Personal Narrative - Catapulting Fish :: Personal Narrative Writing

Catapulting Fish I saw fish. We all did. Little silver-tongued fish the size of my palm were all lying sideways on the surface of the water. There were just a few at beginning, except they kept appearing. I saw a little boy stagecoach to a fish and ask his father well-nigh it. The boy knew the release between the fake shark and the real dead fish. I entered Amityville from the employee entrance. unspoiled past the break room there is a 7-foot-tall light forbidding wooden gate door. Even from there, I could smell it. I do my way up the stairs to the crows nest, wearing my uniform and nametag, and opened some other blue door. There inside was an old couch, stained and saturated with laguna water and the skippers sweat through the years. I swiped in on the while clock and went back down the stairs to the unload dock to swindle which rotation I had been placed in, and with whom. In the closet, on the west last of the unload dock there w as a dry erase display panel with the assigned positions for the skippers during their shifts. I do not remember which rotation I had that daylight, but I do remember how hard it was to breathe. When I bumped into my first rotation of the day, I discovered a little more about the disaster that accompanied the sharp chlorine-like stench. From the front of the ride, I could see months of roll up hydraulic fluid floating in metallic and neon modify swirls at the surface of the quaggy brown lagoon water. The water had been murky for as long as I had worked at JAWS, but that day all of the reasons for its usual questionable color and odor rose to the surface. The boat rounded the corner between the unload and load docks, and arrived at the shipment dock, where another skipper at a different stage in his rotation counted the passengers and closed the gate of my boat.