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I caught a fish when I was six. A torpedo-shaped, oily mackerel with a dark patterned back and silver belly had taken the bait and was tugging on the end of my fishing line, which was dangling over the edge of a tiny boat intocarcass, a hook through its bloody mouth, proudly back to my parents’ tourer caravan, where we were staying on one of many memorable family holidays. Mom gutted it, Dad cooked it on our portable braai. I remember how it tasted, its skin charred and crispy, its flesh flaky, soft and slightly sweet.