“Fish, so many fish! Splash!” Paul Waters stood at the bow of the boat, quick-eyed and sharp-tongued. Before the fish trap was even fully out of the water, he already noticed there were a lot of fish inside, so he simply jumped right in. No child by the sea doesn’t know how to swim, and the Tanka kids grow up practically soaking in seawater. Once in the water, Paul Waters dove straight under the trap, pushing it up from below, afraid the rope or the net might not be strong enough and the fish would escape.

“Don’t pull... lift it in the water! If it’s too heavy, the net will break!” At this moment, Uncle Foster couldn’t be bothered to bicker with Brian Carter anymore. The trap was almost out of the water, and inside it was a mass of black and white—not just fish, but also shrimp and crabs, all packed together. Brian Carter made a rough estimate: about thirty fish, probably over a hundred pounds. None were huge, but not small either. A few big groupers made his mouth water—if only he could steam them with some black bean sauce...

Paul Grant reacted quickly too, almost jumping in right after Paul Waters. With Henry Lane joining in, the three of them lifted from the water while Brian Carter and Paul Fisher pulled from the boat. At last, they managed to get the trap safely aboard. Actually, to Brian Carter, the catch wasn’t that much—eight compartments, but only one and a half were full, about as much as a big barrel one meter in diameter and 1.2 meters high, roughly 140 or 150 pounds. But the families of Bo, Huang, and Chen were clearly overjoyed with this haul, which showed they’d rarely had such a big catch before. And yet they still called themselves water people—how embarrassing!

A guy from later times who’d only ever fished with a rod, never really fished for a living, comes to ancient times and is better than professional fishermen? Actually, as long as you’ve met the professional fishermen from Baiyangdian, Henan, or Shandong, anyone from modern times would be a fishing master in the past. It’s not that Brian Carter is amazing, but that the fishermen of later generations, so good at summarizing and inventing, are truly incredible.

Brian Carter had seen them fish in reservoirs more than once, and had bribed them more than once with a few packs of cigarettes and a bottle of liquor to buy a few live wild bighead carp, each over ten pounds. He’d then cut them in half, pack them in a foam box with ice, and take them back to a familiar restaurant in the city, asking the chef to make fish head stew with pancakes. The taste was amazing—no matter how skilled the chef, you could never get that flavor from market-bought fish.

Besides buying fish, these fishermen would often come to Brian Carter’s fishing spot to chat and drink when they weren’t working. Once everyone got familiar and there were no real conflicts, conversation came easily, and they’d tell Brian Carter everything, whether they should or not. The fishing craft had reached its peak in later times—whether in the sea or in freshwater reservoirs, if you dared to contract them, they’d guarantee not even a palm-sized fingerling would be left; they’d clear out the whole reservoir for you.

In the 1990s, more than a few reservoirs fell for this. Many thought the price these fishermen offered for fishing rights was fair, so they leased them out. But once these people left, the water became dead—no fish, even after restocking and changing the water for years. That’s how skilled they were!

They didn’t use electricity or explosives, always obeyed the law, and relied on maze nets and fish traps. For fishermen, bottom-dwelling fish are the hardest to catch, especially carp. When they hit a net, unlike grass carp or silver carp that thrash around, carp swim along the net, find the gap between the net and the bottom, and slip out. This is especially true in northern mountain reservoirs.

Using fish traps of all sizes to catch bottom fish is very effective. Then, set up maze nets in the upper and middle layers, sweep the reservoir a few times, and there’ll be basically no fish left. If the mesh is small enough, not even shrimp will remain. This isn’t Brian Carter’s wisdom, but the wisdom of generations of working people. Whether it’s good or bad, it’s still wisdom. So Brian Carter is just standing on the shoulders of giants, borrowing others’ knowledge. No matter how professional or skilled the Tanka people are, with a thousand years less experience, compared to Brian Carter, they’re still apprentices.

“You’re amazing, even better than my grandpa!” When Paul Grant was pulled onto the boat by Brian Carter, she didn’t even have time to wipe the seawater from her face before flashing a big, bright smile at Brian Carter. At this moment, Brian Carter finally saw her figure—her wet clothes clinging to her body. Not bad, just about passable.

Chapter Twelve: Gypsies of the Sea

“The sea wind is strong, don’t catch a cold. Go change into my dry clothes.” Seeing the passionate look in Paul Grant’s eyes, Brian Carter could only play along. He took off his own clothes and gave them to her, letting her change at the stern. It was the most appropriate gesture, and the best way to say thanks. Without this straightforward, bold girl, he probably wouldn’t have gained a foothold among these Tanka families so quickly. As for whether he’d marry her in the future, Brian Carter decided not to resist—resistance was futile. If he wanted to get ahead, he needed support, and these Tanka families were his only support. In later times, people would even marry old ladies or become live-in sons-in-law for the sake of advancement. For him to marry a young maiden—what a deal!