The boat swayed in a stiff breeze. I was 25 and I remember it clearly—my first tuna. Most fishermen start as kids and have at least seen the tuna reeled in by the time they’re driving, but I started late. It was an escape from the grinding, dusty city I grew up in.

35 now. I’ve pulled in more tuna than I can remember. I started to get tired of fishing after the first year, but since then I can’t stand to be away from the water for more than a week or two. It’s who I am now. I am a fisherman.

The waves lashed the side of the boat. 45. The years pass quickly even as the hours pass more slowly. I started thinking about the novel I wanted to write. Maybe that was the whole point of getting on my first boat—I wanted to find something to write about. Now that I’m out here I realized that I never needed the novel, except to talk about it at parties.

55. I’m not on the waves anymore, not after my leg collapsed under me. Everyone onboard almost died that night. I can see the fishing boats leave the docks, but they go well beyond my line of sight.

The wind is blasting in. I’m 65 and I have a house far away from the shore, but I walk to it every day. Today, something is calling me in and I just keep walking, salt spray in my beard and my trousers heavier as they get soaked. There’s a tuna out there somewhere.