Flying Fish.

Some choose an unexpected but fitting place to die.
We were on passage between the Azores and Halifax when one night I heard a thud somewhere below. As it did not seem ominous and two people were asleep in the saloon, I did not investigate. Next morning we found a flying fish in the galley sink. It had struck the overhead hatch, which was ajar, and landed in the sink.
Unfortunately it was too small to be of use.
 
Well on a recent passage from Antigua to Guadeloupe there was clear evidence that there is no shortage of flying fish. For mile after mile there were regular multiple squadrons taking off from the bow wave.

The masked booby that stayed with us for a few miles flying just above the bow picked off the high flyers with some regularity.
 
I was on a night watch on a trip to Antigua when I got whacked on the back of the head by a flying fish. It went with the others collected on deck to make a fine breakfast.
 
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