In the clear waters of the South Atlantic, enjoying youth and strength, Bluefish walked free. Long, with a tight body, as if cast from gray steel, with a streamlined, smooth forehead and a powerful tail, with a strong jaw and a keen eye - he was beautiful. He lived, hunted, played, basked in the warm ocean currents, and nothing overshadowed his freedom. His native places were north of the equator, and Bluefish did not remember them, did not return there, the immutable law of all living things had not yet overtaken him, which forces fish at a certain time to move to the spawning ground, to where they were once born, where their parents left them defenseless eggs - a claim for the future, a vague ghost of the continuation of its kind.