of authority and telling either a truth or a lie, I tossed it back to my father. “My dad told me no, no they don’t. He said fish don’t have feelings.”

I should have let it go at that. But you know me, I couldn’t. Thinking that at 13 she deserved a more authentic answer than I had gotten at 7 or 8, I added that my dad was just trying to be gentle with me then. Fish probably could feel what was happening to them.

Slowly, she reeled her line in, and went to sit alone. She cried.

We were at the Outer Banks of North Carolina. The fishing trip was a highlight of a beach gathering hosted by my brother Sam. Back in May he told us that that he won a week at a beach house at a church auction. It was a 6-bedroom home on the Outer Banks, a place we had loved going to during our growing-up years when Mom and Dad shared their love of the ocean, the smells of salt air and seaweed, playing in the waves and making sand castles while (in later years but sadly not early on) avoiding too much sunburn. October wouldn’t be the time for basking in the sun, but off-season beach living has its own special charm.

With six rooms there would be enough for our five families – Sam, me, our three sisters, and as a bonus Sam’s mother-in-law. She had recently arrived from Russia to visit her two daughters and of course her grandchildren. The kids call her Babulya, Granny in Russian. Along the way the party grew to include Sam’s sister-in-law and her family from Florida, so we had a grand gathering of up to 20 family members, from age 3 to… me.

Some of the best memories of my childhood beach weeks at the Outer Banks revolve around fishing and crabbing. On this trip we went out for crabs, luring them with chicken bits on long strings. We caught a lot of them, patiently over a few hours. All but a few, though, were too small to keep. We accumulated them in a cooler with a little water in it, small and large alike. They scrabbled and argued among themselves as to whose fault it was. Our plan was to throw back the smalls when we left. There were so few that were big enough though – not enough to cook a meal for one, let alone our mostly-seafood-loving group – that we just let them all go. They scurried off in all directions in the shallow water. Babulya was upset, saying that where she came from, “When we go out hunting and we get something, we cook it and eat it.” I told her they were all still alive, so they could go back and grow big enough to eat. Besides, their mommas would be happy to see them. Of course they have feelings.

The fishing trip was on our last day there, a few days after returning empty-handed from the crabbing. It was a bright crisp fall day and we were all up for the experience, especially sharing it with the kids. From a fish-catching perspective it was good too. We caught our limit of good-sized trout. There were other varieties that didn’t have limits and we got bluefish, spot, and pigfish that were big enough to keep. No one had a problem with throwing back the small ones and the ones that were not edible. Those included a blowfish, some sea robins with fins that looked like wings, and a few spiky lizardfish. After one such toss-back when the now non-fishing niece was standing near me, the little fish quickly shuddered and swam off and I remarked that if fish could think and feel like us it was probably saying to itself, “What the heck was that all about?” She agreed that it might feel confused and then happy.

When we got back to the house Babulya and my sister Allyn cooked up a fine fish dinner to close out a perfect day. Talk about fresh! Oh so good.

We had fish left over to take home. That is, the ones who lived just a short car ride away could take them home, ice-packed in coolers. That was how it was always done. Since Stormy and I were a long plane ride away from Colorado, we wouldn’t expect to do that. Nor would we expect Sam’s sister-in-law and her family to take a portion since they came up from Florida, and how would you pack it for a plane trip? Why, in the luggage of course! Why not? I brought up the problem of ice melting and Babulya said, “No Ice. Salt. That’s how we do. Here, I’ll show you.”

We rubbed salt all over the fish, inside and out. She told us, “When you get home rinse, rinse, rinse. Many times. And cook soon.” That would be enough to protect the fish for the journey, the way she learned as a girl. Just to add a little more assurance, I triple-bagged it in freezer bags and stuck it in the freezer overnight.

Stormy and I seldom check bags when we fly, but for a couple of reasons we had to this time. Off they went into the great unknown that lies at the end of the conveyor belt at the luggage counter, with the salted and bagged fish tucked in between the folded clothes in our suitcase. With a connection in Charlotte, our flights were right on time and all was well. I wondered how the fish were doing in their suitcase pack. One thing I didn’t have to worry about, in their current state they weren’t feeling anything.

It’s amazing how far the airlines have come in the technology of losing baggage. When we landed in Denver and got the OK to turn on our phones, American Airlines popped up on my screen with a cheery announcement saying our bags were still in Charlotte. Oh good, that would save us all that watching the luggage carousel going round and round, waiting in vain until they turned off the lights and started sweeping up. The notice said they’d bring them to us at home the next day.

Stormy and I looked at each other and said in unison: “The fish!”

The next afternoon, a guy with a shaggy white beard arrived in a beat-up Toyota with our luggage. He didn’t mention anything about stinking up his car. That was a good sign. You might imagine my caution in opening up the suitcase. To my surprise, no problem. The fish were cool to the touch, and smelled like fresh fish. I did a good rinse, rinse, rinse and we cooked them as Babulya had instructed: soon.

I don’t give much thought to the feelings that the fish went through. They provided sustenance and enjoyment in the form of fish tacos and two excellent trout dinners. “Bless us O Lord, and these thy gifts…” I bless the nature of life that sustains life, and am grateful for it. I count that among many blessings that included, on this trip, being able to travel; love of life and love of family; and the sensitive and caring nature of a young niece who reminded me about feelings.

Group photo on the boat by First Mate Cole. Other photos by our generous host Sam.