Fishers of Men
It wasn’t our fault.
I kept telling myself that. We were the ones who’d been oppressed. We weren’t the wastrels. But the lady’s picture stayed with me, telling me otherwise. In my mind I could see her eyes looking down at me with an expression of gentle reproach. She was disappointed in me. I had failed her. It was an image that would stay with me over the years.
But years were more than many of us would have. When I call us a revolution, I’m really kidding myself. At least talking about those early days. It was one thing to go up against the island a disorganized rabble. It was quite another thing to go up against an organized fishing fleet equipped with modern self-defense technology that way. The oceans of Longyear contained more than just pretty fish.
I was fortunate enough not to be in the first wave of seized pleasure yachts and drydocked fishing boats that went up against the main fleet. We were smart enough to turn back before we got into range of the rocket harpoons.
Others were not so fortunate.