The Zen of Aquaculture

Enos Corvell made every rude comment he could think of as the expert in marine animal wellbeing glided up and down the lanes. Most he muttered under his breath, but he was not concerned if the consultant caught one or two of them through occasional proximity, or expeditious harmonics.

He had tried, genuinely tried to keep the fisheries profitable and biologically sound, and for fifteen flush years had succeeded. The company’s catfish, carp and trout stock turned a minor profit within two years of the first school’s maturation. Then the Tilapia tanks put them all to shame, financing the company’s expansion into the pinnacle of fish farming, salmon farming.

Even that finicky species boosted profits, for a while. Then the price of fuel went up, closely followed by the price of fertilizer. Maintaining the hydroponic ecosystem became much more difficult, and so too, did preserving the overall health of the fish clustered within. Corvell had warded off an algae bloom and feed shortage, but couldn’t keep the corporation from posting an unequivocal loss for the quarter. Naturally, this got the attention of the upper-level management.

They hired a professional to determine the economic viability of the fish farm, and tacitly, Corvell. What they didn’t realize was that the professional passed the job off to Zen Moebius.

Zen Moebius regarded the troughs with distaste and took great pains not to dip his voluminous silk sleeves past their roe encrusted lips. Corvell considered his own scum splattered coveralls and apron and snorted in disgust.

Then Moebius surprised him by lunging to one side and thrusting both of his arms up to the elbows into the muck. Any and all traces of fastidiousness, gone, and gingerness, absent, the consultant raised a juvenile salmon out of the trough. He carefully turned it until the tiny maw gaped an inch from his nose.

“Is he?,” Moebius stage whispered. “Really?”
He gently lowered the creature in the water and submerged the fish, his wrists, his elbow and his biceps.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, quietly this time, “We’re almost through.”

Release.

“Dr. Moebius…”

“Please, call me Zen,” Moebius said cheerfully, standing up and offering Corvell his sodden sleeve in greeting.

Corvell backed up a step. “Zen Moebius, if that is your real name…”

“It is. Legally.”

“Could you just finish up here and move out? I’ll tell corporate that you did your best, but couldn’t save the stock. You’ll get paid for filing your report from home, and I can devote the rest of my time and money to surviving this natural bust cycle until things improve - naturally, the way they always do.”

“Tut-tut, young man. It’s only natural for you to think I’m full of shit. The last three salmon farms I visited this season all had the same reaction,” He scratched a spot over his ear, smearing his sideburns with slime in the process. “Sometimes I think the fish farmers are more predictable than the fish they raise.”

“Predictable,” Corvell grated. “You mean, normal. Yes, we do predictable work, making sure the fish get the right food and oxygen levels, stable temperatures and spawning opportunities. We don’t talk to them or fondle them, but we do know how to turn them into food!” He finished by poking the consultant in the chest.

“Yes,” Moebius said triumphantly. “That is exactly what they have been telling me.” He sloshed back to his fishmobile and carefully removed his loose robe, stowing it in a watertight box. He sat in the passenger seat and made a phone call, keeping an eye on the seething Corvell in his rear view mirror.

“Hello, June? I have a sample for you. You’ll want to confirm it in the lab, but I can almost guarantee that Corvell has been meeting the salmons’ protein needs with other salmon. I know, it’s hard. But it’s like I always say, everything comes back to cannibalism.”